"Frank, this is the third time in three weeks that you've been in this hospital for attempted suicide," the Doctor said to me, looking straight into my eyes with a concerned expression on his face. My faced stayed blank, refusing to show any kind of emotion, so he just sighed and looked back at my notes. Doctor Jackson was my favourite doctor, and every time I had been put into this place I had refused to talk to any other doctor unless it was him. He didn't talk to me like I was a pane of paper thin glass that could shatter at any second, but at the same time he didn't treat me like a moody teenager making up their symptoms for the attention – he talked to me like I was an adult conscious of my own decisions. He respected me and therefore earned my complete respect in return.

"I know," I replied quietly, stroking the skin around the cannula in my left hand – it was still kind of uncomfortable, even though it had been there all night. Needles had never been my favourite thing and having one stuck in my hand for long periods of time was definitely not my idea of fun.

"To begin with, we had those deep lacerations on your wrist that-"

"That time was an accident!" I interjected. He looked surprised at my sudden willingness to talk. Sure, I was thinking about how I could kill myself while I was dragging the blade across my skin, but it wasn't my fault the razor was too sharp… I just accidentally applied too much pressure.

"Let me finish please, Frank," Doctor Jackson said calmly. "Those cuts left you bleeding profusely in your bathroom." I winced at the memory. "Then we had the time you tried to drown yourself. You're lucky that your mom knew basic CPR."

"Yeah… I was lucky," I scoffed in a sarcastic tone.

"Frank, this is important – stop interrupting me!" His tone was becoming increasingly impatient now, so I knew I was pushing it too far. "And this time you took an overdose. That was an impressively large number of pills that you managed to get hold of Frank, some of which are only available on prescription… how did you come into possession of those?"

"They were my mom's… they're for her back pain. I stole them from the cupboard," I replied.

"Ah, okay then – I understand," he mumbled, scribbling something onto his clipboard. "I also understand that Doctor Jones has already been through your blood test results with you." I grimaced. Doctor Jones was the most patronising woman that I had ever met. "Don't look like that, Frankie. You know, we're all worried about you, and she is too! It's not just me that cares. Technically she is your family doctor and therefore the person who should be talking to you now, not me."

"Yes, but I would literally rather die than talk to her." I knew that I was being overdramatic, but it made Doctor Jackson laugh when I groaned.

.

"Unfortunately, Frank, due to the frequency of these incidents, we are going to have to place you under section 136 of the mental health act for assessment," he said, a more serious tone to his voice.

"What does that even mean?" I asked, rolling my eyes at him. "I'm not a doctor, you know. You need to explain these terms to me."

"It means that we're going to assess you and then decide what type of treatment will be the most effective for you. There are a lot of options, such as counselling or psychotherapy, but it is most likely that you will be put into an inpatient hospital for treatment. However, that depends on how your assessment goes and if anywhere nearby has a free bed. If there are no free spaces, you will be put on a waiting list and will have regular meetings with the staff here at the hospital to monitor your mood, behaviour and condition."

"You can't make me go somewhere like that!" I said, raising my voice and sitting up in my chair a little. I was beginning to panic. Previously, I had been threatened with compulsory counselling sessions, but I refused them, promising that it wouldn't happen again. I was given a slap on the wrist and turned away. Being locked away was one of my biggest fears. I couldn't do it.

"Oh yes we can, Frank. If we are forced to section you, we will – but you will have a choice, for now. Anyway, Doctor Jones is going to take you back to the ward now and your mother will be here soon. Nice job choosing the one day that she left you alone and was in a different state, Frank. It's not like she's saved your life twice already or anything." The sarcasm in his voice was highly evident. I grimaced before getting up and stepping outside of the office to meet my least favourite person in the universe.

.

I ignored of Doctor Jones's 'friendly' questions all the way back to the ward until she realised that there was no way I was going to utter one single word to her. I received a lot of stares from people I knew when we passed the emergency room, my mum's friends, a kid from college… anyone that knew me. I lived in a small town where everybody knew everybody, so it was hard to do anything without the rest of the population finding out about it.

"They know you're a fucking psycho," the little voice inside my head whispered.

"Shut up," I mumbled, crossing my arms across my chest as I walked and yelping when I knocked my cannula a little.

"Excuse me, Frank?" Doctor Jones said, raising one eyebrow at me.

"Not you. The voice in my head," I replied shortly, narrowing my eyes at her. She hummed softly and smiled at me sympathetically. I hated her so much. "When are you going to take this thing out of me?"

