psych ➳ muke

0.6

I barely sleep through the night, alone in the room. It feels empty, too open. I have never felt so small.

The nurses refuse to answer questions about Michael. They won't tell me where he is or how he is doing. They just assure me that he will be alright. In a way, I believe them. Maybe he will be alright, once the episode ends. But truly, is he alright? I don't know very much about schizophrenia. All I know is that people whom suffer from it hear voices inside their heads that aren't really there. It's a scary thought and it keeps me awake well into the night.

In the morning, I wake to the sound of the door opening. At first, I assume it's a nurse coming to wake me for breakfast. But when I turn, I'm met with a somber looking Michael. His face shows no expression, there are dark bags under his eyes. I sit up, just staring, and he stares back.

"Why?" Is all he asks and I'm confused.

"Why what?" I retort.

He rolls his emerald greens and moves to his bed, laying back and crossing his arms behind his head. Relaxed.

"They told me you had a shit fit over me."

Oh. They told him that?

I stay silent, eyes still glued to the boy across the room. I don't want to admit to what I had done, it was embarrassing. But the nurses had already informed him and I couldn't lie very well.

"Yeah, I did."

The words leave my mouth and I regret them instantly.

He's going to think I'm a freak. I'm so stupid. Why would I admit to such a thing?

But instead, he sighs heavily and pulls the duvet over his body. He's still in yesterday's clothes and I assume he spent the night in the isolation room down the hall. I want to ask, but I stop myself. He won't want to talk about it.

"Why?" He pushes.

I want to admit it all. Tell him that I find him sweet and alluring, he's mysterious. Leaves me wanting to know more more more. I find myself lost in his eyes, his voice soft like vanilla. Captivating, drawing me in.

But instead I say, "Was just worried," and I leave it at that.

A nurse comes in soon after, breaking the awkward silence left hanging in the room.

"Luke, would you like to come to breakfast?"

And I nod, standing to follow her out. I take one last look at Michael before I go. He's asleep, curled under the white duvet. Skin pale, dark bags under his eyes. But I still think he's beautiful.

• • • • • • • • •

Today at a half hour before noon, I am called to the nurses station. I am going to meet with my psychiatrist for the first time and I am nervous. Every time I am placed under the care of a new doctor, the same uneasy feeling settles in my core. Maybe it's the fact that they don't know me yet. They don't know what I have been through, how I operate. And the fact that I have to openly admit to all of those things. It's easy to be suicidal. Its not easy to admit to it.

Her name is Doctor Fitzgerald, or so, that's how she introduces herself. She's young, maybe in her early thirties, with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. I may have found her pretty if I were interested in people like her. Interested in girls, really.

"So, Luke, how are you today?"

How am I?

I let the question hang in the balance for a moment, assessing how I am.

"I'm fine," but that's a lie, I'm not fine.

The doctor offers a smile. Its fake, I know, but I ignore that. I offer a weak smile back, adverting my eyes to my jeans and picking at a loose thread.

"Do you do that often?"

I'm startled by her question. Do what? I look at her, brow raised.

"You are picking at your jeans, Luke. Do you do that often?" She presses, writing something on her note paper.

Having her read my body language makes me uneasy. I don't like feeling so observed. I decide not to answer. Maybe because I don't realize I'm doing it, because its a force of habit. She just continues to write in her notes, glancing up at me every few seconds.

"So, yesterday you had a bit of a breakdown, yeah? Let's talk about that."

I don't want to discuss what happened. I don't want to talk about Michael anymore.

"There's nothing to talk about. I freaked out, so what?" I argue, glaring at the woman across the table.

She jots down another note. It aggravates me, the note taking. I feel as if she is judging me and I hate the feeling. The doctor carries on talking, but I don't answer. I'm zoned off, focused solely on the boy asleep in our shared room. The image of him clouds my brain. My ears hear his soft, vanilla voice. I crave to feel his pale skin.

"Alright, Luke. I suppose that's enough for today, you look exhausted. Why don't you head back to your room and have a nap?"

I jump from my seat immediately and flee the room. Fast walking down the hallway and earning a few confused looks from the nurses.

When I enter the room, Michael is still in bed. Wrapped in the duvet, sound asleep. Little snores escape past his slightly parted lips. I linger there a little too long, just watching the boy. I wish I could be there, laid beside him, but I'm not. And I can't. So, I go to my designated bed and lie down. I face him, although his back is to me, and situate myself under the duvet.

I fall asleep and dream of a platinum haired boy with green eyes and a sweet voice.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Enjoy!

I'm so in love with this story!