misfits · calum hood

day one

day one - the mental hospital

☹☹☹☹☹☹☹☹☹☹☹☹

Cierra,

Hi, how are you. I hope you're great, because I'm not so great. By the time you're getting this you might already know where I'm at. I'm in a mental hospital. My parents took my to a mental hospital without any fucking warning. Okay, yeah, maybe I'm suicidal, yeah, maybe I hate myself, yeah, maybe my life sucks ass, but they didn't have to put me in a mental hospital. This place is supposed to make my life better? I haven't stopped crying since I got here, and I've thrown up twice. I'm currently sitting in the waiting room - it smells like a doctor's office. I'm wearing the ugliest clothes ever, one of those shitty night-gown things you would get at a hospital. Oh, right, I am at a hospital. A fucking mental hospital. I was lucky enough that they gave me a pencil and paper to write you, it took me like 10 minutes. But they didn't even give me a clipboard or a desk or some shit, so I'm currently writing on my leg, if you're wondering why my shitty handwriting looks even shittier than normal. Well, I'm gonna go cry all of the water out of my body. I already fucking hate it here, and I've only been here for 20 minutes. I miss life already, fuck this. I never thought I would say I miss life. For fuck's sake; I wanted to end my life. But this is not life - this is basically hell. I hate my life so damn much. But I love you, C. Stay strong for me. Only because I can't say strong for myself anymore. Please don't forget about me - I'll get out of this hellhole one way or another.

- Vicky

p.s. if anyone at school asks where I am, I'm sick. Or have cancer. One or the other, let your imagination be free.

I folded up the piece the paper, keeping it secure in my hand. I crossed my right leg over my left; shifting, trying to make myself comfortable. I was sitting in one of those terrible doctor's office chairs - the ones that make a farting noise when you sit down. I was in the waiting room of a mental hospital.

I'm not even sure how I ended up in the mental hospital. It's all a sort of blur to me now. I can remember driving in the car with my parents, and I asked them where they were taking me. They said they were getting me some help, and so I figured they were taking me to another therapy group session or possibly another doctor. It was all the same - I was the depressed, suicidal girl who hated life and wanted to die. My parents tried to help, sent me to multiple doctors and therapies; yet I was still the same person.

In the middle of the drive, my mom turned around to face me, and she said "It's for the best, Vicky." She started to cry, and my dad gave her reassuring pats on her back and arm-rubs. I had honestly know idea what was going on; I was confused but I decided to stay silent.

"Where are we going, Mom?" I finally spoke up and asked. I was not one for surprises. But mom stayed quiet, wiping falling tears off her face every so often.

"Dad?" I asked softly, knowing he would tell me. I had always favored my dad over my mom; he understood me a little bit better while she didn't.

But my dad was also giving me the cold shoulder, keeping his eyes directly on the road.

"Fine," I mumbled, crossing my arms.

The drive all-in-all took about thirty minutes, and as we pulled up to the plain, white brick building, I quickly jumped out of my seat and peered out the window to see where we were at.

I couldn't see anything but a huge, white building in front of me. As we parked, I hopped out and faced the building - looking for a title, a sign, anything that could help me identify the place. My parents followed, pulling a bag out of the trunk. Yet, it wasn't just any bag. It was my bag. The one I used when I was travelling. And it definitley wasn't empty; there was stuff packed into that bag.