I'm an Innocent Girl Thrown Into a Boarding School for Badass Boys. Great...

-20 I'm an Innocent Girl Thrown Into a Boarding School for Badass Boys. Great...

I sat on the hard mattress, staring up at the colorless ceiling. Being truly alone and without my friends really made me notice how dull so many other things are. Take, for example, this damn ceiling! It was dark gray, like slate - you know, I think it might actually be slate - and was completely deprived of any luster whatsoever. There was absolutely no space between my bed and the floor; the administrators of the Isolation building must have done this to keep people from hiding any 'dangerous' shit.

After my month-long-cutting-spree, I knew that I needed help. I needed time away from Zane, Adam and Noah. I needed time to be sure that Frank wasn't going to come after me. This was a reclusive place: one that was serene enough for me to heal.

Do I want to be away from my friends? Hell no! The day before I was admitted, Zane and I said that we loved each other. But...that was right after I almost jumped off the roof of the Harrison dorm building to my death. Did Zane really think that I would be okay after three words? Again: hell no!

In my opinion, I was fucking crazy. I was in pivotal need of help. If I didn't come here, what were the odds that I wouldn't just pick up where I left off: cutting myself with my razor or - if Zane was taking a shower - any sharp thing.

As I commemorated the past month, I habitually pulled my sleeves up over my hands to cover them. Oh, but wait - I didn't have sleeves!

The people in charge of Isolation thought that, especially those with 'emotional issues,' like me, it wouldn't be very wise to give us long sleeves. They must have believed that it would help us be unable to hide any new self-inflicted injuries. Or maybe these white, jail-like uniforms were meant to make all of these scars stare at us all day long. 'Cause that's what these cuts were doing.

I'd been here for about one week or so - they refused to tell me what day it was, for whatever reason - and these things glared at me. They mocked me.

"See, you're insane. You brought us into existence. Now we have to torture you until you know you'll stop creating us," the red marks would say to me.

How messed up in the head do you have to be for inanimate objects to talk to you, damnit!

That was all that happened as I waited for the therapist to come to talk to me: reflect and lose my mind. As I reflected, I thought about what I would say.

When Ana - my therapist - came, she always held a red notepad in her extremely tan hands. As she spoke to me in a Puerto Rican accent, I liked the sound of her voice. Her accent just made her seem...enchanting. I would talk to her about more shit than I ever could confess to my own mother. Maybe it was because I had been through more at this point than before I was enrolled into this academy.

Speaking of Ana, as I stared with hatred at my injuries, she unlocked the door to my room. Wait, 'room' isn't a fitting word...it was more like a goddamn 'cell.' Almost just like prison. Isolation, to me, was a jail inside a jail that was an alternative to jail. Did you get that?

"Hello, Ana," I greeted as she slid the now unbolted metal door to the side and entered my cell.

"Hola, Drew," she replied. No, she didn't always talk in Spanish. She knew that, although I knew some of the language, I was only fifteen; I was only a sophomore. Sophomores - unless they are surrounded by that dialect - aren't exactly fluent.

I pressed my palms to the white sheets and pushed myself into a sitting position. My legs crossed as I turned to face her. She sat down next to me. For 'special' reasons, I was not allowed a chair; the only things in my room were a bed and a toilet. See? Prison! It's like motherfucking Juvi!

"How are you today?" asked Ana in a smooth voice.

"I'm fine, how are you?" I replied. I grew up saying that; some habits are impossible to break.

"I'm fine as well," she answered. "So, shall we begin?"

"Sure."

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At my middle school, we do Wordly Wise (some of the vocab I learned has been used in these chapters). Whenever we use the words we learn in conversations or writing, that class gets 'points'. The class that has the most gets a prize.

Anyway, one of my friends wrote a story for that purpose right before the semester ended. She said that she could probably use mine...if I didn't swear so fucking much in this (my point exactly).

But hey, I didn't write this so I could show it to my English teacher. You guys have read the title. To the teachers, this would make them think that I'll turn out being sent to something like Drew did. Also, they probably already think I'm depressed. When they read this...Yeesh...Therapy, here I come. Yeah, I'd rather not!

Thanks for reading, people!