Bluebird // Phan

Chapter 20: XX

XX

Dan stayed. He stayed for a long time, as it were, and made a makeshift home out of a psychiatric department with soaking-white walls and patients with stitched wrists.
He remained inside for one too many weeks, under careful eyes. They worked with him-the therapists he wasn't given the option to refuse-on something called 'cognitive behavioural therapy' and gave him a heavy dosage of Prozac, an antidepressant. They prescribed him the medication on a frequent basis so his body became accustomed to its use before he was discharged. They also watched over him when he took his pills for anxiety.

Phil was there throughout his stay. The only time he allowed himself to go home-for a change of clothes-was when Dan was first admitted to the ward and they ushered away all visitors to complete a physical check-up. Over the seven days, he undertook multiple therapy sessions in which Phil was also not present. He wasn't allowed to be, but he waited outside. Amongst the familiarity of the colour white.

Dan didn't talk a whole lot in the sessions, apparently. At least, that's what was reported back to the family. He denied the occasional 'accusation', as he referred to it as, and made little progress in that area. Dan told them the scars on his wrists were because of earlier attempts at self-harm. He told them the scars on his stomach were, too. All over his body, where there was pain he hadn't inflicted, he told them he had. And, with the way they were pressed on his skin, it was impossible to say otherwise.

When his wrists began to slowly heal under the tight bandages, he started to write again. Phil brought his notebook up to the hospital for him after he'd seen that he was inking words on his bare arms. Like a fucking addict, desperate for a moment of peace. Phil wondered if it was like torture for him to live in such white, sterilised walls and not be allowed to write on them.

After some time, he was discharged from the ward. The psychiatrists spoke with Bernie and Elise about the plan fixed in place for Dan; he was signed up for the therapist in school every Tuesday and Thursday and they were told to keep a profound watch over him. Clear the house of potentially harmful objects, assure he eats meals-They even offered a 'stop smoking' advertisement. It was all a bit artificial, overdone. Their voices droned out like they were little robots working around the words and Phil wanted to tell them to do a better fucking job. But he didn't.

He didn't. It was rare he did anything but try to make sense of the hopelessness in his veins and before Dan returned to school, he tried so hard to make sense of him. Because knowing him for the amount of years he had meant nothing; seeing him grow meant nothing. He'd been hospitalised for self-harm and an alcohol overdose and Phil just wanted to stain the areas of his skin he'd tried to tear open with kisses that tasted like let me love you between careful touches of a damp cloth.

On the first night of being discharged, Dan and Phil lay together in their room. Lights off, sheets around them. Dan said he was homesick, and it was the first time Phil had heard his voice in so long.

He wasn't saying a whole lot in any circumstance anymore. That was his thing now. He'd do as he was told and not consider an argument because he'd learned that you didn't need to say anything to make people listen to you. It was the trick of the mind, above all, and Dan's mind had threads hanging off it like a worn fucking sofa but it knew that people believed never saying anything to be the same as wanting to. And even though he didn't want to say anything, even though he really did have nothing to say, to tell them that would be to confirm their suspicion. So he stayed quiet.

He was a clever boy, Dan Howell. Damaged and clever. Phil had begun to understand that the two often came together.

"Why are you homesick?" Phil whispered, as a response.

"I don't know. I just am. It's weird, that, because I don't think I've ever known home. But my heart's missing something."

"Could be sleep," Phil's reply was pathetic, he knew that. But he wasn't thinking much of trying anymore. "Maybe rest up."