The Line In The Letter: Short Story

Routine

** WARNING: Do NOT read if you suffer from depression or anxiety. There will be triggering topics in the story, and if you proceed to read, you are doing so at your own risk *

~ Reyna ~

October 11th, 2016

Hey there! My name is Reyna Smith, and my therapist and psychiatrist both agree that a journal might help me 'deal with my feelings' and 'cope with my depression'. Let's be clear, they NEVER agree on anything. I think they secretly are in love with each other, but let's be honest, I don't really have much love life experience. That tends to happen when you're stuck inside a mental asylum... er sorry, they prefer the term 'Mental Hospital' or 'Hospital for the Mentally Ill'.
Insert eye roll here.
Could they be any less realistic? We aren't dying of cancer, we just see the world in a different way. 
Alright, so I'm getting a bit off topic. My therapist, Dr. Olano, has told me to tell you, my dear diary, all about the mental illnesses that got me trapped in this asylum in the first place.
So, grab your popcorn. It's kind of a long story...

Well, let's start at the beginning. I was born, obviously, by Adrianna Jane and David Smith. David was a computer engineer, rich and married. Adrianna was a college student, working towards her Ph.D. to become a doctor and was a full-time waitress at a small little diner near the University. David and Adrianna, my parents, were involved in a secret love affair. My mother didn't know she was pregnant when David broke off the affair, returning to his beautiful, model of a wife, and once she found out. She wanted an abortion.
Yup, she wanted to kill me. GREAT parenting skills. Insert sarcasm here.
Obviously, she didn't have one. My grandmother talked her out of it, telling her that 'adoption' was the best way to go. As if that wasn't going to make my life any better. Well, my mom got to 7 1/2 months before the depression got to her. She loved David and wanted him back, but he was blissfully unaware of the child he helped bring into this world. Or as I put it, a sperm donor.
Well, she decided to reach out to David and finally tell him about the child who was now 7 1/2 months along. They agreed to meet at a restaurant down by the coast, about an hour drive from the University. 
Well, David showed up half an hour before they agreed to meet and waited, for a good 2 hours before realizing she wasn't going to show up. What he didn't know, is that on her way to meet up with David, she was blindsided by a reckless driver and was being airlifted to a hospital on the coast to try and save her, and her baby. Me. Well, after a long operation, I was successfully taken out of my mother's body, but she died on the operating table. 
When David heard the news, he was heartbroken. He was preparing to tell Adrianna that he was ready to leave his model of a wife, for my mom. When he found out about me, he assumed it wasn't his baby, and refused the DNA test. Personally, I believe he blamed me for my mother's death.

Well, I grew up being bounced around the foster system till I was 12, and then my foster family decided that I should be admitted into a long-term care unit to help with my 'depression' and 'mood swings'. Shortly after being admitted, I was diagnosed with 3 illnesses. 
Extreme Depression, Anxiety Disorder, and Schizophrenia.
Basically, I have high levels of anxiety (they seem to believe the trauma I faced as I came into this world is a key factor), have the symptoms of depression, and fail to separate fantasy from reality. 
I don't really see how that last one is a bad thing. For me, it's like a game. I can see the world the way I want to see it, not from some cookie cutter mold that everyone else seems to view it. Yet, doing so makes me crazy and 'mentally insane'. So, here I am.

Anyways, I've been here for 5 years and the medication seems to be working. I'm mostly happy. Well, not really happy. More like 'neutral', like I don't really care enough to have emotions. 
Is that bad?

I find myself looking up from the black, leather bound book in my hand as the black ink pen in my right hand seemed to cause the ache and soreness beneath my fingertips. I was sitting in the main room, what most would consider a living room, leaned back against a throw pillow with a colorful, cheery quilt draped over my shoulders. My long brown hair was tied up in a messy bun, my beautiful doe shaped eyes were tired, yet alert. It was around 8 in the morning, but I was a bit of an early riser. I noticed one of the security officers, Bill, walking through the front doors after being buzzed in by a clerk at the desk. Standing by him was a tall, handsome fellow around my age. He had shaggy dark brown hair and beautiful emerald green eyes. He looked annoyed and bored. He was handsome in his dark blue polo shirt with the Northshore emblem and khaki pants. His hands were shoved in his pockets and he wore a watch on his left wrist. 
Let me sum this up for you. 
He. Was. HOT. 

Doing my best not to smirk as I returned my gaze back to the journal in my hands, I returned to my writing before he caught me staring with my mouth slightly open in an 'O' shape.

Let's get to the most important topic that just walked through the main doors. Boys. Now, I know what you're thinking (Even though you're a journal and do not have thoughts. Or maybe you do? A thought to ponder on another day), she's just a boy crazy fool. And maybe I am, but here's the thing. This particular guy is HOT, as well as he works here. He's not some 38-year-old celebrity that I will never get close enough to breathe in his general direction. He's a living, breathing, standing 15 feet away, boy. 
The real question is, what is he doing here?
Yeah. I lost my interest in this journaling thing already. I suppose I'll write later.
Don't hold me to it.

~ Reyna

I closed my journal and quickly hid it under the quilt before standing and walking over to Bill and the cute boy standing next to him. Bill seemed a little agitated as he held out a name card to the boy, who seemed defiant.
As I grew closer, I heard their conversation.

"Daniel, all volunteers are required to wear the nametag," Bill spoke tensely as he once again handed the nameless boy the white nametag. 
The boy simply rolled his eyes, shrugging. 
"Well I don't see how that applies to me since I didn't volunteer."
Bill took a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself. I decided it was best that I jump in. 

I took the nametag and glanced at the name, Daniel Jones. The boy, who seemingly just noticed me, raised his eyebrow cockily. 
"Oh, is Miss Princess here going to make me?" he asked, mockingly. He spoke to me as if I were a child, which I did not appereciate in the slightest.

"Me? No. I came over here to tell you that if you don't want to be here then theres a door right over there. You are more than welcome to leave."
His jaw grew tense as his eyes narrowed at me. After a short growl he snatched the nametag from me and clipped it to his shirt. His eyes met mine. 

"Who are you?" he snapped, not in a good way. In a demeaning tone that was obviously meant to make me seem crazy, or psycopathic.

I simply but on a bright, cheerful smile, enjoying his confusion as I reached my hand out to greet him formally.
"I'm Reyna Smith. Now, if you don't follow Bill's instructions then 'Miss Princess' right here will gladly put you in your place. Good day, gentlemen."

I spun on my heel, smirked to myself, and walked straight over to the couches. Satisfied with myself.