The last thing I heard was the sound of my mother's car pulling into the garage. After that, the blood loss got to me. I lost consciousness in a puddle of my own blood on my bathroom floor.
I wake up to the beeping of a heart monitor. The room is empty besides me. I pick my head up slightly to see the door to my room is guarded by a nurse on a computer. I let my head flop back down on the pillow and sigh slightly. All that work for nothing. The nurse glances over and sees me awake. She enters the room and introduces herself as my nurse. I honestly don't care. "Would you like anything, sweetie?" She asks me politely. "No. I'm fine" I say rolling over. She leaves the room and I'm left to my own thoughts.
After an eternity of laying alone, a doctor comes in and sits down. "My name is Dr. Lee. I am going to be your doctor until 10." She says politely. I sit up and face her. Why are all these people so polite? "Ok," I say nonchalantly. "We haven't really had a chance to talk to you but you will be going into an inpatient program because of your recent activities. Your parents, therapist, and general physician have decided that's what will be best." She says almost routinely. I look down at my bandaged arms and then back at her. "I don't really have a say in this do I?" I ask. "No, not really." She answers. "Ok, then fine," I say giving up on any chance of just going home. "You should be transferred tomorrow at 1." She informs me. "Where am I going?" I ask trying to get more information. She sighs "You will hear more when we talk with you when your parents are here". My mind is racing at this point. Questions flood my mind like a tsunami. Anxiety kicks up into hyperdrive. "... ok." That's all I can get out. My eyes well up with tears. I don't want to go to an inpatient program. I furiously fight back my tears. "I will leave you to think about this," she says leaving the room. I look down at my arms, gauze covers where the slits are. I trace where the cuts are and wince in pain; Cuts always feel worse after they have been made. A white band wraps my wrist, "Martin, Autumn" is printed in huge letters; various other information is scrawled in a smaller print: date of birth, account number, hospital id, sex. My eyes wander the small hospital room. The clock reads 9:27. Childlike paintings line the walls. I lay back down and tears roll down my face. I curl up under the thin Hospital sheets and cry myself to sleep.
