I like to fuck with the doctors.

There's no specific reason for this really, other than that I'm bored most of the time. And I hate them. There's always that unrelenting fact that I hate them.

When I first woke up, I had no fucking clue where I was. I was strapped to what was obviously, even in my compromised mental state, a hospital bed, and I could not move my arms. Not a lot anyway. A few inches to the left. A few to the right. Up and down. Nothing substantial. I struggled; of course I did. I was alarmed that I was tied up. I was alarmed that I was still alive.

A nurse appeared and told me to calm down and I ignored her. What was she doing here? Who was she? What right did she have to tell me to calm down? She repeated herself and I continued to drown her out with my own screams. I felt trapped. My freedom had been taken away from me. I was tied up. I was alive. I was being prevented from doing anything to solve either of these problems.

The nurse stepped closer and administered a shot of something to my arm. This only made my thrashing worse; first my freedom was taken away and now my freedom of movement, my freedom of speech; my freedom to rebel against the fact that nothing in my life was going to way I had planned it. It was my life. Who was this bitch? Who was this bitch that wanted to control me? It was My. Life.

*

*

*

Of course seconds after she drugged me everything went black. When I woke again I was faced with two doctors, a man and a woman; not that I knew they were doctors at the time. The bindings around my arms had been removed, and as I woke slowly, I groggily rose them to my face and rubbed my wrists. They were a little red, but I only had myself to blame for that. The white ropes hadn't been tied too tightly, I had simply struggled too violently.

'Where am I?'

It was the woman who answered. 'You're at Two Trees Cottage.'

Great. I had awoken in a fairytale. I stared at her uncomprehendingly. I knew my expression conveyed pretty clearly that I thought she was both nuts and a complete idiot.

'It's a mental institute,' she clarified gently. My head hit the pillows behind me before I'd even registered that I was tipping it back and groaning.

'Brilliant. What am I doing here?'

The man blinked at me and crossed his arms over his chest. 'Do you remember anything?'

I remained silent. What a stupid fucking question. Like you could just forget a pain like this.

'You tried to kill yourself,' he told me gently.

'A gold star for the gentleman,' I muttered sarcastically, averting eye contact. 'Who put me in here?'

'You were committed by your parents.'

'I'm an adult. Is this shithole so badly run that you don't even have my files? I have control over my own medical welfare, so if you don't mind,' I started to sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed – no mean feat given that the bars were still up – 'I'll be leaving.'

The woman cleared her throat and gestured with two fingers; a man I hadn't noticed before stepped fully around the side of the curtain and came to stand beside the bed right in front of me. He was wearing pristine white scrubs but looked more like a nightclub bouncer. I got back into bed, fuming.

'You can't just keep me here,' I spat angrily. 'I have rights.'

'With the evidence of your mentally incompetent state, certain rights have been withdrawn. Now, I need to ask you some questions.' She paused, obviously waiting for my consent, but I remained silent. 'What's your name?'

'John Doe.'

There was another pause.

'And who are you?' I demanded.

'I'm Dr Edelstein and this is Dr Héderváry,' the woman replied. 'What's your address?'

'I'm not telling you my address!' I exclaimed. I could see the chart she was writing on from my bed. Paranoia. Yeah, because I was worried she was gonna go to my apartment and rob me. 'How long do I have to stay here?' I demanded.

The man and woman glanced at each other and then back at me.

'Until you're ready to go.'

*

*

*

My parents don't visit me. You know, the ones who committed me to a mental institution because they were so worried about my "mentally incompetent state"? Yeah, I haven't seen or heard a whisper of them since the day before I tried to off myself. Kill myself. Commit suicide. People flinch when I say it, like euphemising it will make the reality of the fact that I hate my life so much that I want to die any more easy to bear. Like I should be worried about their socially taboo comforts when talking about my "illness", when the simple fact that they're keeping me here, against my will, is intensifying my pain with every extra second.

The doctors don't flinch on the outside, but you can tell they're doing it on the I sit in the stupid leather chair across the stupid desk from the stupid shrink and they ask you how you feel and you say "I want to drag a butcher's knife across my wrists, you?" I can't help but feel they're a little surprised.

