Imprinted → lashton [book one]

3.5

I was woken up in the morning by a young woman shaking me. I peel my eyes open, meeting with her blue ones. It instantly made me think of Luke.

She handed me a cool bottle of water, before plopping two medium-sized pills in my hand. "The blue one is for your anxiety, and the green one is for your thoughts," she tells me, handing Ryder his pills and a bottle matching mine. I thank her as she leaves the room. Ryder swallowed his pills, washing them down with his water. I did the same.

I didn't want to eat, all of a sudden. I was in a mental hospital, with mentally ill people. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be taking that medication. I'm normal. I'm completely normal.

I didn't realise my breathing had quickened until Ryder pondered, "You alright, mate?" Of course I wasn't, but I took a few deep breaths and nodded. I was going to deal with this calmly, and I was going to think of this place as my home for as long as I'm here.

Michael and Calum told me yesterday and today. Was I leaving today? I stopped asking myself questions that I didn't know the answer to. What's the fucking point, really? Goddammit.

I told Ryder to head to the dining room and that I'd be there soon, so he did. I wanted to be alone. I was tired, sad, and I wanted Luke. Then I realised. It was Monday.

I remember Ryder telling me about a phone the patients were allowed to use with permission and a reason. I had to talk to Luke about this, but then again, he'll probably chicken out. He'll probably make up some bullshit lie about how he loves them. I knew that.

I eventually made my way down the wide corridor towards the double doors I had walked through the night before. When I walked through the doors, I saw her. I saw who Ryder had kindly named 'Scissor Face.' She was beautiful, with blonde hair that framed her pea-head, and fell across her shoulders. She was wearing a large grey sweater with skinny jeans and white Converse, almost matching my black ones my father had brought.

She looked at me, and the sight of her made a wave of sadness take over me. She indeed, did have cuts covering her face. Many of them. On her cheek, her forehead, her nose. She nodded at me before walking past me to the same table Ryan had pointed out yesterday.

I ignored the thoughts in my head, telling me to find out more. I walked over to the lunch line and waited. Today, I was given a small sandwich with bacon, eggs, and cheese on it. I thanked her before looking for Ryder's 10-foot tall quiff. I find it insane how it was just naturally like that. Luke would be jealous. I sighed. Luke.

I walked over, greeting them and sitting by Ryder once again. They were in the middle of a conversation about some of the 'skellies.' I tried to find out what they were by their words. I couldn't. I cleared my throat, giving Blue Streaks a confused glance.

"Skellies are the anorexics," she says, taking a bite of her cereal. I stare at my food, whispering a quiet, "Oh." I take a bite of my sandwich, ignoring the glances I got from, now, everyone at the table.

"Explanation or are you gonna keep it at that?" Ro says, taking a bite of his muck. I shrug slightly, refusing to meet any of their eyes. "I have borderline anorexia." I hear Ryder choke on his breath.

"Is that why you're here? You confuse me," Ryan asks with a mouth full of food. I shrug, unintentionally deciding not to talk for the rest of the meal.

They understood.

-

"Hey, newbie. Wait up," Ryder calls after me. I wanted Luke more than ever at the moment. "Ashton, seriously. You don't know your way 'round yet."

"I'm calling Luke," I tell him, pushing through another pair of doors. He's still behind me. "Yeah, alright. I'll wait here."

I walk towards the desk sat in the front of the floor, right by the elevators. I give her a kind smile. "Hi, may I use the phone? I need to call someone for a.. personal situation, I suppose."

"Sure, what's the number?" She asks, handing me the phone gingerly. I tell her his cellphone number quietly, and the ringing sound started to erupt. I almost laugh at how he answered, "Luke Hemmings, hi."

"Ashton Irwin, hey," I mock, leaning against the desk to sturdy myself.

"Oh, hi, baby. The game's about to start. What's up? Are you alright?" He asks all at once in a whisper; I smile -- smile -- at his concern. He's so cute, Goddammit.

"I'm okay, just," I fumble with the words in my brain. "You coming out, Luke. Is that still happening?" I blurt suddenly. The line was silent for a moment, and I heard the background of his call: the screaming teenage boys, laughing. I wish I could be in the stands.

"Most likely. I'm determined to let this out, dammit," he groans the last part, and I hear him grunt when he sits down. "You don't have to, Luke. You can wait it o-"

"No," he says. "No more waiting out. After the game, win or not, I'm screaming it. I don't care. I gotta go, bye."

And the line went dead.