I'm trapped in my mind and I know it's crazy

Hey, it's not that bad at all

When you think of the world, I know it's crazy

Hey, I'm not that bad at all

Oh, I'm trapped in my mind, baby

I don't think I'll ever get out

Oh, I'm trapped in my mind, baby

I don't think I'll ever get out, yeah

Derek Hale exhaled loudly, glaring down at the thick folder on the table before him. This was it. His finale project, his final grade, his ticket out of the hell that was med school. His grades so far and been fluctuating from a B to an A, but lately it had been at a high C. Now, for a normal student, it would be fine, it was a passing grade. But Derek was a Hale. And Hales did not receive C's as a final grade.

He ran a hand across his stubbled jaw in annoyance. If he aced this project, his grade would jump to a high A. If he aced it. The project was centered around a mental health patient, already pre-picked, and meeting with them three times a week for an entire school term. By the time the term ends, you had to have a twelve page essay explaining the patient's antics and habits, their likes and dislikes, their past and memories. Then a final paper diagnosing the patient and that was that.

Derek was really not in the mood for hanging around in a mental asylum, surrounded by drooling, ditzy people who couldn't tell reality from fantasy. This was defiantly going to put a rock in his strict life schedule. And from the look of the folder, the thickness, he was going to miss his sister's get-together party that she had threatened him about attending on several occasions. At least when she killed him, he'd be a graduated med student.

"Would you liked something to drink?" Derek looked up startled. He had forgotten he was in a coffee shop, drowned in his thoughts.

"A coffee would be fine. Black." The girl shot him a wide, flirty smile before skipping off, blonde curls swaying with her step.

He sighed, pressing fingers to his eyes tiredly. This was going to suck major balls.

Stiles stared down at his restrained hands. The cuffs were lose, thin, the chain in-between a decent length to allow him some ability to move. He really didn't like the cuffs. He moved his gaze to stare at his inmates, a girl, Erica?, was sitting with her doctor, talking loudly and flashing smiles. She was here for extreme seizures. Boyd, a big black guy that had threatened Stiles on several times was sitting by himself, eating, hands also chained. He was prone to violence and had horrible fits that Stiles may or may not had caused a few times.

Stiles frowned, turning his head. He was looking for someone else. They always played chess together during recess when Stiles was chained up. When he wasn't, they went outside and played kick ball with the other patients.

"Hi, Stiles." Isaac Lahey slid in the seat across from Stiles, smile and eyes timid. Stiles grinned back, straightening up. Isaac was a curly-haired boy with bright blue eyes and a shy personality. Getting beaten to a pulp from your own dad had that effect on you. It also made you have severe panic attacks, extreme paranoia, mild hallucinations/flashbacks, and big trust issues.

"Hey! Isaac! What's up, man, big guy?" Okay, he was little hyper, but he'd been cooped up for the past three days after his last meltdown. You gotta give a guy some slack, yknow?

"Uh, nothing, Stiles, my.. man. How are you?" Isaac asked softly, his eyes darting to Stiles' chained hands for a moment.

"I've been alright. I just got used to the meds they were popping me." Stiles grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. His hallucinations were always worse after he got used to the pills. The wolf was always there, eyes red and mouth dripping.

Stiles shivered. He really needed to take his mind off of things. Isaac was watching him carefully, his blue eyes measuring his actions. Stiles managed a half-hearted grin but he wasn't buying it. You could never really fool Isaac. It was like had a lie detector on him at all times.

Isaac touched Stiles' knuckles softly, frowning, before retracting his hand and toying with a chess piece. "I suck at chess."

Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes. "I gathered that from the last hundreds times we've played. If you haven't noticed, I suck also." Isaac glared at him.

"No you don't. You're super smart and you always guess where I'm about to move. It's not fair." There he went again with the lie-detecting thing. It never ceased to creep Stiles out.

"Okay, fine. What else are we gonna do? I can't spread my hands more than a foot apart and that really won't help during kickball, especially when I go to catch because they always aim at my face." Stiles huffed and pushed back on the plastic chair, the plastic legs lifting from the floor. Isaac stared at him heatedly.

"I don't know. They don't give us a lot of options." That was true. The only real games to play were kickball and chess. There were board games but the majority of the staff refused to pull them out. Some story about how the patients would eat the gaming pieces or steal the cards to set fire to later on. How they got their hands on any fire starting item in this joint bothered Stiles. He wasn't a pyromaniac but he did enjoyed a little flame now and then.