"Well, Doctor Jackson will probably remove it when he comes to do his rounds later on," she replied, smiling at me. Her lips were stretched thin and her eyes were hollow. She was enjoying this no more than I was. "We will need to take the sample to be analysed to check that your blood levels have stabilised." I scowled in her general direction.

.

"How are you feeling, Frank?" she asked, holding a door open for me. We were mere seconds away from the children's ward now.

"I feel like I should be dead, to be honest. At least I wish that I was. And why do I have to be on the children's ward? All the kids there are in for real problems… there are leukaemia patients in there. I don't want them to hear that I'm here because I tried to end my life while they have been fighting for theirs… it makes me feel stupid."

"Well perhaps you should have thought about that before you attempted it," she said in a breezy manner. My mouth fell open a little in shock at her brusqueness as she pushed through the door to my ward. I closed it immediately when I saw my mother sitting in a chair next to my bed. Her eyes were red and bloodshot.

.

"Oh, Frankie," she started, tears welling up in her eyes. "Are you okay baby?" She looked tired and weary, and I immediately regretted my decisions. Nothing hurts more than dealing with the aftermath of a failed attempt to take your own life.

"Yeah, mom. I'm fine," I said weakly, flopping down onto my hospital bed.

"Frankie, you're barely 17 and you're just throwing away your life! You're a smart kid… you were always getting A's and B's before this all started. And just think about your future! What are your future employers going to think about you? What are they going to think when they see all those ugly scars on your wrist? Do you think they'll keep you at their company if you keep taking time off for breakdowns and hospital time? Do you not think about your future, Frankie? Do I have to do it all for you?" She had started crying now; just stray tears making their way slowly down her face. It broke my heart to see my mother cry, but I couldn't do anything about it now. The damage was already done. "I just hate seeing you like this. I just want the best for you… nothing but the best. I just want you to be like you were when you were little. A nice, friendly, cheerful boy who never failed to put a smile on everyone's face at every opportunity. Don't you miss that boy? Where has he gone."

"I don't know…," I whispered, swallowing the lump in my throat. "But I'm going to get better this time, okay? I promise. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you… again,"

"Then why do you do it?" She asked, reaching for my left hand, then changing course and clutching my right hand instead. "If you don't want to hurt people, then why do you do things like this?"

"Because I'm unhappy," I whispered.

.

Our conversation was interrupted as Doctor Jackson entered the room with Nurse Waldron in close pursuit, face adorned with his usual bright and cheerful smile. He was always overly friendly when he was on the ward – he saved the lectures for his office.

"Good morning, Mrs Iero," he said, smiling in her direction. "I always hate to see such lovely families in this ward."

"Oh, hello, Doctor Jackson," my mother replied, wiping her eyes before offering her hand for him to shake. He took it. I held out my hand and he rolled his eyes, knowing that it wasn't a handshake that I wanted. Nurse Waldron started to take the cannula out of my hand as Doctor Jackson began to debrief my mother.

"I was discussing with Frank earlier about what the next steps are after he is physically well enough to leave the hospital." Doctor Jackson began to explain the mental health act business to my mother, and while he did, I zoned out. I didn't need to hear this again.

.

I began tracing over the scars on my wrists and admiring their different shapes and colours. I knew it was sick to be proud of injuries you caused yourself, but I didn't care. We were supposed to be ashamed… to consider them ugly. They were secrets people like me had to hide beneath our sleeves, constantly living in fear that someone would find out and judge us or treat us differently. But why was that? Was it so that we could feel better? Feel normal? No. Of course not. It was for the benefit of the rest of the world. But why do they have such an issue with seeing our scars? Did it make them feel guilty? Did it make them feel like they could have done more to save us? Or did it make them feel angry? Angry that we could be so stupid to do something like this. Did it make them sad? Did they feel disgusted? The delicate vines lacing up and down our arms were ugly to them… something they would never see on their own body. Or was it so that they didn't feel obliged to talk to us about our issues? Out of sight, out of mind – if they didn't have to see the problem, then they could ignore it and would never have to face it. Their own selfishness damaging their friends, family, colleagues… refusing to help in case the issue became too much. I mean, everyone has problems, right? Why should we have to help others when we have our own. Do we have to hide them because others don't have a spare five minutes in their busy lives to try and save us? Who knows. All I knew was that I had to hide them… "for my own good."

.

