I lay, counting the tiles on the ceiling above me. Each tile had close to two-hundred dots, and with at least sixty tiles, my mind raced to solve the equation. After almost two hours of staring at the ceiling, there were twelve thousand dots. The funny thing about them, was that after awhile of staring, they start to look hazy. That may have just been from the medicine, or from the cruel insanity finally weighing on my mind.

"Spencer? It's time for your shower," a sweet little lady walked in, towels in hand.

I turned my head, slightly, to see her, although everyone looked the same in that place. Cotton shirts, scrub like pants, and rubber clogs.

Her hair was dark, with a strip of grey on her right side, pulled back into a tight bun. She smiled brightly, her teeth slightly crooked, but noticeably real.

"Spencer?" she looked back at me, cautiously. Usually if people are found, blankly staring, they are considered even more unstable than they were to begin with.

Though, I never really saw the point in classifying the levels of stability. People are in here for a reason. Whether you are insane or really insane, doesn't matter. You are still insane.

"You have to take a shower, Spencer. You haven't left this room in two days," the woman spoke softly, her voice almost cracking with fear.

I turned back to the ceiling, huffing slightly. My hands started to tingle as I hoisted myself upward, to stand up.

The woman came over and grabbed my elbows, helping me up. She smiled widely as I took the fresh towels out of her hands, motioning toward the door.

The doorway was white, just like every other room in that place. The kind of white that hurts your eyes if you stare at it too long. The kind of white that makes your mind wander as to what had made those marks to break the gapes of white.

Upon every turn, a new smell was clear, though, each having a distinct hint of bleach. Bleach and pills, bleach and vomit, bleach and pudding, bleach and piss. And it never ended. There always seemed to be another hallway. Another realm of smells. Another corridor of screams.

The shower stalls are full of mold, and the tiles are keyed with names and sayings. Each engraving tells a story. A story that chills your bones. A story that no one wants to hear.

My hands found their way to the cold steel handles, turning them gently, letting the water cascade out the shower head and down pale skin.

The water was hard, and tepid, not able to reach full temperature, I gave up and started rinseing my hair. Soap washed down my face, trickling into the adhesive of the bandages on each cheek, eventually falling upon my chin. There was no energy left to yelp when the soap stung the stitches beneath the bandage.

There was no energy left for anything anymore.

Nothing.

After what felt like minutes turned into hours, the lady with the grey strip in her hair came to get me. I was found sitting, my legs crossed, just letting the water drape over me. Just letting the soap wash away all the pain inside me.

Sitting there, I imagined ripping my heart out, and scrubbing it down. Washing away every thread of connection. Every sense of what I'd left behind. Just wash it away.

The shower curtain was pulled with a loud screech, making me grab my head in pain.

She reached in to turn off the water and jumped, "honey, this is ice cold! You are going to get sick."

I turned and stared blankly. Why's it matter if I catch a cold? That will just give them another reason to dope me up.

"Come on, lets get you dried off," the lady spoke, turning the knobs to cease the shower.

My legs stretched out as I took my bare body out of the stall. She wrapped me in a warm towel, brushing out my hair slightly with her fingers.

"You better get dressed, you have a visitor," she smiled widely.

I cocked my head in confusion. It had been almost two months, and not a single soul had been allowed to visit me. The doctors had said that since my recent outburst, "it wouldn't be wise to expose her to any other individuals."

My steps became shorter as I walked down each hallway, back to my room. I slipped on a pair of black sweats, a T-shirt, and a pair of slippers.

The lady knocked on the door frame, as if pretending that there was a door still there. That they hadn't removed it long before I was admitted. Pretending that people hadn't died in this room, and that the writing on the walls were all lies.

"There's someone here to see you," she smiled widely, motioning me to follow her to the common room.

My feet drug across the metal flooring, as I let my finger roam the side of the wall as I walked.

My eyes bulged as he came into view. His eyes were glassy, and his hands seemed glued to his sides. He stood, awkwardly, rubbing his lips together. He inhaled deeply when he saw my face.

My scarred face. Almost as scarred as my heart. Could he see that too?

The woman pushed me forward, gently. My hell fell as I came closer to his toned figure. He smelled the same; crisp pine, and faint mint. The aroma filled my nostrils, making my pulse quicken.

"Spencer," the way he spoke my name was rough. It has a sense of urgency to it, yet still calm enough to be his voice.

I raised my head, connecting his glance to mine. His orbs were a pale, toxic blue. A hint of green shown just around the iris, making strips of deep green among the blue.

"Well hello, pretty eyes."

He nodded, motioning toward the booth. My black hood covering my face, inviting him over. As my heart raced he slid in, his denim rubbing against the red coating of the booth.

"Hanna got the job," he muttered, clasping his hands together.

"I know," I spoke, raising my head slightly.

"Spencer?"

"Spencer?" I was snapped out of my trance as he called my name once again.

"What are you doing here?" I spoke, my voice stern.

"We need to talk," he whispered, slowly grasping my hand.

A lady from behind us coughed, making him drop my grasp, instantly. He looked down, ashamed of the situation, and sat down at a card table.

I slid into a gold out chair, crossing my arms at my chest, building up my guard.

"We need to get you out of here," he stated softly.

"I'm not allowed to leave."

"The nurses said you were allowed to leave weeks ago, but you declined. You said you weren't feeling well," he shook his head in confusion.

"I'm not ready," I breathed in deeply.

"Why not?" he looked straight at me, "What is keeping you here?"

"Nothing. I'm just not ready."

"Why not?" his voice raised as he spoke.

"BECAUSE IM NOT READY!" I found myself yelling.

My mind started racing.

"I love you, Spencer. I always have." he spoke into the skin of my neck.

His rough skin rub across my bare spine, pulling me closer toward him. Our lips entertwined, my eyes closing as he took me. I felt his lips along my chest, leaving wet kisses along the line of my breasts.

"I'm sorry. I just-I'm just not ready," I bit my lip to keep from crying.

"Spencer, I'm with you, okay? Always. I will always be here. You don't need to be afraid of me," he reached out to grasp my palm but I jerked it away.

I stood up quickly, "I'm sorry."

I spun around, walking back to my room. I could hear him calling toward me, screaming my name. I started running, my legs weighing down like lead. My eyes became foggy, and I tripped, falling to my knees.

I was left, counting the dots on the ceiling.