If I Stay✔️

47

L E O

I stirred from my drug induced sleep, wincing slightly as my lids cracked open, the fluorescent beam of the hospital lights felt like they'd burnt me. After many rubs with my balled fists, my eyes slowly adjusted and I glanced around the lonely room. For the first time since the incident, I was alone.

The room was large, no doubt private if Zac had any say. The walls were white and bare, adding the right aesthetic for the hollowness I felt in my chest. Sighing, I closed my eyes, wishing that sleep would take me away once more, but, to no avail, my body had clearly rested more than it felt necessary.

My mind hadn't though.

Pulling myself into a sitting position, I glanced at the art supplies on my bedside table; a sketch book, expensive charcoal pencils and an eraser. It brought a minuscule of a smile to my lips, the fact that someone — most likely Zac or Jack, thought to bring these to me... it made me warm, warm in ways I hadn't felt for years.

Hesitantly, I picked up the sketchbook, my fingers brushing along the first empty page. My mind was louder than ever, and in moments like this — which happened multiple times per day, art had always been — and always will be, my escape.

I spent the next hour sketching random things, tearing out multiple pages and ruining my brand new eraser. I stared at the small rubber cube enviously. It would be so easy if we could erase the imperfect things that happened in life as effortlessly as we could on paper.

But you can't.

I threw the eraser at the wall, followed by the sketchbook and pencil before falling back on the scratchy sheets. It wasn't working, my go-to safe space, it just wasn't working. None of the drawings felt like my own, fuck, my mind didn't even feel like mine.

I reflected on my previous chat with Jack. His words made me feel somewhat better, the fact that he understood more than most what it was like to be stuck with these monsters — these demons.

But he didn't — he couldn't.

His mind was different to mine. And as much as it killed me to admit, I was jealous — so fucking jealous that he had someone kind with him. Someone with a name, and a face, and nice things to say. Yet, here I was stuck — trapped with these predators that often set it as their game to hurt me.

Sometimes, rarely, but some, it felt like the voices actually wanted to help me — to save me. It's stupid, so stupid, but it's true. They gave me warnings. They told me who I could and couldn't trust. And whilst their words were mostly mean, deep down, I knew they cared, but like most, they just didn't care enough.

And no one ever will.

***

"Le, you're awake."

Zac's voice filled my ears as the door to my room creaked open. I didn't look at him, my eyes focused on the bare wall a head. Though I couldn't see his face, I knew Zac was frowning at my lack of acknowledgement for his presence. But I couldn't bring myself to care.

I'm so sick of feeling like this.

I was drowning again, the whispers were loud, so loud I could even say they were shouting. I wanted to scream, to exhale every beat of oxygen in my lungs and let out the sheer terror I feel.