Crazy

Chapter 2

They let mum in. She takes one look at me lying in the hospital bed and breaks into sobs, rushing to my side and holding me tight. I feel a lump in my throat but swallow it down, refusing to cry in front of her. She wipes away her tears and sinks down into the visitor’s chair, smiling shakily at me. Her hands find mine and she kisses my bruised knuckles.

“How are you feeling?” she murmers

I smile back at her, “I’m feeling alright, mum”

She nods and wipes away her tears

“This isn’t your fault,” I whisper to her. She nods with no conviction. I remember Ms Sanders words, “I’m not well mum, it’s not your fault, it’s my brains”

This seems to reassure her, and something in me resents Ms Sanders for knowing how to comfort my mum better than me. We sit in an awkward silence.

“The doctor’s tell me you’re going to be put on medication”

“Yeah, Prozac”

“And that you’re going to be doing therapy?”

“Yes I met my therapist today”

“Yeah I spoke to her”

Another awkward pause. Neither of us wants to broach the main elephant in the room. I sigh and bite the bullet.

“And they’re going to put me away in the loony bin”

“Scott, it isn’t a loony bin, it’s a psychiatric ward”

“Same difference” I mumble

She regards me silently. I look away, terrified.

“You need help Scott…”

“So you’re letting them lock me away?!” I’m angry at her compliancy

“Come on Scott, it’s not locking you away, it’s just making sure you get better. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Trying to kill myself doesn’t sound particularly right in my books.

“You said yourself you need help. It’ll only be for a little while and I’ll visit loads, I promise…”

I grunt at her.

“Anyway…I’ve packed your bag…”

She hands me a black sports bag. It has a couple of changes of clothes, some toiletries and photos, and…

“Why is Pudsey here…” I say pulling out a moth eaten teddy. She smiles sheepishly and I can’t help but laugh.

“It’s in case you get lonely!” she tries, smiling.

I grin at her, shaking my head as I put the bear back in the bag. I need all the reminders of home to get me through this, I decide. Mum takes my hand and smiles gently at me.

“It’s going to be okay Scott”

I wish I believed that.

We relish our last hour of normality together, talking about everything and anything that didn’t involve depression, pills, hospital or my looming incarceration in the mental health ward. When they told her she had to go, we both held back tears as we hugged and she left, only after I promised I would call her as soon as I possibly could.

I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling of the darkened room, painfully aware of the  guard’s breathing. I want to sleep, but I’m terrified. I can’t help thinking about my looming future.

Will I be put in a straightjacket? Fed pills mindlessly, til I’m nothing more than a drooling wreck? Will I be subject to electric shocks, or mind control? Part of me knows this is ridiculous but I can’t help these thoughts as they cycle through my head. Waves of terror wash over me, and suddenly I’m drowning in a sea of worry and anxiety. My breathing starts coming in short, fast bursts, and I realise I’m panicking. I roll onto my stomach and lean over the side of the bed, gulping down air and willing myself not to pass out or throw up. I grit my teeth and force myself to bear the pure, unadulterated fear that is coursing through my body. I know from experience that resisting the terror only makes it worse, and the best way to cope is to let it happen.

After some long agonising moments, my heart begins to slow down, and my breathing evens out. I feel lightheaded, and my whole body is weak and exhausted.

My thoughts fly back to mum. Will they let me see her? She’ll be in bed now, all by herself in our quiet flat. I think of her, and how I’ve left her to deal with her insomnia and loneliness. The guilt smashes into my chest, and I can’t breathe. For an awful second, I think I might start panicking again, but the moment passes in an instant.

Instead, I find myself crying silently. Grief piles up in my throat, and my silent whimpers turn into low, choked sobs. I can’t stop them. I don’t even make an attempt to. Instead, I just turn my face into the pillow to muffle the sound, as my whole body trembles in a sudden catharsis of pain, fear and grief.

I cry and scream into the pillow, hit by an overwhelming sensation of regret, and pain, and grief. There is no concept of time anymore as agony fills the every fibre of my being. It feels like my bones, nerves and organs have been filled with broken glass, and everything hurts. I am not the master of my own body anymore, and can't stop the screams tearing from my throat. The demons inside of me are screaming, howling, crying out, and they only thing i can do is hold the thin, stiff, hospital pillow to my face to muffle to sound.

After an eternity, my body gives up. I am not quite asleep, but in a dreamlike state of exhaustion. In a way, it feels nice to feel so much, after months of enduring the dull ache of the fog. I almost smile at that. I don't feel anything anymore. Not a damn thing. 

A/N: So yeah. Anyway my name is Sarah and I feel the need to apologise for the last two chapers which have been little more than fillers. I hope you guys like it and I will continue to follow Scott's journey, AFTER two weeks. Sorry guys I am on holiday as of tomorrow, and will have no means to continue writing. Also, if anyone who is reading this would like a challenge, I am looking for someone to design a cover, as the one I have is a bit shit. Thanks!