“…Yes, now I’m here…”

We were silent for a few minutes, but I was finally calm. My story was over; there was nothing more I could do than just wait for her to go rigid and leave me, appalled at everything I had prior revealed to her.

“I’m not going to leave you, Vic,” she said, rubbing my back.

“You aren’t?” I asked, looking at her in confusion.

“Of course not,” she said warmly. “I mean, as long as I’m here, I won’t leave you. I wouldn’t abandon you,” she added. I immediately got sad, realizing that she couldn’t be here forever—that this was a professional relationship. I was just her patient.

“When do you leave?” I asked quietly, even though I knew it was none of my business.

“When the semester is over,” she said.

“And then what?”

“And then I hopefully get a job somewhere,” she said. “But my job right now is not to talk about me. It’s to talk about you,” she said. I nodded, reality striking me hard once again. She wasn’t my actually friend; this was just her job. Well, her ‘internship’. I was just part of the program she was in at UCLA. I was just an insignificant piece of her path to a successful career.

“I think you’ve done a good job,” I complimented. “I’m sure you will get a place somewhere,” I added with a weak smile.

“Thanks, Vic, that means a lot,” she said. “I’m afraid, though, that our time talking is up,” she said with a frown as she noticed the time. “But that doesn’t mean I’m abandoning you, okay?” she reassured. I nodded, understanding. I didn’t want to get her in trouble with her bosses. I silently wondered if any other interns or actual nurses or psychiatrists got this personal with patients.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, giving my leg a friendly pat and standing up.

“Where are you going?” I asked, probably a little too quickly.

“I’m going to get your medication,” she replied, and I nodded.

She smiled, and then she turned away. While she was gone, my mind went wild with thoughts as I reflected about, well, everything.

I spent the first few months in this facility numb and broken; my days consisted of sleeping and my nights consisted of screaming from nightmares. My parents had abandoned me here, not visiting me once. And, to my disappointment, Mike showed up less and less frequently. It was like this hospital had a barrier around it, keeping spirits or mirages or whatever the hell Mike was out, but keeping me in. Or, maybe it was just the medication I was on.

About four months into my stay here, the doctors—who I never really cared to learn the names of due to my mindless state—introduced me to someone new. Someone who could “help” me. They said that as she helped me, I was helping her.

They said her name was Bree Lewis, and that she was working at the hospital for a semester long internship before she graduated from the University of California Los Angeles. I was unsure, at first. I didn’t want to meet new people; I didn’t want to affiliate with anyone. My entire life I learned not to talk to new people because the chances they would like me were slim to none. So, I was wary to meet this Bree Lewis. Apparently she was going to be my assigned psychiatrist for a little while, to see if I’d talk to her more about my role in Mike’s death and how that made me feel—all with the sole purpose of trying to help me, of course. They wanted to know the root of my problems, and they figured to try to discover this root from a different angle—with Bree. The whole concept initially irritated me, though; I was so low in the standards of this institution—deemed as a hindrance, almost forgotten because of my lack of progress—that it made no difference if my assigned therapist was a real professional or just a med student; she was just going to practice on me and then move on to patients that actually had hope. That’s what I thought in the beginning, at least.

I remembered the day perfectly, unlike all of the other days that were strung together and hidden by a thick haze.

I was lying in bed, facing the off-white walls. I was curled up on my right side, holding my shaking hands in my chest and curling my knees slightly. My hair messily surrounded my face, a stray hair occasionally falling in front of my eyes thanks to gravity. Gravity. I hated gravity with a passion.

As I mindlessly stared at the wall, I would shoot short, cool bursts of air up at the fallen strands of hair, making the pieces jump up and down—much to my own personal amusement. It was like they were dancing before my eyes.

The air around me suddenly shifted, a swift blast of cool air making me shiver more than normal. I was always shaking, though—but the feeling of the fresh, cooler air caressing the surface of my skin made me involuntarily shiver more violently. I didn’t react to the change in feeling though, because I genuinely didn’t care. It didn’t even register in my head that there was a creaking noise, indicating that somebody had opened my door and now stood in my room.

