I wake up feeling like someone hit me over the head with a wrecking ball. I squint around in the too bright morning light, trying to see who's here and who isn't.
"Mom?" I croak. Nope. There's a nurse though. She might be useful. Actually... No, that's a stupid thought. C'mon brain. Work. Since when has a nurse ever been useful to you?
"You okay there, Damien?" she questions, pausing to check the chart hanging off the end of my bed for my name.
"Is my mom around?"
"Oh, yeah, I think she just went to get herself a drink or something," she gives me a sickly sweet smile, "can I get you anything?" Yeah, you can get me a gun so I can shoot you, and then myself. Trust me, the world will be a much better place for it.
"Hey, honey," my mom's voice echoes down the ward. She sounds better than she did before, at least. I don't think me being unconscious really helped that, but y'know. Better than her crying all over me again. I look around, ignoring the nurse for a moment. Most kids would probably rather die than have their mom visit them every day, but c'mon. It's not like I've got anyone else to visit me.
She sits down next to me and smiles slightly. I sort of return the smile, but I don't think she's convinced by it. Which is fair enough really. I'm not sure even I'm convinced by it.
"How're you feeling?" she brushes my hair back and adjusts my blankets, fussing over me.
"I feel like I died a week ago," I mumble, hoping that her fucking around will stop in a minute. She tuts and mutters something under her breath about the health care in this place and how they shouldn't have sedated me. I'm sorry, but did you like, not see how wound up I managed to get myself? I'm sure you'd rather I felt half dead than actually be dead.
"Did they give you your pill yet?" she asks. I say nothing I'm about to say that they have, but the nurse cuts in and tells her that she was just about to get it for me. I glare at her, but she gives me another too sweet smile and goes off to get my zombie pill.
This time, I don't refuse it. There's no point. I'll give in eventually, I usually do. They praise me like I'm a child eating his greens without fuss for the first time. I glare, but they seem to brush it off like it's nothing. My mom makes a noise like she's just remembered something that she had totally forgotten about and smiles, turning to a lump of foil next to her. She kind of pats it and tells me that it's that cake she promised to bring me. I mumble a quiet ‘thank you' and shake my head as she offers to cut me some. Y'know, I think I preferred her crying to this. This just feels so incredibly fake.
She tries to make idle talk with me for a while, but I sit there through it, only responding when I really have to. Campbell wants to see me again tomorrow, my citalopram dose will be reviewed, the methadone dose will be reviewed too, the school knows where I am, so I won't get suspended again for shitty attendance, which means it won't take long for the kids in school to find out I'm here. Apparently Brendon came round to see me last night. Brendon is one of the stoners at school. He thought I might be at home, the idiot, so mom tells me he might come in and see me at some point.
If he remembers.
Other than that, no one really noticed I was gone, no one cared.
Erin, on the other hand... Lucas, I mean Lucas, on the other hand, has had a bunch of her friends over, chattering away. I mean, she's not looked all that interested, but at least she's got more visitors than just her mom. Actually, I'm not sure her mom's showed up yet. I guess I'll know when I see her. And maybe her dad too. I dunno. I dunno why I bother. We're not gonna be best buddies just because we were stuck in the same psych ward at the same time.
If anything, that's a really shitty reason to make friends with someone, isn't it? "Hey, I'm depressed, and you're depressed, we're both hospitalised for it, and we're both branded mentally unstable. Let's be friends." Yeah. Not such a good way to start a friendship, I don't think.
Well. I dunno. Maybe it is. Maybe it's the only chance I've got left. I dunno what to do.
My mom waves a hand around in front of my face and I blink, focusing back on her. I hadn't even realised I'd been staring across the ward.
"Yeah?" I ask in this horrible muted voice that isn't my own.
"You okay, honey? You were staring into space." Am I okay? If I was okay, do you really think I'd be in this bed right now, wondering if my only shot at a decent friendship would be with another mentally unstable person? No, no I would not. So why are you asking such a stupid fucking question?
"Oh yeah, I'm great, mom," I mutter sarcastically, "thanks for asking." She hesitates, clearly a little stung by my tone, but c'mon, seriously woman. Pull yourself together and think of a less stupid question next time.
"Anything I can get you?"
"Maybe that methadone shot?" she doesn't look happy about that, but what's worse? Your son being suicidal and aggressive because he's been given antidepressants, or your son being fairly normal and calm, almost what you might call happy, because of some opiates? I don't think it's a hard choice to make, personally, but there you go.
With a reluctant nod, my mom nods and gets up, going off in search of a nurse. In that short amount of time, I've thought about how I might get out of there without people noticing, the chances of me getting my hands on something sharp and the possibility of fitting out of the gap that the open window gives me. Unfortunately, I think my options are fairly limited. I'd go as far as to say restricted, or maybe non existent. Because I will be noticed sneaking out, I'm on the psych ward so nothing sharp will be found here and those windows have safety things on them to stop them from being opened too far.
I'm still staring at the window when mom and the nurse come back over, and one of them feels the need to wave their hand in my face again to get my attention.
"Damien?" the nurse tentatively looks out of the window in an effort to see what I was seeing. "I've come to give you your methadone, Damien." Oh. My. Fucking. God. Could she be any more patronizing? Apparently she's oblivious to my glares, because she smiles as I look up at her, even though the expression on my face clearly says something along the lines of ‘go die in a hole, bitch'.