9:12

phase one

My mouth is dry. I can't think. I can't cry. I can't do anything.

"Skye? Skye, please listen to me. Please Skye, please." I hear voices, I hear them but I can't see who they belong to. My eyes are closed. They're closed but I still see it. The screams. Tears. I see them, I see it all.

My eyes open.

"Skye?" The voice is hoarse, like it's yelled too many times. It's mum.

More than enough times I've seen her face so feeble, so exceptionally pale.  And I don't know why but it's different this time. I want to say I'm sorry, so sorry for doing what I did to her, to tell her I love her. But I can't. I can't. 

More voices join in, but I hear them only vaguely because my attention is on something else. A family stood only a few paces ahead that I could hear their conversation.

"We're doing this for the best! Don't do that Fran, no I won't have it." A man who I assume is the father holds up his hands. What he said makes a woman beside him start objecting.

"Mark you can't. He's just a boy. Our boy!"

"He's done it this time, Fran. I'm sorry."

"What? No, no Mark—we can help him!"  The man sighs and starts arguing with the woman.

Then someone's voice silences them both with a yell."For fuck's sake just do it! I'm tired, okay?!"

 I am too.

People say that being here is good, that it's a gift. It's not. Being here is like being trapped inside a sinking ship, there is no way out because with even every possible exit, you shouldn't and probably won't be saved.

All at once everything is whirring in my mind; my cuts; mum and dad's face when they saw my cuts; the result of what happened to me because of my cuts.

I open my mouth and nothing comes out. My head is spinning on its own axis and it's spinning too fast. And mum keeps talking, and she keeps trying, and I keep wanting her not to try.

I hate that they still care. I hate who I am. I hate it here.

"Stop, please!" And they all stop. Apparently so does my body.  

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