“Vic? It’s Dr. Crowly. How are you feeling today?” she asked. I just shrugged my shoulders as a response.

“Vic, you have a visitor, today,” Dr. Crowly said, and I immediately perked up.

“Mike?” I asked excitedly, stretching out of my little ball and turning to the door. I frowned when I saw that it wasn’t Mike. Instead, it was a girl—the opposite of Mike. “Oh,” I said when I realized that I had no idea who she was.

Dr. Crowly’s facial expression twisted for a moment, before she spoke again. “Vic, this is Bree Lewis. Remember when I told you about her?” she said.

I nodded, remembering. I stared at her carefully, hoping that I didn’t look too obvious. She had medium length brown hair, hazel eyes, and an anxious smile. “Hi, Bree Lewis,” I said quietly.

“Hi, Vic, you can call me Bree,” she said. She looked a little nervous—I wondered what they had told her before she came in here.

“Hi, Bree,” I said shyly.

“Vic, how do you feel about Bree talking with you?” Dr. Crowly asked. I rolled my eyes, sick of people asking about how I felt about something.

“Honestly?” I asked, sitting up and facing them completely. Bree was pretty, so I figured that I should at least be polite and not look like a slump in her presence. “It bothers me. You’ve clearly hired someone just for the sole purpose to get information out of me,” I said, coming out a little angrier than I intended. I didn’t want to scare Bree away; she was very pretty and was undeserving of my nastiness. I just hated the idea of having friends who were literally only there for me because it was their job. I guess I expected it from Bree, but part of me worried that she had gotten too close to me, that she was forgetting about her responsibilities. I hoped that I was just over thinking things, though, because I would hate to see her lose her chance of a good job because of me.

“Here you go,” she reappeared, interrupting my thoughts. She set my usual two, light blue, circular pills and two other white ones on my bedside table, along with a glass of water. I stared at them reluctantly. I knew that the purpose of the pale blue pills were to help maintain the mild form of schizophrenia that I had, but what if I didn’t want to get better? What if I was better off seeing dead Mike alive?

“Vic, you have to take your pills,” she said seriously.

“Why?” I asked dumbly.

“So you can get better,” she said softly with a frown. “Come on, you always take your pills!” she reminded me, and she was right; I was always a “good patient”.

“I’ve just been thinking…” I said lowly, staring at the four pills.

“What about?”

“What if I don’t want to get better?” I asked. “I like seeing Mike.”

“Vic, I wish it were that easy. But if we don’t control it now, it has a high potential of getting worse. Meaning, you won’t just be seeing Mike. You’ll be seeing other things, too, scary things that you don’t want to see,” she explained.

“Oh, that makes sense, I guess,” I said quietly.

She nodded, and I sighed in defeat. I scooped up the blue pills first and took them with my water. Bree nodded approvingly. “Now take the other ones,” she reminded me.

“What do these ones even do, again?” I asked, even though I already knew.

“They are your antidepressants,” she said.

I shrugged my shoulders and took those with my water, too.

“Good,” she smiled proudly, and I smiled back.

“Okay, I have to get going for the night, alright?” she spoke up again, and I didn’t particularly enjoy the way her face contorted in worry at the thought of having to leave—that was probably a bad thing for the sake of her career. I had plenty of sanity and common sense, so I knew that it wouldn’t be good if she cared about me too much.

“Okay,” I said quietly. This was the worst part of my days here at Resnick. When Bree has to go home. Clearly, I was attached to her. I wasn’t about to deny that fact to myself, but I would never admit it out loud.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and I nodded, unable to control my sad demeanor. I slid out of bed quickly and walked up to her, giving her a hug and hoping that didn’t cross any boundaries. I mean, we’ve technically hugged and touched a lot, but that was only as a form of comfort and control when I had bad days. She chuckled lightly, patting my back gently. “Bye, Vic,” she said with one last smile, and then she left.

I sighed, not really knowing what to do with myself now that I had no one to talk to. Bree’s job was interesting—she was like a traveling therapist. We didn’t meet in an office or one specific place; we kind of just did whatever we wanted. I wondered, again, if that was even allowed. But because of the nature of her job, she felt more like a friend than a doctor, which explained why I felt so lonely, now. I didn’t have her to talk to, nor did I have Mike. It was just me, four walls, some shitty furniture, and a notebook.

