The Institution For Young Adults

Chapter One

A/N: This is my first book so go easy on me. Sorry if it's a bit boring or grammatically incorrect. This book is really just a place for me to express myself and my internalized troubles.

Warning: This book is entirely fictitious. Mentions and actions of anorexia and self harm. Do not romanticize mental health disorders.

Oliver was in his room on a cold miserable early October night. Hail was pouring down, wind was violently shaking trees, the sky was a fearsome swirling mass of grey. But what made the night miserable wasn't particularly the raging storm. No, it was the fact that Oliver was lonely.

Usually, being in his room by himself didn't bother him. He rather enjoyed it actually. Far better than what would await him downstairs. No, Oliver was used to being alone, but not used to being lonely. He hated the feeling. He thought today would be different. It was his eighteenth birthday after all. That was his first mistake; getting his hopes up.

Oliver shouldn't have thought that this birthday would be any different than the ones before. Every year was the same. The same awful feeling of being invisible, unwanted, unloved. Lonely. Oliver knew that birthdays were supposed to be celebrated. After all he attended his parents birthday party's every year. Hoping that if he got the perfect present, or made the best speech, or had the best attitude, that he would get the same in return. He should really have given up hope already. It's been eighteen years of the same disappointment every single time.

Being lonely unlocked all the thoughts Oliver suppresses. How he's unlovable. Fat. Ugly. Disgusting. Wrong. He usually doesn't have to worry about these invasive thoughts. Always keeping himself occupied when alone. But Oliver wasn't occupying himself with anything other than his destructive thoughts at that moment.

Oliver suddenly got up from his bed as if in a trance. Those vile words repeating in his mind as if on an endless loop. He walked to his closet and dug in his sock drawer. He pulled out a pair of rolled up space socks. He unrolled them and collected the hidden pencil sharpener blade from inside. He didn't hide his sharps from his parents. His parents wouldn't care about the pain Oliver inflicts on himself. He hides them for his hope. Hope that one day his parents will suddenly care. That the countless times they see his scars and open wounds, one day they'll react. So he hides his razors, knifes, and blades in the hope that someone will come looking for them.

He takes his blade over to his bed, positioning his bedside lamp to shine light directly onto his legs. He rolls up his sweatpants to his knees, deciding to target his lower legs for now. He drags the blade from the inside of his calf to the middle of his leg in a pin perfect line. Repeating the action again and again. Making rows of perfect little cuts. He decides to make some horizontal cuts below the diagonal ones now. Making a grotesque design out of his skin. A neat pattern of all his frustrations. After ending at the bottom of his ankle he copies his exact work on the other leg. Before he can do more damage a blaring noise breaks him out of his zombie like trance. Oliver looks to the clock. Seeing the time is six. Time to make dinner. Oliver looks down to his legs. Finally realizing the damage he has done. He scoffs at the design he made. Hating how he subconsciously tries to be perfect. He flips over the edge of the bed and grabs the rubbing alcohol from underneath. While he knows that the rubbing alcohol will make the skin repair slower, he likes the comfort of knowing all the bacteria will be eliminated by the clear liquid.

After tidying himself up Oliver makes his way downstairs to the kitchen. His parents work all day and come home in time for dinner, expecting Oliver to have it ready for them by seven. When he was little a chef cooked for them. His mother made him learn along side the chef when he turned six. At the young age of eight he prepared all the meals and the chef was fired. Leaving Oliver truly all alone in the large, cold house.

Sighing Oliver set to work on dinner. Knowing he had to have it ready in time for his parents. He decided on making ratatouille with a side of light chicken salad. Gathering his ingredients he began to work, humming a soft tune with his melodic voice.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of my book. Sorry it was so long and boring. By chapter three or four it should turn more interesting. I'm more of a realistic slow burn writer. Makes the love more real for me personally.