Misconceptions 》Styles

24.00

== trigger warning!!!!!!!!!!! ==

     Rider smiles and quietly shuts the door behind him, joining me on the cardboard like hospital bed. My faux smile falters as he lands on top of the letters, frowning when he hears the crinkling.

          "Styles?" He questions bitterly, pulling them out from under him. I quickly shove the mass of them into the yellow envelope and then tuck it into my side, giving him a hard look. His scowl softens as he takes in my red eyes, veins protruding due to the excessive crying I had been doing. I hated crying. I hated it so much. Yet it was all I had seem to be doing lately. "Did he say something to you-"

         "I don't want to talk about him. I just want to get out of here." I say quickly, pressing my hands to my stomach. Fat, fat, fat. Why am I so fat?

         "Okay, but, Fields wants you to do this thing first. You have to write something down, like a letter, to someone in your life. No one's going to read it, but you have to do it, especially since you ditched your meeting." He holds out a pen and a small notebook, staring at me intently until I take them from his grasp. 

         Dear Administrator of this ever so lovely glorified mental institution;

                                                      This place is a load of crap and I hate you all.

             "Done." I say, forcing a smile as I shove the pen into the notebook and pull down the cover, placing it on Rider's lap.

              "Ky, it has to be real. If you want to get out, you can't keep pulling all of this shit," He huffs, forcing the paper into my hands once more. Why wouldn't anyone just leave me alone? Everyone always wanted something from me. Always. And if I couldn't provide, then I was useless. But fine, okay, I'll write this stupid fucking letter so I can get out of this place and run as fast and as far as my legs can carry me. I can't stay here. I can't get fatter. I can't. So I write.

          Dear every person I have ever met in my sorry excuse for a life;

         You tell me that I shouldn't serve myself so much at dinner, and that my waist line is expanding and that no one loves a fat girl and that I might as well wear a potato sack; then question why I starve myself.

         You say I am the best only when I am doing something to help you; then wonder why I feel as if I serve no purpose other than to please you. 

        You tell me to kill myself; yet you cannot fathom why I spend every waking moment wishing that I were six feet underground.

      You ignore me and use condescending tones and act as if my words are meaningless, then wonder why I would rather submerge myself in scalding hot water than to tell you what I feel and why I am sad and why I am so very fucked up.

          You ruin my life, and claim you want me to be happy. Well, if that's the case, the easiest way to put a smile on my face is to take a gun, aim it towards my head, and pull the trigger.

           I tear the sheet of paper from the notebook and then ball it up, squeezing it as tightly as I can within my clenched fist. "Now what?"

          "I'll take it. All we do now is burn it, it's supposed to be soothing; writing down all of your fears and what makes you sad and angry and then watching them disappear." Nurse Fields calls from the door, holding a strip of matches. "Rider, you'll go to therapy with her tomorrow, right? You can't miss anymore-"