Ah, my notebook! I smiled, realizing what I could do since I wasn’t tired. I swiftly went to my bedside table and took out my small moleskin notebook—they had made me get a new one because my old one apparently had some triggering things in it. But at least they let me have one, at all.

I was suddenly in a mood to write, so that was what I did. I sat at the top of my bed with my back against the wall and my legs bent, so I rested the open notebook on my thighs as a way to support it as I wrote. I flicked my pencil a few times while I thought, but then suddenly words just flew from my brain effortlessly. It was a shame that I was in this place; otherwise I would start a band. I got a little sad thinking about that, though, because I knew Mike wanted to be in a band, but I didn’t dwell on it.

Don’t react when I tell you
And don’t react when I tell you
That bright lights mean nothing at you
‘Cause no one would know the sound of a ghost
And I might be something to you
Beyond beautiful is the sound of a ghost
Can we lose our minds?

I stared thoughtfully at what I had written so far, knowing that it was incomplete but needing to write down an entirely new thing that had a different tune in my head.

Have you ever really danced on the edge?
Is something still scaring you?
Have you ever really danced on the edge?
The count of three is up
Have you ever really danced on the edge?
All right, then tell me so
Have you ever really danced on the edge?
Just hold my hand and jump!

I hummed a few more lines to myself—quietly, though, because I didn’t want any one to hear me. I also scribbled some sketches—little drawings of whatever popped up in my head. I looked at the digital clock on the wall above the door; it was nearing eleven o’clock at night, and I had been writing and drawing for several hours. Time really flew fast in this place.

I closed my notebook and set it down on the table, and then I got comfortable for bed. I curled up in my usual position; my body beginning to shake as sleep started to suffocate me. I really tried my hardest to be calm, but I always felt so vulnerable at night—as if my internal demons assumed a physical form and relentlessly haunted me throughout the night. Sometimes that would happen, too. They all varied in size, but they were all black with horrible, malicious faces. The place where eyes would normally go was vacant, leaving a dark, terrifyingly eternal empty space. And the mouth took up the entire bottom half of the face as it stretched into a huge, evil smile, baring all of the sharp teeth. As I slept, I could practically feel their lanky fingers tangling in my hair or wrapping around my neck.As I tried to dream about happy things, darkness would sweep over me, and they would whisper terrible thoughts in my ears.

The night was unfriendly to me. I didn’t tell Bree or any other doctors about my fears at night, though. It was only really bad my first few weeks here, and now I just shook from fear, afraid just by routine.

Luckily for me, the night didn't last too long. I woke up groggily, seeing that it was six-thirty in the morning. I knew today was going to be one of the slower days now that I was done talking to Bree about what happened. I felt better now that I had everything off of my chest, and I wondered what was going to happen next.

Ah, daily life at Resnick. It really wasn’t that bad. Most people here seemed normal enough to me, but I never actually got to know any one—I didn’t even have a roommate due to my “condition” and the “lucky” timing of being checked in here. I never mingled because I just spent so much time in my bed. One person actually came up to me once, telling me that I “had the right idea”.But there were also mandatory meetings twice a week, where we had to discuss our feelings and talk about our accomplishments and some other positive things. Most of the people who were here were here for being depressed or suicidal, and a lot of them had families, jobs, and actual lives outside of this place. I was one of the few people with diagnosed schizophrenia in addition to my depression and suicidal thoughts, and I also had no other life outside of this place.

Sure, Resnick was bland. But the people were nice. There was a community room where you could draw, write, listen to or play music, and play card or board games. For most of the patients, this place was just a secure environment for them, where they could recover and eventually make their way back into the real life as a new person.

The problem with me, though, was that this place was more than security. And my condition was not easily controlled, apparently; I was nearing six months being here, longer than most patients. That fact made me feel a little pathetic, but the doctors promised that it wasn’t my fault. I just wasn’t getting better, for some reason. Well, I knew of a few reasons: I didn’t want to get better because I didn’t want to lose Mike, and I was afraid to be released from here because I didn’t know where I was going to go or what I was going to do.