Which I don't get, personally. Why would they be surprised? Do they routinely forget why I'm in here in the first place?

Anyway. So yeah. No sniff of a rent anywhere near Two Trees Cottage, but I am not short of visitors. Or maybe I should say, visitor. Fucking Antonio visits me every day. Antonio won't leave me alone. If there's anyone I don't want to see, it's fucking Antonio.

'And just what the fuck do you think you are doing here?' I demanded the first day he came, which was two days after I woke up to that lovely greeting from Dr Edelstein and Dr Héderváry.

'Visiting,' Antonio said cheerfully, completely ignoring my tone and demeanour, because there's no way he could have missed it. 'How have you been?'

'Not so good. I tried to hang myself with my shoelaces yesterday so they took them away, and now I keep tripping out of my shoes.' I was lying – I'm not stupid enough to think I would be successful in hanging myself with my shoelaces – but I wanted a reaction.

'Major downer,' he agreed, frowning. The next day, he returned with some brand new trainers that had Velcro straps, grinning like a loon. I had to be restrained by my trusty bouncer-like orderly when I tried to attack him.

*

*

*

'How are you feeling?'

'I want to shove my fist down my throat, get a good grip on my innards, and rip them out through my mouth ,' I said mildly. I'm like Dr Cox. It's been three weeks and I've managed so far to come up with something new every day.

Dr Héderváry sat across the large mahogany desk from me, holding my file open in front of her, and regarding me in the infuriating stereotypical way – you know, with her glasses halfway down her nose so you would think that the frames would obstruct her view, but apparently not.

'Your fantasies appear to be getting more violent.'

'I am becoming more frustrated with my situation.'

'How would you feel about starting medication?'

I think she must have seen my eyes gleam. 'I like it,' I told her, leaning forward and grinning.

'Of course, we would hand them out daily and make sure we saw you swallowing them as prescribed.'

I slumped back in my chair. 'Oh. Then no thanks.'

Dr Héderváry diplomatically ignored me and changed the subject. 'Dr Edelstein and I have met to discuss your situation several times now and we've agreed on a course of therapy.'

'Oh joyous day.'

'You will attend daily one-on-one therapy sessions with me, group therapy once every two days with Dr Edelstein, and you will take part in some of the activities happening in the institute. How does that sound?'

'Like the most unbearable form of torture. What kind of activities?'

Dr Héderváry smiled at me. I think she thought I was joking. 'There are art classes, meditation, swimming, gardening-'

'No thanks.'

Dr Héderváry frowned. 'Excuse me?'

'No thanks. I don't do anything fruity like that. Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm going to let you paint my nails and take me shopping.'

'Lovino, this has nothing to do with your sexual orientation. These are calming, reflective, meditative activities designed to help with your depression.'

Sometimes I can't believe these people are really doctors. I know there are different kinds of depression, that it manifests itself in different ways in different people, but were they really so under-qualified and inexperienced in their jobs that they couldn't see that this shit wasn't going to help me? I wasn't lackadaisical or sad or crying all the time. Sitting in a quiet room alone with my thoughts wasn't going to help me. I was frustrated. I was angry all the time. I wanted to hurt people, hurt myself, break things for no reason. I could be sitting on the couch at home watching TV when suddenly I would get an overwhelming rush of aggression and need to put my fist through the screen. Need to smash things. Need to slap myself across the face until I got a pulsing migraine. Putting seeds in the dirt and caring for them day after day was only going to niggle at that one spot in my brain that controlled my aggression. I'd be more likely to kick the heads off the other flowers than cultivate any of my own.

Instead of answering Dr Héderváry, I got up and walked out of the room. Because I'm instable and delicate, I can get away with that kind of shit here.

*

*

*

'Hey Lovi. How's it going?'

'Why do you keep coming here?' I hissed as Antonio walked into my bedroom and sat down on the chair by my bed. Sometimes when Antonio comes I stay silent and don't talk to him or answer anything he asks me. Sometimes I verbally attack him. Sometimes I physically attack him, and my orderly has to hold me back and tie me to my bed for a couple of hours again.

