we'll live to tell the tale (l.s.)

oxidation

tw// mentions of self harm , eating disorders 

i kind of hate this chapter. i was forced to go to the psych ward yesterday. i hoped it would give me some sort of inspiration but it was just one of the worse experiences i've had. wasted a bunch of time and got nothing out of it. i wriggled myself out of treatment again. 

i'm awful at writing recovery and progression. i don't know what it looks like. it's easier to have them all die in the end. but i can't do that, can i? sorry for the shitty chapter that somehow turned out longer than i thought it would. we're getting places. 

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it was at some kind of psych ward with several floors and several departments; from the outside the size made it look daunting, enough so that louis questioned whether he had the right address or not. it was tall, built with browning beige bricks that made the place look like it was softening, like someone could just stick their finger into the wall and have it slide right through. he didn't get to try it, though, too bound by nerves to even walk straight. he'd convinced harry not to come with, after hours of bickering, but the younger boy did finally concede just when louis was about to give in, looking like he was about to shatter into pieces that were too small to be salvaged.

but when he arrived at the parking lot, he almost regretted not bringing harry, missing the warm, reassuring hand that would always ground him no matter how adamant his mind was to fly. the canvas of his shoes were replaced by ruthless lead, weighing him down with every step, begging him to return deep in the ground where he was always told he belongs. it was a miracle that he made it in time for his appointment in the first place, having to travel through the rainy parking lot, past the receptionist, and up the stairs (which he chose over the elevator for the sake of burning as many calories as possible). he could hardly even recall where and when he received the hospital bracelet that was tied around his wrist, plasticky and blue and sterile, like the rest of the place. he wondered if there were actually rooms with mattress material on the walls like he'd always see on tv, but he hadn't time to look before he was jolted out of his trance by a silvery voice.

"louis tomlinson?" a male voice called. he couldn't come up with a verbal response that would be sufficient, so he simply stood up and trudged toward the man without meeting anyone in the eye; he hadn't caught what the man—his therapist, he presumed—looked like. if a voice, he imagined, could be bottled and sewn into a scarf, then this would be it. not as pleasant as harry's, but not far from it.

"nice to meet you," the man said, sticking out his hand. it was warm when louis took it, slightly clammy but comforting nonetheless. everything about the man was round and soft around the edges, larger, more built, with a bit of bounce in his step from what he could tell. the man's black scrubs looked almost out of place, tightly hugging his round midsection, not too bulging from his pants but enough that it was noticeable. "i'm dr. st. francis, but you can call me tom. our first meeting today is just going to be some diagnostics and getting to know each other, before we get into the nitty gritty of things," he smiled.

on their way through the hallways, louis noticed a group of people of all ages, some in loose-fitting pajama pants, some in hospital gowns, bunched together, following a woman in the same black scrubs that tom was wearing. they were talking, laughing, navigating the snaking halls like they were all to familiar with everything, taking turns speaking. they would look bright and beautiful if this weren't the place they were found. louis wondered how they dealt when they were alone, or what landed each of them here in the first place.

tom's office was actually much more pleasant than he expected it to be. it had only a single glowing yellow lamp set up dimly in the corner, walls laden with minimalist artwork, potted plants at every corner, and a lightbox sign with tall, thin letters, so calm that they seemed almost ominous: comfort is a slow death. unsettling, to say the least, louis thought. wasn't the point of therapy (the word tasted metallic and unpleasant in his mouth, even without him having to say it aloud) to be comfortable, after all?