I sighed; letting my thoughts go on a rant like that was a dangerous thing. So, instead of thinking, I rolled out of bed and changed into a fresh sweatshirt and made a sad attempt to untangle my hair with my fingers.

Just as I went to open the door, someone knocked.

“Oh, good morning,” a nurse that I forgot the name of greeted me.

“Hi,” I said quietly—I wasn’t a very good talker, still.

“I’m here to bring you your morning pills,” she said, and I nodded, stepping back into the room that I have grown quite accustomed to.

“Here you go,” she motioned me to cup my hands, and then she dropped four pills into my slightly shaking hands, setting a glass of water down on the table.

“Um…” I said, looking at the pills. They didn’t look like the pills I normally took.

“What is it, dear?” the nurse asked.

“What are these?” I asked warily. Instead of my normal light blue and white pills, I had four red ones.

“Your medication,” she answered plainly.

“I don’t normally take red pills,” I said quietly. “I normally take two blue and two white ones,” I informed her.

“Oh, they must have changed what you are taking, then,” she assumed. I furrowed my eyebrows and stuck my hand out for her to take the pills back.

“I’m not taking them,” I declared.

“You have to, Vic!”

“Nobody told me I’m changing medication. I’m not taking these,” I said, jerking my arm forward again in emphasis.

The nurse sighed, taking a step back. “Calm down, Vic,” she said.

“I’m very calm. I just don’t feel comfortable taking these when I don’t know what they are,” I explained rationally.

“I’m sorry, but you have to take them,” she said firmly. I shook my head stubbornly and placed the pills onto the table.

“No,” I said just as firmly. “I am competent enough to make my own decisions, and I say that I’m not going to take the pills. I’d like to speak to Dr. Crowly, please,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” she huffed, and then she turned away—I assumed to get Dr. Crowly.

I frowned, sitting down in the wooden chair in the room. I felt relatively calm—I didn’t feel angry—but my hands were shaking more than normal. I didn’t like getting so riled up in the morning, nor did I like the fact that they were changing my medication without talking to me first. My trust for this institution suddenly shattered.

“Vic?” Dr. Crowly poked her head in the room.

“Hi,” I said.

“What happened?”

“I never take red pills,” I said quietly. Confusion but then recognition crossed her face.

“Oh, let me see,” she said, and I pointed to the table where the four little pills remained. She frowned, and then she flipped through the papers that were messily sticking out of her clipboard. “Hm,” she said after reading something.

“What is it?”

“Well, I’m not sure. It doesn't say that your medication is supposed to change. I’m not sure what Bertha was thinking, giving these to you. I’m sorry about that,” she said with a frown. My stomach immediately rose to my throat—what if I had taken those pills? What if I hadn’t of noticed that they were different? Yet here Dr. Crowly was, looking less than concerned that one of her nurses nearly drugged me.

“It’s okay, Vic. I’ll talk to Bertha and send in your real pills,” she said, and that’s when I noticed a different emotion on her face—it looked like she was trying her hardest to contain her anger. She looked livid.

I, on the other hand, was greatly disturbed. When Dr. Crowly returned with my actual pills, she watched as I nervously took them. I didn’t actually swallow them, though. I kept them under my tongue but put up a convincing act. She smiled and then left, but I caught the bothered look that struck her features before she had completely gone. “Bertha” was up to no good, and that made me extremely apprehensive.

When Dr. Crowly was gone, I spit out the four pills, stuffing them in my pillowcase where they wouldn’t find them as easily.

My emotions were shot completely, and I could do nothing but sit down and cry. I hated how weak I was—they probably thought that I was a big baby—but the fresh memory of Mike dying on top of this was almost too much for me to handle.

I hated to admit it, but I needed Bree. My reliance on her was too much, and I knew that, but I just couldn’t help it; she was the only person in my life who showed that she actually cared for me (besides Mike, of course, but he was gone), and I wasn’t about to let that fact go unappreciated.

