Myct oneshots (ON HIATUS FOR NOW)

Count to five [knf]

Tw: derealization, suicidal ideation, mentions of medication, bad mental health, mentions of death

Content: angst

George sometimes forgot basic information about himself.

When was his birthday again? What's his favourite color? Favourite food? Favourite music artist?

He didn't know. He couldn't remember.

Reality slipped through his mind so often that sometimes he felt nauseous. That's why he decided to move in with a friend, just temporarily, to make sure he can recover safely, with the supervision of a grounded person.

Karl welcomed George in with open doors. That's something George liked about Karl, he always radiated positive and happy energy.

"Do you need help carrying stuff in?" Karl asked, watching George pick up a slightly heavy box and bring it inside the house.

"No, I'm good," George mumbled, moving past Karl and bringing the box into an empty room, which was about to be his.

Karl pursed his lips, letting George do what he pleased. That's another thing George liked about Karl, he never asked too many questions.

The new setting helped George for a bit. If he was in Karl's home, that meant moving in wasn't a dream. But as he got more comfortable in his new location, his mental health began to plummet again.

Karl was unwaveringly supportive. In fact, he was the one driving George to all his psychiatrist appointments. Everytime before George got out of the car, Karl offered a sweet smile.

"I'll pick you up at ten, okay?"

George nodded, mirroring Karl's smiley expression only for a second. He opened the car door, getting out and shutting the door behind him. George glanced at the car one last time before he walked into the building, noticing how Karl only pulled out of the lot when he stepped a foot inside.

The waiting room was somewhere George was too familiar with, and it made him extremely anxious without fail each time. He bounced his leg, sitting restlessly in his chair, changing positions every five minutes. The receptionist offered him a worried glance, saying nothing.

A woman in a white coat and a clipboard walked into the lobby. "George Davidson?"

George stood up, shakily. He followed the woman into an isolated room with two chairs, bookshelves, a filing cabinet, an analogue clock, and a few paintings hanging up. There was absolutely nothing threatening about this room, but George definitely felt threatened. Same went for the psychiatrist; she was a normal, professional, nice lady, but George felt as if she glared daggers everytime she innocently gazed at him. He felt uncomfortable every appointment for absolutely no reason.

"Take a seat, Mr. Davidson. May I ask how you're doing this morning?" She asked, grabbing a pen and clicking it to life.

"I-I'm doing good," he stammered, unsure about his answer. He rested his hands distractedly in his lap, trying to contain his anxiety while she sat down in the chair across from him.

George switched psychiatrists often, visiting a new one almost every 6 months. He always claimed they weren't helping him, but Karl insisted on giving them a chance before switching, as they were running out of available psychiatrists in the area. Aware of that fact, George tried to not say anything to ruin this for him.

"Good to hear. How is your medication going for you? Would you say it's working?"

"M-My medication? Um..." George tried to think of the medication he was supposed to be taking. He couldn't even remember its name. He remembered taking the bottle home, vaguely, but wasn't unsure if he ever took any. He definitely did not have a consistent dosage schedule as he was supposed to, that's definite. "I...I don't know."