I didn’t want to fucking leave. I wasn’t okay, and I knew that. Shame nobody else did, really. I walked into my room to see Ryan crying on the bed.
“Honey?” I whispered.
“Fuck off! This is all your fault. You’re leaving me!” Ryan yelled. I felt tears burning in my eyes as I climbed into my bed and scrambled under the covers to find a small bag I had hidden there. I pulled out the pills and swallowed them ten at a time. The pain was excruciating and I had to force myself not to scream as I passed out.
After ten minutes I grew concerned. Brendon hadn’t emerged from the covers. I weakly stood up, my body not used to taking my weight after week of crying on my bed. I quickly pulled back the covered to see a seemingly sleeping Brendon and five bottles of pills. I wasn’t fucking stupid. I screamed at the top of my lungs. Nurses and workers came into the room, trying to revive Brendon until the ambulances arrived. They shoved him on a stretcher and snatched him away. I screamed as they took him away, making a grab for my blade. They thought they had confiscated them all. It just shows that they don’t look hard enough. Everyone left the room except Pete, who want to make sure I was okay; he knew how I’d react. I smiled an insane fake smiled as I slashed my wrists, making several deep cuts. I collapsed back on my bed, my senses fading slowly as Pete yelled for help. Two emergencies in one night? Well, they do call it a “mental home” for a reason, don’t they? I mean, what are they expecting? Normal people?