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— Aspen Bellator
I think it's been a week now.
College applications are due in soon. I wonder if Scott or Stiles will hand mine in on my behalf, they know where I want to go next year, what I want to study. I hope they do, that case if I ever do get out of this place, I'll still have a future. The scholarship announcements go out soon too, or wait— will they have already gone out? I don't know what day it is.
I was so excited for college.
Oh my God— is that seriously what I'm thinking about right now? I'm tied down to a torture chair, feeling like I'm on death row— and I'm worried about my college applications?
I'm pathetic— thinking I'll ever even get to go to college anymore.
I wonder if Stiles ever thought anything of that text. I wouldn't be surprised or blame him if he didn't. It was a bit of a stretch, using an 'I love you' as a cry for help.
It's the peaceful hours of the day right now. The hours before Lance comes in in his lab coat, stocked to the brim with new mystery syringes. I don't know what he's doing to me, every time I ask, he never answers.
My arms are healing up again now, just like he planned. Yesterday, he injected my forearms with some black substance.
It hurt a lot.
I get to do a lot of thinking down here. It's so lonely all the time, the only company I have are my thoughts. Sometimes I think about the last time I was here— when I was up in the regular rooms, like a regular patient. When I attended that guidance councillor session that was supposed to be like therapy.
Sometimes I wonder what I'd say to a real therapist now if I had the chance.
They'd probably point out all of my psychological flaws— which, let's be honest, would take a while.
They'd probably point out my inability to learn from past mistakes, my repeated gut instinct to just lie.
I'd probably get diagnosed with mythomania or something.
They'd probably ask me the routine question: do you want to get better?
You're supposed to answer yes. I know that.
But what do I think my real answer would be? Well— I've had some time to think about that. I think it'd go something like this:
I do want to get better, yes. I don't like hurting the people I love, in fact I hate it. But— there's a part of me, a part that I'm not exactly proud of, that thinks; yes, it will take blood sweat and tears to climb all the way up from rock bottom. But you know what? It also took tears, sweat and blood to get here in the first place.
