The Support Group ✖ BajanCanadian [COMPLETED]

fifteen : the dog days are over

(JANUARY 1ST 2015)

Chapter Fifteen - "The Dog Days Are Over"

I had watched the New York countdown to the New Year intently on the small, box-shaped, bulky TV bolted into the wall in the rec room of Montreal's finest psych ward in its Jefferson Height's hospital.

"3...2...1!" There were cheers of joy and celebration buzzing around me, a wave of elation spreading. But I stayed silent, my eyes locked on the television screen blankly. I never got the point of New Years, and why it was a holiday of some sort. I used to think it was the beginning of a new end.

My fingertips grazed the wooden armrests of my chair as I remembered last New Year's Eve with my father. We hollered and whooped and threw popcorn at the blank television after the clock struck twelve when the power went out due to a terrible storm passing through. I chuckled weakly at the memory.

Tyler visited me on Monday, and he said he forgave me. That was the first time in forever we had an actual conversation. Mitch still hasn't come around. I don't blame him though, I'd hate me more than I still do now for the things I said.

But I wasn't going to hold myself back anymore; this year was going to be different.

I'm not sure what kind of different yet, but it sure isn't going to be the nice kind.

I pushed myself up out of my chair and shuffled through the thin crowd that had gathered around the TV. People were still laughing and yelling mindlessly, clinging on to each other like it was all okay now. It was another orbit; a new year, a new beginning, and quite possibly - a new life.

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I reached for the cold water nozzle right as I entered the bathroom. I twisted it until I couldn't anymore. Cool, rushing water sprayed from the tap. I sighed in relief and lowered my hands into the sink, letting the water wash away all of the dead skin and germs I could have made contact with this morning.

After my hands became drenched, I lifted them up slowly, pointing my fingers at my cheeks and nose, flicking the water at myself. I sighed again at the refreshing feeling it gave me. I flicked a few more times, wiping my hands off on my shirt.

My thumb, index, and forefinger found themselves at the cuff of my shirt, recoiling my sleeve, revealing all of my scars. Unsure, I glanced back at the water, with what I presume was, a desperate gleam in my eye. They itched so much, all I wanted was some kind of relief.

I whined a bit to myself, that whine morphing into a groan when my arm hit the water. It stung, but not the way you'd think it did. There was no physical pain, since most of the marks had shriveled into small etches of dead skin and dry blood, but the mental sting of the fact I had to wash away the itch that I purposely caused.

I finished torturing myself, pulling my sleeve back down roughly. I caught a glance of my backpack hanging off the counter, trying to recall what all I stuffed in there this morning.

I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked the same as I did this morning, except now my face was contort in frustration. I then realized how long my hair was. Never in my entire life has my hair been past my shoulders, and honestly I cringed looking at it.

Sure, they were safety scissors that I stole during arts and crafts, but safety can only go such a long way.

After all, this was supposed to be me trying to heal. I was supposed to move on from the life I used to dwell on every conscious day I experienced.