SECOND LEAD SYNDROME 2 | JJK

42 | no one ever leaves

"I love you," he tells me.

It's the last words he ever says before leaving me there to fend for my own and it was the first time I've ever clung onto them. I always took his love for granted, and now that I don't have it, it's all I want. Selfish, isn't it? Yet no one can deny that it's a part of human nature to want all the things we don't have. Desire naturally is, and always will be, the root of all misery.

I couldn't bring myself to turn around, to look at him and all that I was leaving behind— mentally and physically.

All I could do was pray that I find a resolution for everything. I mean, that's also another reason why I'm here— right? Well, whatever the fuck my sole purpose was for outing myself to complete strangers, it couldn't be worse than my current state. This lifestyle was killing me, there's no doubt in that.

I entered by myself, greeted by a couple women in white. Majority of the workers here were foreigners, some type of Caucasian I wasn't sure of. They already knew who I was the second I stepped foot inside and approached me accordingly. Upon entering, I was told to leave behind every personal belonging and then I was subjected to a full body strip search— which just so happened to have been the most embarrassing/awkward/uncomfortable situation I've been in yet.

Basically, I stripped myself of my physical identity and was forced to share the same rags as every other inpatient. In some ways, this was feeling a lot like prison...

"Hello, I'm Chaerin, head nurse and your guide for today," she shakes my hand and gestures for me to proceed only to overtake me and presume the lead herself.

I don't know her reasoning for that.

She walks me through the main corridor which mainly consisted of the offices of the doctors who worked here and consultation rooms. The second floor was for treatment, therapy, the whole nine yards. Third floor was residential and unsurprisingly barred from every exit with top tier security perimeters. Retinal detection granted you access to bathrooms without supervision— that's only if they believed you "earned" it.

Ridiculous.

I never thought I'd ever need to be accompanied just to take a shit in this lifetime— not at my age anyways. Elders in nursing homes probably had more privacy than we'd ever have and they required 24 hour around the clock care.

Chaerin then drops me off in the extracurricular hall to get acquainted with the other patients. My time was most spent standing idly in the corner and minding my own business as I observe everyone on the room. The longer I'm here, the more I realize that I might've made the wrong choice coming here.

This was a borderline mental asylum.

There was one girl who was sat in a corner, talking and laughing to herself while she had a conversation with her imaginary friend. Another, I'm pretty sure, was catatonic— she blinked every thirty minutes. In the midst of me standing there, some rando comes up to me and starts talking about her drug addiction and how she sold off her grandma for a dime of crack. Now she apparently works in a Bangladesh factory knitting sweaters for literal pennies.

The bitch was crazy, but she seemed more sane than most people here, set aside her former drug addiction antics.

"Yeah, and that there is Mina," she points to the scrawny teenager sitting alone with a book in hand— the literal only person reading in such a loud, disturbing atmosphere. "She think she's psychic or something, but her actual correct diagnosis is psychotic if you ask me."

"And who is she?" I point to the other young female, probably younger than most here. The only reason why she caught my attention was because of how obvious it was that she was hiding her face. Her hair were like curtains, all you could see was the center of her lips, the inner corner of her eyes, and the tip of her nose.

Poor thing, you could tell she was going through some shit.

Layla tilts her head, recollecting her thoughts before finally coming to an answer and snapping her finger. "That's Maisy, she's only sixteen. The youngest here."

"Why is she here?" Besides the obvious fact that she was socially withdrawn and insecure.

"Typical teenage depression. Insecurity and lack of purpose," Layla downplays her situation, completely disregarding her struggle.

Looking at Maisy, I empathized more than I thought I would. I was blessed to not have experienced all of that at such a young age, it allowed me to have the privilege of a lively childhood. My teen years were well spent up until my depression crept in— and well... I think you can see how that went.

My heart aches for her, the little girl who was missing out on so much. All the opportunities, big and small, stolen from her. It was all out of her control and quite frankly, fucked up.

She deserves more than this.

Me, being the person that I was, decided that I'd make it my own personal mission to help her as best as I could. I'd be her personal mentor during the time that I'll spend here. Though I'm not sure how I'd keep my own boat from sinking while tending to hers.

I take a seat next to the little girl and she glances at me once, then pretends that she doesn't notice my presence. Either she wanted nothing to do with me or she was too afraid to respond. Either way, I wasn't taking no for an answer— I was going to help her. For all the bad I've done recently, this would more than make up for it if I can atleast help her just a tiny bit. For me, it would be nothing— but for someone like her, it would mean the whole world.

Little Maisy, let's be friends.

"So... how long have you been here?" I make sure to keep my space in order to not make her feel more uncomfortable than she already was.

Mina gives me a side glance before gazing off into the far distance, trying to space herself out. A known method of distraction from your emotions. "Three years."

Three? "And you're still here?" That seemed a bit odd... "Do you come every summer or something?"

She turns to look at me, almost agitated with my words. But as I looked at her more closely, I came to realize that it wasn't anger in her eyes— but fear. "I never left."

Never?

"No one ever leaves," she tells me.

Wait...

What?