turned - muke - the distortion trilogy 2

0.1

MICHAEL'S P.O.V.

"Hello, Michael," the woman who must be Dr. Lancaster says. My nurse, Tiffany—who brought me to my room and told me the rules and promised to take care of me when I got here a few hours ago—told me that Dr. Lancaster really nice, and that she'll be checking up on me every other day while I'm here. Tiffany said that I should talk seriously to Dr. Lancaster, because she wants to help me.

But we've been over this before: I don't want help. I don't need it.

"Hi," I mumble my response.

"How are you feeling today?"

Absolutely terrible. "Fine." I refuse to look up at her, to meet her eyes. Instead, I fix my gaze on my hands, messing with a loose thread from the hem of my sweater.

"Do you know why you're here, Michael?" Dr. Lancaster's voice is kind, but Gordon warned me right before we got in here that she has ill intentions.

I shrug. In all honesty, I don't understand why I'm here in the psychiatric ward—Gordon calls it the mental hospital. I don't think I'm mental. I don't think there's much wrong with me, aside from my extremely introverted personality, but that isn't enough to land me in an inpatient hospital.

"It says here—" she motions to the file in her lap. "—that you've attempted suicide twice."

"Once," is my immediate response, but apparently it wasn't the correct one, because Gordon begins to scream.

Twice! You have to say it was twice.

"I-I mean t-twice," I stutter. "Yeah."

Dr. Lancaster frowns. "Once a few years ago and once very recently, am I correct?"

Yes, say yes.

"B-But that isn't correct," I remind Gordon. "I didn't try to kill myself last week."

Yes, you did. If you say that it wasn't you, it gets you in even deeper shi t than you're in now.

"But it wasn't me," I protest. "It was you!"

"It was who, Michael?" Dr. Lancaster interrupts.

YOU. Say it was you!

I shrink further into my seat. "M-me."

"Who were you talking to a second ago?" she inquires, and I can feel the smile that is tugging on the corners of my lips at the mere thought of talking about my best friend.

"Gordon," I say. "He's my best friend."

"And he's here right now?"

I nod. "He's always here."

Dr. Lancaster nods, scribbling something down on a notepad. "What were you two talking about?"

My response is immediate, and I don't even have to think about it. "Gordon and I talked about video games at lunch." He's been drilling it into me for years—he says that it's the only way to keep our conversations secret. No one can know what we talk about.

"But what were you talking about just a second ago?"

"V-Video games?" I try to sound confident, but it comes off as uncertain.

"Michael?" I don't like how Dr. Lancaster says my name. It's a failed attempt to be soothing. It's puts me even more on edge. "You said that you didn't try to kill yourself last week. Were you implying that someone else tried to kill you?"

NO.

Hesitantly and disobediently, I nod.

"Gordon tried to kill you?" Dr. Lancaster suggests. My hands are shaking.