My scars were beautiful to me. I was in no rush to erase them from my body. I didn't care what anybody thought of them, I was oddly proud… they showed just how much I was capable of. I knew the story behind every individual scar and together they painted a picture of how miserable my life was.

"But you're going to go voluntarily - right, Frank?" My mom said, looking at me expectantly. I realised that I had missed something important while I was so engrossed in my own thoughts.

"I'm sorry, what?" I began, blinking a few times and shaking my head as if to clear it. "I missed everything you said." Doctor Jackson shook his head slowly.

"We were talking about you either becoming an inpatient somewhere voluntarily, or whether we have to section you."

"No fucking way!" I exclaimed.

"Frank, there are other children in here that are younger than you. Don't use such awful language," my mother hissed at me.

"Sorry," I mumbled, still scowling. "But I'm not going into a place like that voluntarily. Are you completely insane?"

"If you go in voluntarily, there are a lot of benefits. You will be given leave, be allowed out on day trips, provided the nursing staff agree it's safe, and if you get better in a shorter amount of time than expected, you will be released. If you are sectioned, you do not leave the premises whatsoever and you have no choice in when you are released. In fact, if you are admitted to one of the two local inpatient facilities, I will be part of the team that assesses whether you are well enough to be discharged – it's your choice."

"Fine, I'll go voluntarily if it makes it easier for me. This is still ridiculous though! I don't need to be an inpatient." I complained, lying back in my bed and staring at the ceiling.

"Well, judging by your behaviour over the last couple of months, you do. We're going to making some enquiries today about units in the area that would be willing to take you, so we should know by tomorrow evening at the latest. Therefore, you will be required to stay overnight again so that we can monitor your condition and keep you under observation for destructive behaviour. If you are given a place tomorrow, your mother will have to go to your home and pack your belongings, but you will probably be expected to move in immediately as you are a high priority case. And on that note, Mrs Iero, I'll be off – I have the rest of my rounds to complete. Thank you so much for your time and I'll see you tomorrow, Frank." He shook my mother's hand once more and nodded at me briefly. I nodded back politely because, to be honest, Doctor Jackson had my utmost respect.

.

"We need to talk about this, Frankie," my mom said in a soft tone. I sighed – I'd had little enough sleep the night before and I was not in the mood for talking. I had talked to no less than five different doctors and nurses already, informing them of what I had taken, when I had taken it and, of course, why I had taken it. An interrogation and guilt trip was definitely not what I needed right now.

"No… we really don't," I replied curtly, fumbling around in the bag my mum had brought to the hospital with my clothes in for my iPod.

"We do, Frank. Do you ever think about what you're doing to me? How this makes me feel?" she asked, tearing up again. I found my iPod eventually and sat back on my bed, unknotting the headphones.

"You know what, mom – not everything is about you all the time. I know what I'm doing and obviously I feel bad about it, but you need to stop making me feel so guilty all the time. Do you really think that your opinions on this go through my head as I'm doing it? I'm sick of your sad, little side-glances at me and the constant nagging to get better. It doesn't help."

"Well maybe I just want you to get better," my mother said, her tone becoming colder.

"What's the point."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh come on, mom!" I said, raising my voice a little. Some of the kids on the ward turned to look at me. "If it was easy then I wouldn't be here right now, would I? I just don't care anymore. I give up! I'm sick of all this trying, it just tires me out. I'm so tired. Do you ever think about what I have to go through every day? The pain I endure, the struggle, the voices in my head? Do you have any idea what it feels like to fight for yourself… every second of every day? Because I do… and it's so draining. Everything would be better if I just gave up and ceased to exist right now. But obviously you don't understand anything about me. I don't feel like you even try."

.

"Is everything okay, Mrs Iero?" Doctor Jones said in her annoying, professional voice – apparently my ranting and raving had caused her to come and investigate what the problem was.

"Yes, Doctor Jones," my mother said, trying to hide the slight shake in her voice. "I was just leaving to go home and call Frank's grandma, to let her know what's going on." I felt an icy cold pang of pain in my heart. If there was one thing I couldn't stand, it was hurting my grandma. "Do you want me to come back later and spend the night here with you, Frank?"

"No," I said bluntly, putting my headphones in and scrolling through the list of albums, looking for some music that would fit my mood, as my mother picked up her bag and left quickly.

"Are you okay, Frank?" Doctor Jones asked, staring at me blankly. I rolled my eyes at her.

"You can leave me alone too," I mumbled before pressing play and letting the growls of Slipknot drown out the noise of all the other kids on the ward, as I closed my eyes and attempted to get some sleep.