Warnings:
+Mental Illness (self-explanatory, but just in case).
+Self-harm (specifically burning, although other kinds may be mentioned later).
You enter the too-clean, too-white room slowly, hands in your pockets and eyes hidden behind long white bangs. The light stings your eyes and sends sparks of pain shooting up and down the insides of your brain like they're running a race, but you don't dare ask for your shades to cover them and protect you like they always have. You just take another step forward, overly conscious of the woman in the doorway who escorted you here and insisted this would help you. From what she's told you, you know that there is no need to be nervous as you enter the four walls that could have crushed you before you even entered, filled with teenagers who sliced you open with their stares. They are there to talk about their issues and express their feelings, just like you. Not one of them is there to judge you.
That knowledge doesn't make the urge for metal in your hand and a clear path away any fainter.
As you sit down, you look around at the group that surrounds you. The metal stings your legs, but you don't let it show on your face. You simply lean back and cross your arms as if you own the place, carefully making sure your mask doesn't imply anything to the contrary, and scope out your company as discreetly as possible. Just from one look, you can see this group is going to be interesting at the very least.
Right across from you is a tall, muscled teen who looks about a year older than you. His hair is long and midnight black, falling over his shoulders like a waterfall made out of the endless abyss. He doesn't look at you and his hands are carefully kept in his lap as he, it seems, tries to avoid touching anyone around him. On his left is an athletic girl with hair just as black and one eye that exhibits a blue just a shade lighter than her neighbor's. She grins at you, thin and sharp like a predator, but it disappears when she catches the eye of the woman at the door. On the boy's other side, his right, is a much shorter girl who is so tanned you almost think it's her natural skin color until you notice the much paler pieces of arm sticking out from the sleeves of her hospital gown. She notices you looking at her and grins in a way that makes her yellow-green eyes sparkle. She reminds you of an excited kitten, although you don't know why.
A few chairs down from the cheerful girl is a guy who looks like he wants to be anywhere else. He looks about three years older than you, so at least eighteen. His hair is black with a purple streak towards the front, although the brown roots growing in suggest some of those colors aren't natural. His eyes flick from his feet to the door obsessively, although he never makes move to get up. No one sits on either side of for two chairs. You get the feeling he might not be the most popular kid in class.
Even though you believe that the four you've inspected already could prove too much for you to express sensitive issues, there are still more sitting in this death trap the woman calls a circle.
An Asian girl, you won't pretend to know exactly from where, sits on the other side of the empty chair on your left. She is, despite the state of her appearance, beautiful. Her hair is chocolate brown and falls over her shoulders in graceful waves and only ends when they hit her seat. Cigarette burns make polka dots on her arms in a strange pattern you're sure only she can understand. A spark of something familiar, something you only say in the few moments you saw your Bro unveiled, lives in her eyes. She feels like home the second you see her eyes, although you're certain the woman managing you wouldn't like to hear you say that. Her gaze passes over you, but it's so vacant that you doubt she truly saw who was there.
The next two seats on your right are occupied by two boys. One is too-skinny and worryingly short, drowning in a black shirt that tells you he isn't as permanent a resident as you. He's slumped down and his reddish-brown eyes drill holes into the floor surrounding his feet. From the furrowed brows to the tight-knit set of his shoulders, he is an absolute living ball of anger. On the other side of the angry boy is a kid dressed in bright blue with mismatched eyes and a grin that contrasts his neighbor and the mood of the room. He sits forward in his seat as the woman comes to sit down with you all, as if this is something to look forward to.
That immediately helps you believe he belongs here.
"It seems that our other members are unable to join us this afternoon," the woman says with a sigh, as if that's something to be disappointed.
Of course, if your existence is determined by how many teenagers you can claim are insane, then perhaps that would be a disappointment.
"However," she continued, immediately brightening up as her hands clapped together in front of her chest, "there is a new face here that I'd love to welcome to the group! As a reminder, as well as for those who do not know, my name is Miss Veronica and I'm the manager of this team therapy group. Our brand new member," she pauses and points to you , which just makes you want to run far away and never see her again, "is David Strider. As he is new, he will be the one to choose whether we go first or last. We will go clockwise from there. David, have you made your choice or do you need a moment?"
You hare the way she says David like it's your name, even when it's not even on your birth certificate. You hate her sweet voice that only sounds like poison, like a trap keeping you here even though you belong at home where it's safe. You hate her smile that looks down on you and turns you into a bug for squashing. You want to smack that look off her face and destroy her plans for you in this group. You want to be so difficult she never looks at you again.
You shrug and participate.
"I'll start. I just say my name and what I'm in here for first, right? Then we get into the part where you dig into my head."
"Don't say 'what you're in here for', David," Veronica says with that awful, sweet laugh. "That makes you sound like you're in jail!"
You think jail would have been better than this. The looks on the faces around you support your sentiment.
"The name's Dave Strider," you say in the calmest way you know how. Your eyes find the wall and stay there, like the bricks will swallow you whole and take you away from this nightmare. "Not David. It's even Dave on my birth certificate."
The woman's too-sweet smile flickers a little and you mentally pat yourself on the back before continuing.
"Anyway, I'm in here because I was raised by my older brother and his friend Cal. But the government doesn't think they exist, so clearly I must be crazy and raising myself for years with no guardian whatsoever."
You don't think you could have been more passive aggressive if you'd actually tried.