Chapter one: asylum
Footsteps loudly stomp on and on tell the sounds so clearly outside the door. A series of unlocking sounds are made until I hear the heavy door squeak open. A blinding light fills the dark room and the same figure drops off my morning breakfast.
Once the figure leaves and shuts the door whilst locking it the lights switch on revealing my own personal hell. Avoiding to eat as usual I only grab the glass of water gulping it down quenching my overnight thirst.
The days here at asylum only bare despair, but luckily with my confidence and heart that only cares for ones self which is myself. I've learned that nobody loves or likes me, and I've gone through too much of that pain to keep baring that feeling. So now all I care about is myself, not what others think or feel about me.
I only sit down and stare at the white wall waiting for an answer. I don't get how these people think I'm crazy. What have I done? All I done was just try and disappear from reality, I did drugs, I drank every drop of alcohol in each bottle I've encountered, I spilt my own blood and mourned for people I thought gave a shit about me.
I was one of those troubled humans. Struggling with depression and insanity, I became suicidal.
Now here I am three years later, stuck in a asylum just because of one little suicide attempt.
I lost count of how long I've been here, buts it's been forever. I'm eighteen now. I know it, one of therapists reminded me on day that it was my eighteenth birthday.
It was one of those therapy sessions I was forced to do, they said the only way to get 'better' is to participate. So I did.
I lied though, everything I said were lies. It was like I was feeding him because he ate up all my lies and believed them.
"Andrew." The only things they knew about me was my name, age, and how I look. Not my story or anything. To them I was just another normal patient.
"Yes." I said with no emotion turning to face him.
"Before you go, I just wanted to say happy eighteenth birthday." A small grin plastered onto his face, and it amused me to think he even cared.
"Thank you Dr.Marks." I said before turning back around exiting his office to only be met by the the same middle aged looking man. Preferably know as the guy that escorts patients to their room with his name tag reading the boring name bob.
"Another nice therapy session Rain?" Was all Andrew said.
This is what my head goes through everyday. The boring flashbacks of being in this same asylum. It was only probably couple weeks back I had turned eighteen.
It's been a week and two days since I last slept. My insomnia's really becoming a struggle for me.
I haven't ate either but each day I quenched my thirst by drinking the water they gave with each meal.
The day seems to pass by quickly and I still sit here thinking. Flashbacks come and go and the distant memory's of my life haunt me. I wish I could see the future. Just to know what it will be like. Will I still be here? Will I die? Will I ever get out of this hell?
The lights flick off, darkness fills the room making It complete pitch black. I lye facing the ceiling in the dark.
I'm only left with my thoughts and aching body. I feel as if I keep going with this insomnia and no eating routine I could easily be dead by the next couple weeks. Thought I'm not afraid to die, I some how want to. I hate this horrid place. It's crazy to be left alone with yourself, defiantly with me. I only have the urge to hurt myself.
I think about my mom and dad. I try to remember how they looked, all I know is my mom died giving birth to me and my dad hated me because of it . I know from the little time my uncle took me in he said I had my mothers gold eyes and fathers rich black hair.
I remember watching my dad kill himself in front of my eyes, I was only five. I cried then, and at his funeral thinking I lost it all. When really I lost nothing but people who thought I was nothing. First I was taken in by my uncle but he threw me out when he didn't like me, I guess. I was found in the streets and taken in my foster care, I thought I liked it there since I was only young and they gave me food and clothes, but when I turned twelve I found out it was just for the money and that royally pissed me off. I was only mad at myself though, for even thinking a bit that the family cared for my existence.
I ran away again with nothing, I was on the streets again. But then the first time I drank alcohol, nothing was ever the same. Same with drugs, that's how I started making money by the age fourteen I lived with man that I sold drugs with and I did school for the sake of knowledge. I was smart was what my teachers told me, but I didn't give two shits about what they said. Either if I was gifted or a genius, no one truly cared about me. But then when I turned fifteen I realized I wasn't the strongest around, I was never.
I was severally bullied, I was beat to the limit where I actually cried. It hurt so bad, and what hurt worse were the words everyone threw at me, it became so bad the teachers even began naming me whatever others named me. I was labeled as nothing.
Yeah as you guessed. I became suicidal and cut myself. On the wrists, arms, neck, I even started beating myself up or throwing myself at the guys that beat me up. I wanted to die and I still wanna die. No one noticed luckily, when my sixteenth birthday came around the guy I worked with payed me extra and I got so wasted I tried to kill myself. I don't remember it though.
I still don't know that guys name that I worked with, he was kind to me, and he acted as a older brother to me. We fought but then we were there for each other, he told me to call him Joe, since he doesn't want anyone knowing his real name.
I liked him but never cared for him, I hate him now on my own pity.
~
I stretch out into a sitting position as I try to think of how long I've been up.
But before I could come to grip with it my eyes roll to the back of my head and my eyelids shut, my whole body lyes back into a awkward position. Sleep takes it place over me and I drown into a pool of darkness.
