Lost Boy (Tronnor)

3

{Trigger Warning}

'We are the New Americana, raised on legal marijuana' - New Americana 

Once again I wake, this time my family are by my side. I can feel my mum holding my hand, I can feel her hand shaking, "Troye, my baby Troye, sweetie it's going to be okay." her voice cracks at the end of the sentence. She removes her hand from mine to wipe away a stray tear. 

I shake my head, almost wishing she hadn't said that, as it's not okay, I'm not okay. I feel sorry for my family, I do. They don't deserve this, a messed up kid who put himself in the hospital. They deserve so much better. 

I hear them muttering, I can't hear what they're saying. Maybe it's better I don't know. I hear a sob, and 2 chairs scraping against the floor. I've always hated that sound, makes me shudder. 

I'm left alone again, this time I'm fully awake. I want to know the time, I have no clue how long I've been here, 2 days at the most I guess. 

A nurse comes over to me, "Troye, are you alright? Do you need anything?" She smiles. 

I do actually, I really need the toilet, but how do I ask that? "Um...um, Can you - I need the toilet." he stutters, turning red. 

"Oh! They're just over there," she points down the ward, "Do you want me to help you get up?"

"I'll be okay," I say maybe a bit too sourly. She smiles, probably used to grumpy suicidal teens. 

"Okay, if you need anything else just call for me." She walks away. 

Right Troye, you've got this, just stand up. Such a simple task, yet it required so much effort. As I shifted my body to the edge of the bed, burning pains spread like fire through me. I gasped. Working with the pain, I managed to stand. There was a sheen of sweat on my forehead. 

When I reached the toilets, I was utterly exhausted. At least I did one thing on my own. Now, I can be in peace. Not really peace, but away from everyone, even if it was only for a few minutes. I lock myself in one of the cubicles, and let out a huge breath. 

Finally. Now, I can see the extent to which i burn. First I roll up both my sleeves, jagged lines, most red. There is no order, just cuts. Lines of all different lengths, some flow all the way from my wrist to up past my elbow, others not as long, but twice as deep. My breath starts to pick up. 

Troye, you need to look, you need to know. I take a deep breath, and lift up my shirt. Now, I see so many lines, covering my chest, criss-crossing over my heart. My thighs too, everywhere really.