I was probably going to get in some sort of trouble if I didn’t show up to breakfast—I have never missed anything, so I didn’t know what consequences they gave out around here—so I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and exited the room.

The rest of the morning went by fuzzily. I kind of just went through the motions more than normal. All I knew was that I was hating this place more and more everyday—the events of this morning intensified my feelings.

I had breakfast, and then I went back to my room to sulk a little. And then I had to attend the mandatory meeting—thirteen of us patients sat in a circle with an instructor and discussed how we felt and what we were doing to help ourselves. I was at least competent enough to come up with some bull shit things to say, so that meeting went by in a flash, as well. After it, I returned to my room to sulk a little more, my eyes occasionally darting to my pillow where I knew my untaken pills were. I debated to take them, scared to see what would happen if I didn’t, but I was also scared to take them because of what happened earlier.

“You’re awfully quiet today, Vic,” Bree said. I looked up, studying her face and my other surroundings—I didn’t really remember becoming in her presence. I realized that we were in an office—I’ve only been in this office one other time, the first time I ever met with Bree. It bothered me a little that I couldn’t remember the rest of my afternoon and how I ended up here, but I didn’t dwell on it.

I just shrugged my shoulders.

“Vic,” she said.

I shrugged my shoulders again. “I guess I’m just feeling down because of talking about Mikey,” I said quietly. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the entire truth, either.

“That’s understandable and completely normal,” she said. “You’re only human, after all,” she reminded me, and I nodded. “You’re allowed to hurt; it’s just a matter about how you handle that hurt,” she added. “You would tell me if you feel like you can’t cope, right? “

I nodded truthfully. “Yeah, I’d tell you,” I said lowly. Bree would be the only person I would tell—if things in my head got too bad.

“Bree,” I said quietly. I wondered if her other patients called her by her first name—I mean, she introduced herself with it, so I guess it was okay.

“Yes?”

“I’m not feeling too good,” I said quietly, and, as if on cue, my head started spinning. Bree immediately stood up and went over to me, steadying my wobbling upper body.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s take you back to your room,” she said.

“It’s just a bad day, I think,” I quietly slurred.

“It’s okay,” she cooed, and, suddenly, I was in my room again with no memory of actually traveling here.

“What hurts?” she asked, her face inches away from mine and contorted in concern as I laid horizontal on my bed.

“My head,” I said, subconsciously bringing my hand up to my head. “It’s so foggy and heavy,” I told her.

“Vic, did you take your medication this morning?” she asked. I bit my lip. She was disappointed in me.

“Vic, please answer me,” she said. I shook my head, feeling under my pillow case for the four pills I neglected to take. I took them out and held them out to her.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

“Your body is just confused, that’s all this is,” she said, gently patting my head and lightly caressing the side of my face.

“Bree?” I said again.

“What is it?” she asked, continuing to squat next to my curled up self.

“The reason why I didn’t take my pills today was because a nurse named Bertha tried to give me different medication, but I refused them. And Dr. Crowly gave me these but I was scared to take them,” I explained quietly.

A disturbed look crossed her face. “Oh,” she said. “I’ll call Dr. Crowly in and we can all talk about this, okay?” she suggested.

I nodded sleepily. “I’m going to fall asleep, I think,” I yawned and slurred slightly again as I spoke.

“Go ahead,” she chuckled, but her smile looked forced while her eyes looked worried.

I opened my mouth to say something, but sleep quickly fell over me before I had the chance to talk.

I now suddenly wished that I took my pills, even the red ones. I would much rather prefer the risk of the unknown medication than the endless nightmares that I now had to endure.

Notes

Hello.

Thanks for everyone who's commented and subscribed and rated and such. Please continue doing so :)

I feel like a lot happened in this chapter but also not a lot happened. Like, idk. Idk how I feel about it but whateva. There's a lot of background info i think
But uumm I think you guys deserve some fluff. So, expect some fluff soon.
Well, not a lot of fluff, because I can't write an entire fluffy chapter, especially for this story, I don't think. IDK

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So, um, can we please discuss Mayday Parade's new song????? I'm currently having an attack. Like, I don't know what to do with myself right now it's so good help me