Broken

The third week, the last week

   I had been ripping at my scratches so much they ended up taping up the bandages on my hands.

   Apparently my parents had paid for a therapist for me. He came the next day.
    " Hello, William, how are you." he said politely, it sounded genuine, I said nothing. Nothing felt real, so why should I say anything. Why should I talk to him.
    " Get out." it was blunt, a little less forceful than I was going for.
    " Get out of here!" I yelled, a flash of memory came then faded.
    " Please just calm down. "
    " I don't want to talk to anyone! " I shouted again, biting down into my lip, my eyes burning.
    " How about I leave, then come back in a few hours or the next day? " his friendly manner irritating me.
    " Just. Leave! " I screamed the last part, throwing my cup at him, striking him directly in his eye. The cup was light and small but it shocked him. The man came at me and struck me across my face.
   I stared in shock, my mouth hanging open, my breathing speeding up again. I fell back onto the bed, the metal bar making contact with the back of my head. Man, I had bad luck.
   It was another panic attack, I seized and ripped at my arms, the gauze only scraping it. The doctors ran in again and had to sedate me.

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   I kept waking up after being drugged to sleep.

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   The last day, he had come back, I was diagnosed with Severely Moderate Depression (which apparently I already had) I was given more drugs. To add onto the Depression, I was also diagnosed with PTSD or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and got more drugs.
   How delightful, I was going back to school the next week, two more days.

   I was suprized that I hadn't been taken away by Social Services.