psych ➳ muke

10

Just as promised, as soon as my doctor is set up in her office the next morning, I am being called down to meet with her. I glance at Michael as I'm leaving, he's still asleep. Curled up under his duvet, platinum hair peeking out. I smile and exit the room, careful to close the door enough so the light won't shine through.

Michael hates early mornings.

I pad down the hallway and notice everyone else is waking up. Sawyer is making his bed. Ivy feverishly brushes her teeth in front of the mirror. She's being monitored in the hall bathroom, a nurse standing right in the doorway. The mirror there is real and we are not trusted here.

Sutton is in the doctor's office to the right, her wrist being bandaged again. She likely cut herself this morning whilst allowed her comb.

Big mistake, you'll be monitored now!

I know how things work around here now. We are typically trusted until we prove otherwise. Every morning, we are given plastic baskets filled with toiletries so we can freshen up and shower. A plastic comb is in there and I assume Sutton snapped it to use as a blade.

I knock on the wooden door twice before I'm called in. My therapist is sat at her desk, typing on her computer. She smiles at me, her infamous fake smile, and I sit down across from her.

"Luke, how are you today?" She starts, gathering his notepad and a pen.

I think for a moment, how am i?

"I'm fine," is all I offer.

She makes a note on her pad and sighs, "I was informed on what happened yesterday. A big day for you, yeah?"

I advert my gaze down to my pajama pants. I haven't changed yet and I don't plan to anytime soon. I am tired, having not much sleep last night.

"Yeah, I guess."

She continues to make notes on her pad paper, glancing up at me every so often. I wish I didn't have to be here. In this room or in the hospital at all.

"This is the start of your third day here, Luke, and you have already acted out three times. Two just yesterday."

Yes, I'm a fuck up. Trust me, I know!

I just look at her, studying her facial expression, but it reads blank. I assume it's a part of her job. To be emotionless, to offer fake smiles at the right times. But I hate it. I hate her fake smiles and emotionless face. I hate her job and I hate her. I hate this place and I hate myself for not dying.

"You'll have to straighten up your act or they'll send you to another institution. A place where troubled teens go. You don't want that, do you?"

Send me away? I think about it for a moment. I hate this place, I do, but that somewhere else may be ten times worse. And Michael, I can't leave Michael here. No one will help him, they won't take care of him.

He needs me.

"No," I sigh for effect,"I don't want that. I'm sick, you know? I can't help it sometimes."

I'm playing her now. If I tell her I have anger management issues, she will medicate me for it and send me off. Just like all the other doctors do.

"Well, I will prescribe a medication to help control your anger. By the sounds of it, you have been having mood swings. They come on quickly and you can't control them. Is this correct?"

Is it? I think about the times I've acted out. In the cafeteria, in Room 7, and the meeting with my mother. They all came rather quickly. The last being from pent up anger that I could not control.