Life of a Mental (No longer writing)

Chapter Eighteen

People have always said that the first part is the hardest. I had never really thought that was true, I always figured the whole journey was a struggle.

It was a battle to leave the comfort of sleep and my bed to drag my feet through the monotonous school days. With my eyes closed and my mind shut off from the ‘real world’, I felt safe, secure and borderline happy. I was immune to the harsh realities of school, societal pressures and my father.

It was a fight not to slash my body into bloody shreds. Nothing made me more delighted than to feel the serrated knife grind into my wrists and feel the warm blood, gush from the holes across my skin.

It was a brawl coming up with new excuses. It was unreasonable to wear a long sleeved shirt in hot months; a dog will only bite me a certain amount of times before I learn to protect myself; thick bracelets were clunky as they banged against my thighs.

“Hold her legs!” the orderly shouted above my screams. I kicked, thrashed my arms and pressed my teeth into anything they could hook onto. “I’ve got her arms.”

He grabbed my arms and pinned them above my head as he pressed my body to the floor. I still struggled under the pressure of his muscular hands. The more I fought him, the more I screamed in his face. I was determined not to give into what the home wanted.

I am not mental; I am sane; I don’t belong here.

But in this case, that common saying was correct. My foot felt the weight of my entire body, pressing down upon it, as I picked it off the hard pavement and shuffled it a slight, timid step. My breath was tight in my chest and I prayed myself not to hyperventilate.

But the moment, I walked through the wooden doors and faced the familiar stench of fried fish, my breathing slowed and the weight in my feet was lifted.

We were seated on the second floor with red walls, red curtains and red tables. The room taunted me with blood.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the waiting handing us the menus, or that Riley ordered me a coke and him a ginger beer.

“Ready to order?”

“Huh?” I asked as he drew me from my thoughts. 

He waved the menu in my face. I looked up from the blood table to find the waitress waiting with her pad and pencil. Oh.

“I’m not that hungry,” I said patting my stomach to indicate that I was full. But just as if the vibrations from my hand coming in contact with my belly, forced my stomach to groan and growl from the starvation.

Riley shot me a dirty look; he knew I was lying.

Again.

But luckily, he didn’t say anything.

Not even bothering to look down at the menu that I knew all too well, I said “I’ll just have the fish and chips,” going for the classic English dish. It was also, one of the smallest dishes that gave off the impression that I actually dared to shovel food into my mouth.

“Same.” Riley handed the waitress our menus as he took a slow sip of his ginger beer. “Tell me something about yourself.”

Caught off guard of what to say, I stuttered, thinking about all the things I wanted to tell him. But also, keeping in mind what I should tell him. What I wanted and what I should were not the same. “Erm...well I was born here and have lived here my whole life.” I went for the mundane answer.