You say you've got the cure but I don't have a disease, and you say you've got the answers but I've made no inquiries4 Reviews
lol i'm black bitches
I laid in my cold, stiff bunk counting the indentations on the high white ceiling. The air smelt of mildew and rain. I looked down at my cold, pale hands that had been pinned at my side for as long as I was staring at the ceiling for, and I couldn’t tell you how long that had been. Although, I do know that I have been laying in bed for too long, because my “room mate” Harper had started to move around in her bunk which had probably meant she was going to get up soon.
I lifted myself off my shitty mattress to get dressed for whatever great adventure would be in store of me here at The Eleanor Johnson Psychiatric Hospital. I was sent here about 4 months ago due threatening burn down the neighborhood, and succeeding in almost stabbing little David Schmitt to death. The fucker deserved death, unfortunately my knife hit all the wrong places. They say I can’t control my anger and I need to find and outlet, something other than violence, but why should I? Nobody took mercy on me, nobody stepped into my child hood and replaced their fists with hugs and kisses. This world is fucking filled with people who deserve the hate they have inflicted, and I like to think of myself and the person that was sent to put that person back into their place. Regardless, I get along with people here at the asylum decently well.
I share a room with Harper Fitch; I don’t use the term “room mate” because that implies we’re mates, which I’m not denying, we are friends, but the term room mate should be saved for college dorms and school trips, not something as miserable as a freak hospital. Harper was admitted about 3 months ago for severe Bulimia. She’s twenty, only two years older than me, prime age for if someone were to become Bulimic. We have been sharing a room together since she’s checked in, and we’ve kept our peace. She understands to stand clear of my pyromania, and I understand not to comment on anything concerning her appearance... ever.
“Mo, what time is it?” Harper moaned, her voluptuous blonde hair emerging from underneath the covers.
“Beats me, princess. Get off your tush, we have a new day to start.” I sarcastically muttered back, pulling my fried brunette locks into a ponytail. I stalked out of the room, the greeted by one of the nameless nurses with my morning tranquilizing pills, which really killed my buzz.
Correction, being here annihilated any chance of happiness that my quaint little body could even produce, if any.
Paige Castro’s POV
I sat at my large mahogany desk, papers scattered almost everywhere. The 2:30 feeling hit me in the face harder than it previously had during the past couple of weeks. Tons of new patients for me to counsel checked into today. Part of me didn’t think I was ready for this, considering I was working at one of the busiest, well known mental institutes on the east coast, and I had only had me license for half a year now. I guess if life hands you an opportunity, you just go with it. Everything seemed to work itself into place, I guess if you take full advantage of what you have in front of you, your level of stress seems to simmer down.
“Doctor, your 2:30 is here” my telephone rang, sending in one of my favorite patients, Kyle Burns.
File #293 deems Kyle Burns a 20 year old resident of the Asylum as of about four months due to Depression and anxiety, being sent to me twice a week for counseling. Oh course, the institute doesn’t know a patient nearly as well as his own psychiatrist does.
“Good afternoon.” The blonde waltzed into my office in his usual: tight pants that elongated his absurdly skinny legs, and and thin shirt that barely covered his whole torso.
“Hello Kyle.” I slurred, studying him as he walked towards the coach in front of my desk.
“How have you been?” He asked, lounging on the couch.
“I believe thats the kind of question I should be asking you, not the other way around.” I smiled, standing up from my chair, walking over to the front of my desk and leaning against it. He leaned forward, putting his face between the palms of his hands, blonde hair becoming more disheveled by the moment.
“Then ask it.” He smirked, leaning back onto the cushions once again.
“How was your week, Kyle.” I chuckled back, feeling my hands becoming clammier against the front of the desk by the second.
“Well, doctor,” he stood up and started pacing, “my week was fine, a few run ins with some of the others, but nothing too extremely out of the ordinary. Oh, and they served apple pie in the cafeteria the other day, you know how much I love pie.” He stopped in his tracks, and made his way over to me. “I know I’m not supposed to ask such a personal question, but how was your week Paigey?” He ran his boney pale fingers through my dark hair, pushing aside the ones in my face, my heart rate slowly increasing.
“It was alright, I guess.” I sighed, looking up at him, his green eyes sparkling.
“Alright you say? You don’t seem alright.” His thumb grazed over my bottom lip, lightly fidgeting with it while he tilted my chin so that our eyes met.
“Yeah I’ve just got a lot of shit on my mind, it’s nothing.” I pulled away from his gaze, his hand pulled away from my face and relocated to my waist.
