Kavi One Shots

Control [T]

Kirstie Maldonado's POV

Some stories never have a happy ending. Some stories do. Some stories end in the middle of a sentence. Some stories end at the end of a sentence. Some stories never really tell the ending.

But there's one thing that's for sure: reality is so much more different than the fiction on paper or the story on the television or cinema screen. Reality can fuck you up so much to the point where you don't know who to trust, what to do, where to go, or why this it's all only happening to you. Reality sucks. Society does, too.

Society in the stories can either be the sweetest, so easy to manipulate or trick somehow, but society in our reality doesn't take no as an answer. We're all so obsessed with having some type of attention that people fake so many serious things like depression, suicide, anxiety, and bipolar disorder. So many people want to grasp the attention of others so badly that they put their own life on the line.

Some attention is fine, hell, it's best if you got some help if you're really depressed or suicidal or anything else that isn't normal, but what isn't okay is faking it all. Faking the sadness. Faking the worry. Faking the need for help.

"Kirstin?" Mitch gained my attention, snapping me out of my horrid mind. I looked up again with a smile, "Sorry. I know it's your turn. Okay, I'll leave—bye," I quickly said, standing up from the dark sofa and sending the fellow patient a wave, leaving the room as my psychologist smiled back at me.

He was usually always after me after the visits there at the psychological help center. Don't get me wrong, I loved the fact that the people there were always going to help me, but I didn't want to be a charity case. I figured that I wouldn't get a happy ending, and so my life sort of turned upside down after my thoughts about that, my thoughts of always being alone with nobody to ever really love me like I loved everyone around me — even the discourteous people around.

My sickness, or what my psychologist calls it, my infirmity, is suicidal thoughts, depression, and physical and emotional harm. Of course, though, I didn't think I suffered from any of those. I have had bad thoughts but I didn't think they were that bad.

I thought I was getting better, but as I was on the bus, I felt my heart rate pick up instantly. Nerves bundled up in my stomach, then the thoughts and voices came back. Kirstin, what are you doing? Riding a bus? Really? What if people judge you for whatever the hell you're wearing? Then what? Will you cry like you always do? You have nobody to go to, Kirstin. Your parents abandoned you. Your ex-boyfriend cheated on you because you weren't good enough. Your siblings even dishonor you. What and who do you even have left?

Tears pricked my eyes, but I always held them back. My hand itched to touch my arm, but I refused to. Instead, I pulled my sleeve up all the way to my fingertips and blocked everyone's view from my scarred and red wrists. Someone, a guy I hadn't recognized, kept his eyes on me, worry placed into them. I looked at him for a split second, then back at my arms self consciously. He was really cute — dark hair, trimmed beard, greenish hazel eyes, tall. He was.

I glanced up again and he clearly had no shame in staring. I coughed awkwardly, hoping he would stop, but he didn't. Despite how hot as he really was, it was starting to become weird.

Once my stop came, I hurriedly got off of the bus and held onto my body, still feeling self conscious. The man followed behind me, then his low voice interrupted my train of thought. "Ma'am? Um, are you okay? I know I seem creepy as hell but you don't look like you're happy."