The Ugly Truth

"I myself spent nine years in an insane asylum and I never had the obsession of suicide, but I know that each conversation with a psychiatrist, every morning at the time of his visit, made me want to hang myself, realizing that I would not be able to cut his throat."

~Antonin Artaud

In all honesty, this is not how I imagined spending my 15th birthday.

I imagined being around my friends, laughing while scarfing down slices of pizza, watching little kid shows just to make fun of them.

I imagined listening to Suicide Silence while being forced to visit my other relatives for the family party, sitting in the backseat knowing it would be one more year until I can drive.

I imagined getting that birthday kiss Jane Doe has promised me when we were 6 that she would give me on my 15th year of existance.

I imagined my head wanting to shoot the person who invented the words "Thank you" after saying it so much through out the day.

I imagined beaming like a child on Christmas when I saw people actually remembered I exisited, not that I'd thought they forget.

I especially imagined finally getting my pistol I had been wishing for ever since I could remember, a .44 calibor with a silencer.

Instead, I'm spending it here, dressed in the unifrom scrubs, my name written acroos my chest to identify who I was, socks that were supposed to look like shoes but completely not, and a multitufe of hospital bracelets on my wrists, only to cover "my mistakes," as the staff put it. There's no one of the friend type, there's no Jane Doe, there's not Aunt Bethany to pinch my cheeks and squeal, "Look how big you've gotten!" It's just me and my thoughts.

And I'm trapped in the walls of Jericho Institute for the Troubled, and I just wish the walls came tumbling down.