“You sure, baby?” See, this is the shit that would get us in trouble. Using cute little pet names like ‘baby’ and ‘sweetheart’, something that would get us found out by somebody. One of us would slip up, and say ‘pumpkin’ or something cute like that in public and we’d be dead.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I smiled up at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, messing with the collar of his shirt.
He smiled, lifting me up, gracefully setting me onto of my desk. My fingers gripped the top of his shirt, and I pulled his lips to mine, softly nibbling on his thin bottom lip.
“You know, sometimes I miss you and your presents.” He chuckled, pulling away from my hold. “Presents eh?” I seductively questioned, biting my lower lip, then I realized what he was talking about.
“Yeah, both of you make me a very, very happy man.” He pressed his lips against mine, once more, I could taste the narcotics on his tongue. As much as I would like to say that we were true love, just wrong place wrong time, that isn’t exactly the case. I met Kyle when he was first admitted here, I was the first person he saw. I don’t want to say it was love at first sight, but I was on my period and my single ass hadn’t dated anybody in months and the boy was cute so I give him and all his pickup lines a chance. I guess you could say I was pleasantly surprised, he was charming, funny and great with his fingers so...
It only took me a week to realize Kyle shouldn’t be here, he should be in rehab. He gets depressed, and the institute requires us to medicate all of the inmates, so he takes all of the medicine that those in his “”condition”” should be getting which results in a sweet high. This kid drives me absolutely crazy, but something about him makes me crave everything about him. I don’t know what it is, because it isn’t love, but its more than lust. I mean I guess I could send him off, so he can in the real world once again, and we could date and it not cost me my job, but I’m just scared if he’ll be stupid enough to get high off something too potent that he fucks himself over and lands himself in rehab where I know he won’t do well, then they’ll send him back here. So, I guess my only choice is to medicate him until he gets tired of being high. He knows that I know he shouldn’t be there, that’s why he calls the drugs ‘presents’ because he doesn’t deserve them yet I am clueless to why I keep giving into him.
“Yeah, I know we do.” I managed to restrain myself from any other sexual urges for the time being, and got him to sit down. Our session 45 minute session continued like normal; we sat down, I asked him various questions about his life and he retaliated with some witty answer, we got off topic, I would end up on top of him, you know, what usually happens when you see your therapist.
But part of me wanted more from him, like some reassurance that actually gave a fuck about me or something, as cliché as that sounds. I mean I know that may be asking a lot, but common.
I guess all I really am to him is a drug dealer and all he is to me is a dildo.
David Melillo’s POV
I took my usual stroll over to the lounge to refill my cup of coffee. The inmates were as calm as they usually are, there were always the few in the corner that muttered to themselves all day. I had seen 6 different patients today, and expected Carolyn Martinez to be the last of today. I quickly ran back to my desk, this patient was always early, something was always wrong. Right on time, at exactly 4:28, 2 minutes before her scheduled time, there was a knock on the door. “Come on in, Caro.” A short, brown haired latino, the blonde peak-a-boo highlights showing. She strutted over to the couch in front of my desk, her golden skin shimmered. “How are you feeling today?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair, running my hand through my dark hair.
“I feel sick. I feel I need to get checked up by a doctor, or take a test or something. I feel like I’m going to throw up, and I’m awful hungry. I think I’m.... well I think you catch my drift.” She rocked back and forth, biting her nails with much anxiety.
File #945: Carolyn Martinez, Munchausen syndrome. About 11 months ago, she was sent here from a hospital in New York for her constant checking in. Nothing was ever wrong with her, but she kept going back to the hospital for more treatment on her nonexistent disorder. Since she’s been here, she has come to me saying that she thinks she has cancer, schizophrenia, kidney disease, you name it. She will bring the symptoms upon herself, such as vomiting and headaches, but every time we bring her to a hospital to get checked for it, the results bring nothing. Her illness causes her to make up these phenomenal stories of things that has happened to her, in order to receive treatment and more importantly; attention.
“We can have you checked for pregnancy, but when was the last time you engaged in intercourse?”
“Well, about three months ago in the lounge, I was sitting there with William Beckett and....” She went on to tell an adventurous, descriptive tale of sexual escapades, which made me confused and somewhat jealous. Confused, considering there is no way that any of those things could of happened at the institute. Jealous, nothing nearly as glorious or amazing like that has ever happened to the likes of me.
