This is inspired by my depression and the song Finding Mr. Midnight for the game Fran Bow.
The building was full of water, but it wasn't my fault.
People say I'm crazy and dangerous, but honestly, I've never done any of the things they blame me for. The voices tell me that they're the ones behind it all. They follow me constantly. I'm never alone anymore.
Everyone pushes pills my way, saying they'll stop them from speaking to me, but they never work. They up the doses, but there's no relief.
Back to the building. It was a mental hospital, the one I was currently staying. This is the 8th one in 3 years. Most of them were long-term, so I'd be in there anywhere from 4 to 18 months, usually landing closer to 9 or so. It was rather large, at least 12 separate units: Two for girls, four for boys, one each for the cafeteria, gym, and two for different types of therapy sessions –one for drugs and the other for religion, which you didn't have to go to-, and two for classes like in school. My unit was the only one surrounded by multiple fences. There was the chain-linked fence going towards the cafeteria, which had to be opened and unlocked by staff, a wooden one that crept from the west end of our building and the gym and from the edge of the gym doors –which, too, were locked-, and then the metal bars that went from the southwest edge towards the end of the chain-linked one. We even had the most staff working with us.
What had happened was.. Well.. I don't entirely remember. This is embarrassing, it truly is.
I lay in bed on my stomach, feet up in the hair and twisted at the ankles. I had a black ballpoint pen in my mouth and a pencil in my left hand. I was drawing, even though writing utensils in your room was against the rules so self-harmers couldn't use them. My picture was a woman with stringy blonde hair, empty gray eyes without pupils or irises, a bleeding gash going down the right side of her chest all the way down to the left side of her waist, and countless smaller cuts on her neck and arms in a summer dress stained red. Her name was Emma, and she was the lady standing beside me, posing for the sake of art.
"Okay," I said around the pen. "And we aaaarrreee," sticking the pencil between my ear and head, I took the pen down and did a few more strokes for her face, "Done! What do you think?"
She leaned over my shoulder, one of her cold, clammy hands resting on my shoulder. Her usually sad expression changed briefly to one of happy sadness. A tear traveled down her ghostly face as she ran her other hand over the page, accidently smudging the fresh ink.
"Oh, my dear.. Thank you. Please, show this to Penny. She's the nurse who goes as Lilly with dirty-blonde hair."
Her voice sounded fragile like the drifting snowflakes outside. She looked more see-through then, more so than normal. I've seen Lost Ones do this plenty of times. It meant she was about to move on. Nodding, I tried to take her hand. As always, it passed harmlessly through her's, but by her soft smile I knew she appreciated the gesture.
"Come with me," I prompted.
We made our way out of my Pod –there are four Pods that held roughly six girls, but were only ever filled by five or four- to the Nurses' Desk that took up most of the area of our building. Setting the picture on the desk, I smiled at the lady behind it. She was too busy writing something down, so I moved on to the next person. Her name tag read 'M. Greta.' Just about every staff member in the girls' units was a woman, and the boys had both. Don't ask any of the patients. None of them knew why either.
I cleared my throat, and she looked up, slightly startled.
"Oh, yes?"
"Do you know where Ms. Lilly is?"
"..Ms. Lilly? You mean the nurse on Red River Unit?"
"Is her first name Penny?"
Her blue eyes grew wide, but she nodded slowly. I smiled again, pushing the page up for her to see. She hesitated before picking it up. If she wasn't surprised before, she was then. Setting it down, she gave me a look of concern.
"Did you miss your daily meds, sweetheart?"
"No, but I have to give this to Ms. Lilly. Could you please make sure she gets it?"
I saw the doubt, and fully expected her to talk to my therapist, Miss Raquel, to give me better meds. Instead, she slid the page closer to herself, taking it and folding it neatly into a small square to fit into her scrubs.
"Sure." She winked. "Wouldn't want this going through the mail. Your therapists look at them to make sure only appropriate letters are sent. Yours might not be allowed to be given to her."
Smiling widely, I thanked her before heading back into my room. I flopped down on the mattress, grinning at Emma.
"You should go with her when she gives it to Penny. That was you can say goodbye when she gets it. Are you two sisters?"
"No," she chuckled in her raspy voice. "She's my niece."
Most 13-year-olds might be scared of the way she looked, all bloody and cut up, but I've seen worse Lost Ones in my life. They don't like being called ghosts. They think it's derogatory to their soul. These days, ghosts are considered horrifying or empty. All they want is to be heard, or to send messages to their loved ones.
"I hope she understands the picture. Are you sure that's all you wanted me to give her? I could write a letter, too."
"No, no, deary. You've done plenty. I know Penny well, and she knew me. She'll know what your drawing will mean. I'm sure of it." Her body flickered for some time like a candle next to an open window. "I have to go. I need to see her with my own eyes one last time. Goodbye, Terra."
She left, leaving me alone in my room. Sighing, I picked up my sketchpad, putting the tip of my pencil on the blank page. A lone tear traveled down my cheek. I was alone once again. I suddenly felt cold with the absence of anyone around me. It was always this way when a Lost One passed on. Actually, it was like this every time someone abandoned me. It wasn't their fault, though. It would be selfish of me to ask them to stay. They all have lives to get to, and I'll just get in the way.
I was in between being a Lost One and living. In this purgatory, I was and always will be on my own.