Chasing Monsters

In the beginning

"He needs help. It's been going on for months, medication only slowed them down, nothing works anymore. I think we need to think about.... the next option", I heard my mother anxiously whisper to my psychiatrist, "He thinks it's all real, can't you help?"
Being a thoughtful man, my psychiatrist sits confidently with his bifocals on the tip of his nose and his ice blue eyes intently scanning the paper he had just minutes before pulled from my overflowing file. He had weighed his response in his head carefully before shifting his gaze back over his lenses at my mother. This effectively made her squirm trying to contain her anxiety on the green sofa that I myself had spilled my secret just hours before. The voices weren't gone, they were back with even more gusto, and they demanded action. His response had been simple, "I suppose that it would be worth a try."
That day was almost 3 months ago, just mere days before my 17 birthday, a decision made, with hopes that by time I was 18 they could call me cured, and pretend this never happened.I wake up in the same place today that I have for the last 76 days. On day 77, I know it will be no different. I wake up and don't even bother to open my eyes, I know there will be a tray with scrambled eggs, toast, and turkey bacon on my bedside table and that it is 8:00 as it always is when they ring the bell to rise the zombies from their slumbers. You see, the people here I can barely classify as living, we act more like well trained cattle than the maniacs most people associate with the psych ward. By the time that bell is rung, the nurses have been at work for hours, administering medications that make the real crazies so tired they couldn't even think about hurting anyone.
I open my eyes to the harsh light beating down on me because I hear my name, not from a nurse, or from a doctor or a visitor, but still I hear it, "Clayton", I write it off as one of the voices in my head. Finally pulling myself up into a sitting position and throwing my legs over the edge of my hospital issued bed, I reach towards the ceiling to stretch out the kinks in my back from yet another night on a much too small bed for my 6'4" frame. I had just started to fully wake up when the PA system blares "Good Morning! Everyone please meet in the cafeteria hall at 8:30. Attendance is mandatory".
The sad part is this is still a normal thing, with suicides being so common in places like this, we have learned that most of the meetings called, were meant to make us feel supported and not alone when one of our fellow patients decides they can not handle their illness anymore. I slide my closet door open with a sigh and look at the sea of blue I am faced with in options to wear, a whole lot, of the same exact things, we are all provided what we appropriately call "Smurf Suits". And each of us, wears one, each and every day. After sliding into my suit and slippers, I make my way down the hall, past the receptionists and into the cafeteria, where I immediately notice her amongst the sea of blue.
        It didn't take much, with such vibrancy and life and that contagious smile, no girl like her has ever been here before. When the doctor starts talking I didn't even look at him, I hear his voice draining into the background, and I focus in on her, on the way her blonde hair fell perfectly down her back in slow spiral curls, how her presence made you know you shouldn't mess with her, but with a hazel eyes that were just daring you to. The voices pick up in my mind, the meds no longer strong enough to contain them, I lock eyes with her and then again I hear "Colton".