Melancholy in the Dead of Night

Prologue

Life is crap for some and great for others. Then there's people like me, who are stuck in between and we make up some good part of this population of depressed zombies. Not everyone has a life with no discipline, consequences or love. That's reserved for the spoilt people of the world, and not just the cliched rich kids.

I fall into a sub category, or so my less than knowledgeable psychiatrist says, of suicidal thoughts revolved around attention. Which is ironic because the only reason people thought this, is because they found me lying on the floor in blood. My psychiatrist (Dr. Andrea Anderson, I mean even the name) is the type of person who didn't go into mental health for the people. She did it to brag, because she does not give a shit about anyone, hence the horrible reviews and lack of clients. But she's my mother's friend, and offered her "services" to me after I was released from the hospital. So far, she's still done nothing.

Except make me want to shoot my mother for accepting her offer.

"Now Mila, you know that I'm here to help you. But I can't help you if you spend the entire time talking about Niall Horan and his accent." Rolling my eyes, I can feel the smirk she hates so much sliding onto my face. She should expect the attitude with that stupid ass nickname she insists brings us closer.

"There's not much to say about me, Niall on the other hand..." I don't even like Niall, I just know how much her daughter hates him.

"Mila" Cue the doubtful sigh, that has made my mother dearest yell at me about how her friend doesn't deserve the constant attitude. It's not as if it's my fault, I'm forced here against my will by a mother and father that just want to pass me off for someone else to deal with. So sue me if I don't give a crap.

"Yes Andy?" I really enjoy annoying this bitch. One thing she hated more than her step kids and her daughter getting along, is nicknames.

"Mila, Please. Can we just talk about the suicidal attempt. You were just released from hospital, there must be something you feel about it?" Rolling my eyes, I picture the blood on my hands. It wasn't even mine, but mistakes were made, people were called and assumptions put out there, hence everyone looking like an ass.

I guess I should probably explain. It started a year ago, and this boy - no, man - changed my life for better and for worse.

The latter more than the former.