Off The Wall.

The Sketch.

"You seem... On edge."

On edge. What a wonderful expression, is it not?

On the edge of a cliff. The edge of a steep end that could leave you falling downwards, spiraling towards your empty death and a sickening crunch...

Or you could simply walk away. You could abandon the edge, the fall, the whole damn scene and forget that you ever contemplated stepping off.

Unfortunately for me, it was too late.

Gerard was my cliff, my fall, and my death. And I had already stepped off the edge.

"Frank?"

I snapped to attention, my eyes finding their way to Laurie's. They were a icy blue, but they didn't seem so cold and taunting today. Her eyes seemed... Concerned, almost. Were they concerned about me?

"Huh?" I said, mentally shaking myself out of my thoughts.

"I said that you seem on edge. Is everything cool?" She asked carefully. I squinted at her and tilted my head, confused at her gentleness. She must have sensed my confusion, because she switched back to her normal sarcastic self.

"Alright, you don't have to tell me. Sorry I stopped you. We're starting art therapy, Frankie-boy. It's in the rec room. Go." She said bitterly.

I turned and watched her walk away, but not before I saw her walk into Dr. Rubenstein's office. Dammit, why didn't I just fucking act normal? Why couldn't I?

Dr. Rubenstein is my psychiatrist, and the queen of depression. Seriously, if anyone needs to be in here, that woman does.

She's without a doubt the most gloomy, pessimistic, and lonely person I have ever met. She finds a way to make everything I say seem deep and everything I do seem like a psychotic cry for help. It's absurd. I honestly stopped telling her the truth a while (four hundred and twenty three days exactly) ago.

I realized, after Laurie disappeared into Dr. R's room, that I was standing in the sea of crazies, everyone mumbling headed towards the rec room. I blended in and made my way there alongside a younger girl who let out little screeches whenever anyone accidentally brushed her (including me).

When I reached the room, I made my way to an easel as far back as I could get and sat down in the chair behind it, careful not to knock over the array of art supplies that rested on the easel's tray. I noticed Gerard sat a couple of easels in front of me (he was tapping his fingers on his bony knee with either annoyance or impatience) and was filled with nervousness and excitement at the thought of seeing his art.

Once everyone had found an easel and had settled in, a young man (he had to be in his late twenties) at the front of the room clapped his hands twice, making half of the crazies jump. He smiled apologetically before speaking.

"Hello everyone," He said with a little wave. "My name's Oswald, and I'll--"

"Can we call you Oz?" Someone called out.

"Sure, if you want to," Oz (I liked the sound of that, it's kind of whimsical) replied. "As I was saying--"

"What about Ozzie?" Another person yelled. Oz looked a little thrown off, but quickly regained his composure.

"Sure thi--"

"Oswin?" Someone suggested.

"How about you call me whatever you want?" Oz said quickly, not able to hide his smile. Everyone murmured an agreement and fell quiet again.

"Anyway, what I was trying to say is I'll be leading your art therapy. I know some of you will enjoy it more then others, but I'm hoping it will be an entertaining experience for all of you. I know it was for me."