“What's your name, son?”
He didn't answer.
“Do you know why your here?”
Still no answer.
He could tell that the Doctor was getting annoyed with him. He didn't care, though. Why should he care? He didn't chose to come here- he was perfectly content in dying. Yep; that was his plan. To die. To leave his life and divulge into the depths of the cold ground. Oh, such a wonderful idea it was.
They said it wasn't his, though. They said it was due to his “mental illness” or his “problem” that formed the ludicrous plan. He hated that. It was his (his, his, his) not theirs. All his. He came up with it- not them! It made him mad when they said he didn't do things by his own freewill.
The Doctors with their dumb degrees and their stupid white coats told him that he had no freewill. That he was unstable. That he was crazy.
He wasn't crazy.
He would know if he was.
He, Cameron Smith-Pellet, was completely sane. Unlike those wackos they put him with. Honestly, they called themselves professionals when they didn't even have a clue on how to tell a sane person from an insane person? He was beginning to questions whether or not most of these... people were actually crazy. They messed up on his diagnosis, so who was to say they didn't mess up on the others.
Tim came back again. Cameron liked Tim; he always talked to him as if he was a man instead of a child. Tim was the orderly who would take him to and fro his meetings (or stupid, unnecessary chit-chats, as he liked to call them).
For one whole month he had been in the Grove Mental Hospital. Exactly twenty-eight days after the “incident”.
His parents had cried when they found him on the floor, laying there. White as a ghost, they called the ambulance and they took him away. They treated him, and after much discussion, they admitted him to a mental hospital for four months just to see how he was doing.
Cameron doesn't remember what he said or what happened after he cut himself. Its all blurry and confusing. The things that he could piece together were hazy and uncertain. He vaguely remembered the chanting in his ears, the gush of red that seemed to flow endlessly from his arm... his mother's horrified scream. After that, it was all black. He could hear people in the background; it sounded as if he were under water, watching everything from below.
The Doctors told him that after he was brought to the hospital, the had him evaluated. It didn't make much sense to him; why evaluate someone who was obviously out of it from blood-loss? They said he was fine enough to undergo the psychoanalyzing.
That really left him feeling confounded.
He couldn't remember coming through, he couldn't remember the conversations with the psychiatrist, he could only remember a blank void of nothingness. As if someone had taken away his hearing, his vision, his sound, his taste, leaving him completely numb.
No one believed him, of course.
They all thought it was a “coping mechanism”; he went through a trauma and forgetting most of the details was his subconscious minds way of dealing with it.
He didn't believe that; but no one cared about what he thought in this place.
They listened to an extent. The rest was just to prove to his parents' and family that they were making progress. Regardless of what he did or how sane he acted, the Doctors gave him more pills to “make it go away”. He told them that they got angry when he took certain pills- that only got him more. He could literally say a big, fluffy, pink elephant was tap-dancing in front of him and they could try to diagnosis it with another pill.
No reality-check, just a pill.
If he would have known that taking pills was the only solution to his so-called “mental illness”, he would have just stayed on ecstasy.
Tim brought him back to his room; a small little closet-like room with white-to-creme colored walls, a window that only opened about a couple inches, a desk that was stuck to the floor (Grey tiles), and a bed. Not a comfortable bed, either. A hard bed that wasn't even big enough for his lanky frame, leaving his feet hanging out of the opposite side.
“Here ya' go, Cameron,” Tim said, getting ready to depart, “make sure your good and they'll give you more privileges.”
The large man gave a friendly wink before shutting the door. Cameron watched him turn and leave from his door. He kept staring for few moments, wishing that he, too, could leave and go home.
Cameron looked away from the door then walked over to his bed. The sleeping pills were starting to take effect and he was pretty much dead to the world. He climbed onto the bed, curling up closer to the wall, and let his heavy eyes shut.
The only thing he hated about the sleeping pills were the everlasting feeling of fatigue in the morning. The thing he liked about them was the simple fact that they disappeared for a couple hours, leaving him able to get his rest.
Cameron thought back to what the orderly Tim had told him a few minutes ago -“... make sure your good and they'll give you more privileges...”; he would have to try that tomorrow. Maybe he could leave this place sooner.
Now that was the only delusion that he wanted to see and hear.