'Because I like seeing you,' Antonio said simply. 'I want to make sure you're okay.'

'I'm fine. Can you leave?'

Antonio smiled indulgently. 'Sure you are. I don't want to leave. I like being with you.'

'Well I don't like being with you. I'd be considerably less likely to take my own life if you'd leave me alone.'

He looked down at his hands, which were clasped in his lap, for a minute. When he looked back up he had a big, forced smile on his face. 'Dr Héderváry told me you're starting art therapy and meditation. That sounds like fun.'

'I think it sounds like the most humiliating thing they could possibly do to me.'

'How is art therapy humiliating? It's not like they're face-painting you, or making you finger-paint. You just get to sit in a room for an hour a day and mess about with colours.'

'It's humiliating because I don't want to do it. I don't want to do anything. I want to be dead.'

Antonio swallowed and changed the subject, like he always does when I mention my longing for death.

'What about meditation? That could be good, right?'

'Yeah. Cos leaving a suicidal maniac alone with his thoughts can't lead to anything bad.'

'You could think about me,' Antonio joked, chancing a genuine smile.

'Good idea. Then I'll go from suicidal to homicidal.'

He sighed. 'I don't know what I did to make you hate me,' he whispered.

I snorted, shocked. 'You brought me back! I was gone, and you fucked it up!'

'You weren't gone.'

'I was as good as.'

'Your heart was still beating,'

'I was unconscious.'

'You know, most people would be thanking me.'

'I wish you hadn't bothered,' I snapped. I knew I'd gone too far when his face changed.

His jaw clenched and he looked back down at his hands again. I could see his eyes were watering. 'That was too harsh, Lovi.'

'Did I take it too far? Over-step a boundary? A bit like you?' I was angry, but a small twinge in my heart let me know I was sorry I'd said it. He looked so sad.

'Oh for god's sake Lovino,' Antonio snapped, looking back up at me, his eyes flashing. 'You would have woken up anyway. You didn't take enough pills to kill yourself, I just make you vomit them up before they could do any permanent damage to your brain. So yeah, I think you should thank me. If it wasn't for me the hell you're in would be a fuck lot worse.'

It was the first time since I'd met him that I'd ever heard Antonio swear.

'You're lying.' My voice was shaking. Neither Dr Héderváry or Dr Edelstein had told me that I wouldn't have been successful. "You tried to kill yourself". That was all they'd told me. Maybe this was why they were so convinced I was going to recover. Maybe they thought I hadn't really intended to die in the first place. Maybe they thought it was a cry for help. Surely somebody truly longing to take their own life would have researched it properly? Known what pills to take, the right amount?

Honestly, I hadn't actually been planning to kill myself. It wasn't like I'd been contemplating it for months, years, planned everything out, written a note and decided today was the day. All I knew was that I couldn't bear living my life anymore, I wanted to be anywhere else but here. The option of suicide came to me quite suddenly on a rainy night in June and it just seemed like the only way out. I know it sounds glib, but it just seemed like such a good idea. I was so relieved. I did it straight away.

What I hadn't counted on was an impromptu visit for my sort-of stalker, sort-of friend Antonio, finding me passed out on the floor with an empty pill container in my hand, and forcing his fingers down my throat until I vomited all over him.

'Look,' Antonio said quietly, leaning forward and taking my hand, which was resting beside me. I tried to pull it away, but he wouldn't let me, and at the sincerity in his eyes I gave in and stopped struggling. When you're as angry as me all the time, you get tired of fighting. Some battles are easier lost. 'I know you hate your life. I know you're angry, and tired, and fed up of pushing through every day. I know you feel like you're constantly battling, and like nobody is on your side.'

I averted my eyes, refusing to look at him. That was exactly how I felt.

'But I'm on your side okay? I'm not gonna let you hurt yourself, but I am on your side. And no matter what you do to yourself, or what you say to me, I'm gonna keep coming here every day and there's nothing you can do to stop me.'

I swallowed, clenching my jaw, and jerked my hand out of his, rolling over in the bed so my back was to him.

Antonio sighed and stood up, walking towards the door.

My throat nearly closed around the words as I said them; 'See you tomorrow.'