“Well Mrs. Martinez, that sounds like quite the time, I’ll you a test as soon as I can.” I smiled, “humoring” the girl.
“Thank you so much, doctor.” A sign of relief washed over her face, as well as a bright thankful smile.
“Is there anything else you need?” I smiled back, looking over her. I mean, something about her was so lovable besides the fact that she was mentally insane. Whether it was her size, or smile, something about making her happy, made me happy.
“No, that’s all, see ya later David.” Caro quickly stood up, and basically skipped out of the room.
Natalie Kinkie’s POV
Dinner time at the institution was the probably the worst things to happen to my ear. The sound of the bottoms of the metal chairs scraping the concrete floor just about drove me deeper into sanity than I already was. Too many people talking, too many noises, I felt like my head was going to explode
“Hey, can you pass the salt?” I said mumbled, not looking up, but hoping somebody would hear me. I felt a tin jar hit my fingers, I picked it up and splashed exactly two hits of salt onto my fries. I lifted up a fry to eat, split it exactly in half and took consumed half the fry in exactly two bites, continuing the same for the whole pile of them. “God, everybody could just shut the fuck up oh my god, why is it so damn loud in here.” I whined at Brooke, the brunette sitting across from me. “GOD NATALIE YOU’RE SO FUCKING ANNOYING, I WISH YOU WOULD SHUT THE FUCK UP SOMETIMES GOD FUCKING DAMMIT. SOMETIMES I WONDER WHY I EVEN PUT UP WITH YOU. ” She lashed out, clenching the fork she was holding violently. I just continued eating, two bites at a time.
“Hey, Brooke.” Some nurse or someone of irrelevance walked by, politely acknowledging her.
“Hey sweet pea!” Brooke flashed one of her heart throb smiles.
Classic Brooke. I’ve known her since about 6 months ago, she was admitted for mostly bipolar distorter, and a mild case of torrettes. We’ve roomed together since she’s been here, and I’ve only been here a week longer than her. I, on the other hand, was brought here by my family for OCD and anxiety, after one of my severe panic attacks that landed me in the hospital for a few days.
“So, Natalie I have an idea.” She turned to me and smiled an evil smile.
“What is your brilliant idea, Brookey?” I sarcastically looked over at her. “You know that Gabe boy you’ve had your eye on for a while?” I looked over at the other table, where him William Beckett, Kyle Burns and freaks sat. It was like we were back in high school, except the food’s worse and everybody is off a beat.
“No.” I knew what she going to say. It would end so badly.
“Common Natalie, just go talk to him or something!” Brooke bantered, still managing to stuff her pale face with food.
“Fucking, no Brooke.” I laughed, me and men, hell, other human beings do not mix well.
“GOD DAMMIT NATALIE, JUST FUCKING DO IT, FOR ONCE IN YOUR DAMN LIFE, JUST GO OUT ON A LIMB OR SOMETHING. IF YOU WANT IT FUCKING DO IT.” Her eyes started to bulge out of her head.
“Shut the hell up, no is no, and that is that.” I collected my trash, and walked off.
I don’t think people don’t understand how hard it is for me to talk to people, especially attractive people. What if they don’t like me? What if they make fun of my last name and think its a coincidence and then think I’m weird for having such a a bad last name? What if he has a girlfriend and his girlfriend sees me talking to him and then continues to assume he’s cheating on her with me and then breaks up with him and he falls into a deeper depression and finds somehow to kill himself in the psych ward?
All of those things are possible, and I just don’t want to risk it. Things like this don’t have order or structure, and that’s something I NEED. I wasn’t always like this. I mean, I used to have fun, but shit if I know what happened.
I mean, maybe Brooke was right, and I should pursue something I actually want.
But then again, it was Brooke and that was her demonic side talking.
I guess I’m here to break away from the whole ‘need for order’ thing, but how do I break away from the only thing that makes me, me?
hi lol i wanted to write a story so took the mental institute thing from caro whoopdiedoododo
sorry this sucks
OKAY NIKKOL I AM NOT TRYING TO TELL YOU THAT YOU SHOULD BE BULIMIC I AM JUST FASINATED WITH EATING DISORDERS AND EVERYBODY ELSES DISORDERS FIT THEM SO PERFECTLY I JUST YOU WERE THE ONLY ONE LEFT SORRY
dude this sucks
i have no muse
this was incredibly hard to write because i hate no muse
shit sorry this sucks i promise it’ll go somewhere
ok i’m going to bed its like 4 or something