Help~Sincerely Three (a Dear Evan Hansen fanfiction) COMPLETED

Chapter Two-Something's Wrong

I've never been in a mental ward, so this might not be completely accurate. I did do some research though. 

I shove my hands into my pockets as Cynthia and I walk into the hospital. Her eyes are watering, and I can tell that she's fighting back tears. How else is she supposed to react? I'm like some sort of project. She's been working on me her whole life, perfecting me, making sure there were no bugs, only to watch me crumble apart before her eyes. I'm a failure. Especially next to Zoe. Heck, you know how in the movies the main character always has the little angel and devil on their shoulders? Yeah, that's Zoe and me. I swear you could walk up to somebody with tiny versions of Zoe and me, a little halo above her head and devil horns on mine, and it would be completely normal. 

The hospital is bland, depressing. Shouldn't they be trying to make it seem happier here? I shift my eyes to the ground as my mother explains my situation to the nurse. I don't want to see her expression. I'm immediately rushed into a hallway, where they take my height and weight. The nurse asks me to roll up my sleeve and I do. She lets out a tiny gasp, and I roll my eyes. with shaky hands, the nurse slips a blood pressure monitor onto my wrist. I cringe as it squeezes my arm. Soon enough, she turns the machine off, and I'm lead into a hospital room. The nurse asks me to take my hoodie off and leaves the room. I do as I'm told, taking a seat on the examination table.

Exactly seven minutes pass (I watched the time pass by on my phone: 11:56 PM, 11:57 PM, 11:58 PM, 11:59 PM, 12:00 AM, 12:01 AM, 12:02 AM) and a scrawny doctor walks in. He has black hair and what seems to be the beginning of a beard. He sets his laptop on a blue table across the room from me, and it leaves me wondering. Why blue? Why can't the table be yellow, or even green? He sits down in a small chair next to the table, crossing his legs like they do in those serious TV shows that they usually play after the news.

"Hey. You're Connor?" I can practically feel the gay radiating off of this guy. I nod. "I'm Doctor Coleman. I'd like to see your arms if that's okay?" He keeps a blank expression, but I know that he's judging me. To be fair, I guess that's why I'm here- to be judged. With a sigh, I exaggeratedly lift my arms, flipping them over. He nods, and I go back to crossing them. "Okay, I'm going to ask you some questions now. Please answer them honestly." Once again, I nod. "In the past couple of months, have you seriously considered committing suicide?"

"Yes."

"In the past year, have you tried to commit suicide?" 

"Yes."

"Once?"

"Twice." He takes a few seconds to type.

"How long have you been harming yourself?"

"About a year."

"Have you tried to get help?"

"I have a therapist." He keeps typing. Then he stands up, tells me that he'll be right back, and leaves, bringing his laptop with him. My hair falls into my eyes, but I don't even have the energy to move it. A couple of more minutes pass by, and he walks back in with a brown clipboard and a blue pen. Once again, why blue? He hands them to me, and I look over the paper attached to the clipboard, already knowing what it is. Yup, I'm being sent to the crazy person unit. Sounds fun. Cynthia's signature is already there. I sign right underneath her neat blue lettering.

Time skip to three hours later (I'll save you the details. If I told you about what happened in those three hours, you'd be asleep). I'm now sitting in the back of an ambulance, my bags next to me. I have to admit, I'm kind of nervous. I have no idea what'll happen when I get there. I have no idea how long I'll be there. Not to mention that I also have no idea where 'there' even is. The ride is silent and boring altogether. 

We pull up, well, somewhere. They help me out of the ambulance. It's dark, so I can't exactly see the building very well, but it doesn't look like a terrible place. Emphasis on look. We walk inside (Me and a couple of paramedics) and we're brought into a room. A tall, slightly chubby dude asks me to strip to my boxers, and I do. The paramedics search me over (obviously, I don't have anything). I put my clothes back on, and the man leads me into what I assume as the main building. The walls are painted eggshell blue, but that doesn't help the creepy vibes of the place. How can there not be creepy vibes, this is where they send freaks. Like me. There's a long hallway: heck yeah, the psycho wing. He brings me into one of the rooms. 

"So, this will be your room. The nurses will wake you up at ten, and they'll tell you what to do." I nod, walking in and setting my stuff down next to the first bed. I turn around, but the man is gone.

"So, what are you in for?" I jump, whipping around. A boy is sitting on the bed next to the one I just claimed.  He's kind of cute. He has darkish brown, semi-curly hair, and turtle-shell glasses that are pressed against his face. He's wearing an outfit that practically matched mine- white T-shirt, black pants. 

"Uh..." My mind goes blank. Oh, right. "Well, I tried to kill myself." 

"Me too." He pauses. "Oh, I'm Jared."

"Connor."

"I love your hair. Very..." He thinks. "School shooter chic." I let out a small laugh, sitting down on the bed. "Have you been to one of these before?" I shake my head. "You better do what they say, or-" he giggles. "They'll give you the booty juice!" He bursts out laughing before rolling over and falling asleep. 

What in the actual hell?