Photograph

Chapter One

The sound of a door slamming wakes me up. Groggily, I sit up in the chair I fell asleep in. I lift my wrist to check my watch and then remember that my mom made me take it off before we came. I don't know why, but something about not knowing how long I slept bothers me.

I can hear voices coming from outside of the room. I know it’s probably my mom having a heated argument with the doctors again. She tends to do that whenever I end up back here.

The room hasn't changed much since I was last here. Looking around, I see the same beige walls, same bloodstains, same scratches, same sink that only has cold water, smell the same hospital smell, see the same plain bed, same metal divider against the back wall. The only new things I notice are the fact that the door only locks from the outside, and the camera mounted on the corner beside me. I don't like being watched, and I feel goosebumps form on my skin as I stare at that stupid little machine. It's almost like the camera is taunting me. In my head, I can almost hear it saying, "Go ahead, Shawn, come at me. You know they'll just lock you up again, freak."

I find that I suddenly can't think about anything else. I'm being watched. If I could just reach that small piece of technology, I could stop them from analyzing my every move. I have enough to be wary of as it is, but to have to worry about something I do being taken as suicidal? No, thank you.

I stand up and slowly push the chair over to the corner underneath the camera, being careful not to make much noise. Carefully, I grip the armrests and lift my left leg up, placing my foot on the chair. My shoe falls off as I do this, and in the empty room, it makes the loudest sound in the world. I freeze and watch the door, waiting to see if they're going to rush in here like the last time I was here; I wondered if they would drag me to the back wall and unlock the metal partition.

You see, I've been here more than once; the rooms near the psych ward in the hospital, I mean. Anyone like me knows what I'm talking about: the rooms they stick you in for nine hours while you talk to doctors and therapists and nurses while they try to figure out what to do with you. There's a metal partition against the back wall, which is locked. Most people I know think it's just separating your room from another patient's room. My mom even tried to tell me that, but I've seen what's behind there, and it isn't something I like to talk about. All I can say is there's no way in hell I'm going to end up there again. It's behind that flimsy piece of metal that I started hearing the stupid voices, and the ones that, at the moment, are urging me to jump up, grab the camera, and pull on the wires until they snap. I’m currently trying to get up on the chair to break the camera, just like the voices want.

With my body still tensed up and alert, I kick off my other shoe so it won't make a loud noise like the other one, and lift my other foot onto the chair. It's not a difficult task considering the fact that I haven't been allowed to own shoelaces for the past two years. My mom forced my disownment of all strings and laces after I tied a bunch of shoelaces together and tried to hang myself from the chandelier in the dining room. If my mom hadn’t come home early that day, I wouldn't be freaking out over a tiny camera right now.

The chair wobbles a bit as I stand up, and the camera sits just above my head. I wonder how wide their range of view is on the monitor. Carefully, I reach up and fiddle around for the wires. They're tucked into the wall, making them extremely hard to reach. Why I can even touch them with my fingertips is beyond me; someone could electrocute themselves in here with these things.

I can't stop thinking that now seems like the moment someone would walk in the room and catch me. Maybe that's why I jump so much the chair falls over and I go with it when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Or maybe it's because I never heard the door open. Or maybe it's the fact that, as I'm lying on the ground trying to convince myself it's just my brain messing around again, I hear breathing from above me. Or maybe it's because the room suddenly smells like death.

Whatever the reason, I can hear my heart speed up. The voices are telling me to look up, but I don't want to. I want to get up and rip the camera out, smash it on the ground, sit back down by the door, and pretend nothing happened. I want someone to open the door and try to blame me for the broken camera, so I can argue and tell them that, unless they have proof they can't say anything. I want to go home. I do not want to look up.

So, I shut my eyes as tight as I can, hug my knees, and plead for whatever it is to go away. I don't even want to know what it is. I just want to be left alone.

Suddenly, the door opens and I hear footsteps. They stop abruptly, inches from my head.

"Shawn," I hear a voice say. I'm pretty sure it's my mom. She sounds scared. "What are you doing on the floor?"

The stench of rot and decay has left, and the only breathing is from my mom and whoever came in with her. I'm still here holding my breath, wishing to be alone. Why did I have to get so bothered about that stupid camera? Maybe if I never touched it, I'd be sitting alone in the chair still while my mom talked to another doctor.

I can feel my face starting to go purple. I'm going to hold my breath until they leave me alone. At this point, I don't care about passing out. At least I'd be alone with myself on some level.

"Shawn please stop," my mom pleads. "We need you to stand up and breathe."

Someone else enters the room. "What happened here?"

Three other people are in the room now. Everyone is most likely watching me. "Make them stop if it bothers you," says one of the voices. Knowing that arguing with them will just give me a massive migraine, I slowly and shakily exhale. Clenching my fists, I make my way into a standing position. I eye the three people in front of me: my mom, a very nervous looking psychiatrist whose name tag reads Dylan, and the doctor standing in the doorway.

I’m sorry Dylan. You should have chosen a different job.

I feel the adrenaline beginning to pump through my veins. Slowly, my vision clouds and I feel my heartbeat speed up. The voices in my head merge with the voices of the people in the room, and I can't tell the difference between reality and my mind anymore.

Laughter erupts, and I spin, searching for the source. I'm pretty sure the laughter is coming from the voices, but it could be the psychiatrist; he looks young enough to think my expression could be entertaining. I feel myself moving, but I can't control my actions. My clenched fist smacks directly into something soft. I swing at the spot repeatedly, and groans fill the room. Someone grabs my waist as my arms wrap around their cold flesh, pinning me against them. I'm being pulled in so many directions right now, and I don't like how it feels. I struggle to free myself, elbowing whoever grabbed me. Their grip releases immediately, and I spin to find my target. The room doesn’t stop spinning when I do. My head pounds and the laughing is so loud that I can't take it. Before I fade out from everything, I feel a sharp pain in my chest and a loud crack as something collides with my ribcage. I cry out in pain before dropping to the floor and blacking out.