Until Skies Taste the Sun (Lost Series #1)

Wakas

DISCLAIMER: Symptoms, Diagnosis, and Treatment of illness that is present in the story were composited between creative writing and non-fictitious events which went supervised by facts and the author's research. Do not assume that this is hundred percent accurate to be a reference.

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Marcellus Achelous III

"Third, I told you to take your bath early! Come here down! We have an afternoon appointment today with Dr. Khan."

I was grand stairs away from Mom still I can hear her wild calling. It was a screech for my ears.

I heaved a thick sigh and pushed my hair up after taking down the brush. When can I finish one painting without Mom interfering?

I stood up lazily and finish my shirt buttons that remained off. It was freaking hot even though I already turned the cool mode of the ac. My room is too big and I guess I have a lot of pieces of stuff. Big and real lots of stuff I don't recall all having. Same with the doctors who lined up in my life I can't count now.

Dr. Khan. Dr. Campbell. Dra. Brown. Dr. Abbott... Couldn't name them all now, occupying too much of the list.

"Fuck you all," I shrieked at the mirror.

Things weren't all new to me. Weren't unusual as the year clicked by. Sessions. Therapy. Maintenance. It started when I was five but I don't know then it could go out this bad. When I began therapy, I recall I used to be a gentle patient before every visit to the hospital. The kid's mind just has things for hope.

Not until teenage years came relatively unpredictable. I went bored and... dog- tired. I thought I could really get healthy, losing count of the time I would talk my heart to God at night. But I never doubted him. All I doubt was the doctor. One opinion to second opinion then second opinion to nth opinion. A fucking tiring cycle.

It wasn't like I carry my ill heavy on my shoulder. It just made me feel dumb and exhausted at a time of extended therapy sessions and ample times of switching doctors. Like starting again from scratch.

"Dad's coming?" I was already down the stairs.

Mom came to me and hold onto my cheeks. It was a weird feeling for a fifteen- year old teen but I got it over to let her. I already put up with all of her attitudes toward me.

Caption it all. She mercilessly enrolled me in every class she knew. Not that I'm complaining. Her efforts were all helpful to cultivate my purpose again and have my existence. Because I should have. The assorted series of classes and such conditioning I joined in... diverted my mental crack-up to physical exhaustion.

I would just prefer to get myself wasted and knock my body down on the mattress, listening to Celine Deon's albums after a long day at the workshop than doing the same repeated scenario with the doctor I always doubt at the first meeting like because it seems I was fighting an actual battle. If only it works all the time. Because when I show my parents I'm doing fine and normal, they wouldn't bother forcing me to come to the hospital that frequentative.