The Art of Losing Touch

Chapter One

Warnings: mental illness, bipolar disorder, hallucinations, self-harm, attempted suicide, forced medication, psychiatric hospital

Glasgow, Scotland.

"Why did you want to kill yourself, Calum?"

I flinched at Dr. Mackenzie's voice—detached, professional, clinical. I didn't look up from the bandages on my wrists.

"Don't call me that," I whispered. "I don't like being called by my full name."

"What would you prefer me to call you?" she asked.

"Cal's fine."

"All right, Cal. Now, will you tell me?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Will you tell me why you tried to tear your stitches out, then?"

Her voice was still professionally detached. I still didn't look up, picking at a loose thread on the dingy, red-brown bandage on my left wrist.

"It was an accident," I finally whispered. I hadn't spoken at a normal volume in almost two weeks, since Brendan found me bleeding in my bedroom.

"You accidentally tore the stitches in your wrist out?"

I nodded, closing my eyes. "I know you don't believe me," I said.

"Cal."

I winced; then, finally, I did look up, letting my hair fall in front of my face to block my eyes.

She sighed. "Cal, do you want to be here?"

"No." My voice caught on the single, whispered word. I closed my eyes and looked back down, trying to force my tears back. Boys don't cry. That was what everyone always said, boys don't cry. "No. I want to go home. I hate it here. It's making me worse."

"That's because you're not trying," she said. "If you don't talk to me, I can't help you get better, and until you get better, you're going to stay here."

My shoulders started shaking and I bit down hard on my lip, trying to keep from crying. I'm never going to get better. I'm always going to be like this. I'm always going to be a stupid, worthless, crazy kid no one loves.

"Think about what I said, Cal. We'll talk this the same time tomorrow."

"All right. I'll see you tomorrow, Dr. Mackenzie."

"What did she say this time?"

Robert was hanging upside down from the couch again, his head resting on the floor on top of his arms. He was chewing on a chunk of his black hair, kicking his feet in the air.

"I'm never going to get out of here," I whispered, not looking up from my sketchbook.

"That's rubbish," he said, somersaulting off the couch to sit crosslegged on the floor. "You're no mad like the rest of us. Ya just wanted tae kill ya'self. Everybody does—the only difference is that ya actually tried, so they call ya crazy. Ya'll get out of here just fine." He crawled over to my chair, sitting on his knees and peering at my wrists. I turned my arms down.

"Did ya try again? Your bandages are all mucky."

"It was an accident. I didn't mean to."

"This time or the first one?" Robert asked, leaning closer.

"This time." I inched a little farther away, pressing myself against the armrest on the far side of the chair. Robert followed me, taking my hand and pulling my arm closer.