Stiles sighed, bringing his chair back down. He folded his hands underneath his chin, the chain clinking against the-you guessed it- plastic table. He turned his attention to the window they were sitting by. The glass was made from some kind of plastic, resistant quality that no matter how much you put force on them, they wouldn't shatter. There were still bars framing them though. Why they were there, Stiles had no clue. Probably to reinforce the fact that you couldn't get out.

Which was a total lie. A guy named Peter, a creepy, cheerful patient that Stiles was unfortunate enough to meet had escaped about three months ago. No one knew how, there was no door busting, no caretakers knocked out, no windows broken, nothing. His cell door was closed and locked, but when his caretaker peeked in, he wasn't there. It was like he disappeared. Not that Stiles wanted him around, the guy was a total freak. He would smile and glint (yes, actually glint, like some kind of animal) before talking about something you really didn't want to hear about.

Like, really, really didn't want to hear about.

Isaac was twirling the chess piece around and around, eyes cloudy and frowning. He got like that sometimes, just like Stiles, caught up in his own thoughts. It was best not to bother him. He'd snap out of it soon enough. Just like Stiles did.

"Leave me the hell alone!" Stiles and Isaac jumped at the sudden outburst. They both turned to see Jackson, one of the newest patients, struggling with a doctor, hands balled up in the white coat and eyes misty. "Get away! No!" Jackson twisted as two other nurses, both big and layered with muscles, constrained him. The doctor gave them both a motion and they began to drag the now sobbing Jackson away.

Stiles winced at his cries, the begging for his mom and dad, the inconsistent ramblings. It was the same for Stiles when he had arrived here. He had sobbed and wailed for his dad, begging for him to take him back home. Then he grew angry and even attacked a few nurses. He had to be sedated for nearly two months before he was permitted out of his cell and in to the mess hall or recreational rooms.

Man, those days sucked.

The lanky teen stretched his arms, yawning. The chain stopped him halfway and he pulled his arms back down, glaring at the metal. They were already starting to piss him off. Isaac snorted at his face and flicked at a pawn, sending it tumbling across the board.

"I'm bored."

"Me too."

"What do you want to do?"

"What is there to do?"

Isaac didn't have an answer for that, instead staring out the window thoughtfully. If you looked hard enough or took the time to notice, you could see the sadness around his eyes and the slumped posture. He was exhausted, that much Stiles could tell. No doubt nightmares.

"I hate being here." Isaac's voice was quiet but full of emotion. "I hate the doctors, the nurses, the padded cells, the curfews, the pills, the scheduled therapy. I hate it. I hate all of it. I want to go home." On the word home, his voice broke and tears were welled up in his eyes. This was nothing like the first time Stiles has met Isaac. The first time they had met, Isaac had punched Stiles square in the face and cussed him out. You had to get pass that fake, defensive exterior.

"I know. Me too. God, me too." Isaac was practically crying now, his face turned away from the other people in the room and looking out the window.

"I miss my dad," Isaac whispered, his voice broken. Stiles tried not to point out that his dad had locked him in a freezer or used to beat the shit out of him or that he had destroyed his self-esteem by blaming everything on him. Isaac already knew all of that, he had experienced, yet he still has some undying love for his dad. He would always tell him stories before his dad became abusive, about how they went to the park or went out for a swim or one time, they draw on the sidewalk with chalk together.

Stiles put a hand over Isaac's, smiling gently. The curly-haired boy sniffed and smiled back, tears and snot running down his face.

"It's going to be okay. We'll be okay. You'll make it out of here, I know it."

Isaac would defiantly get out. So would Erica, Boyd even. Not too sure about Jackson, might take him a few months to calm down and then it would be easier to estimate. But Stiles would never make it out. He was trapped, stuck. No matter how hard he tried he would remain here. It was his fate, just like everything. He was destined to be left behind.

Derek stared at the thick, metal doors. Chills ran down his spine. His skin felt clammy and his knuckles tightened around his leather bag. The entire building creeped him out, the hedges perfectly cut, the newly washed exterior, the small windows with bars. God, he could barely stay here for a few minutes, he'd hate to have to live here.

With a sigh, he stepped forward, pulling the door open, the polished metal cool and slippery to his hands. The front hallway was vast but a burning white, the only color the brown desk with a seated woman.

He strode forward, searching himself for confidence. This place gave him the creeps and underneath his blazer, goosebumps covered his arms. But he was a Hale and Hales didn't show anything but confidence.

"Hello, how may I help you?" The woman's smile was too big, too wide, too fake. Having to deal with psychotic people everyday did that to people.

"I am here as a med school for a project. I have paperwork." He pulled out his folder, handing it over. It had taken him over an hour to fill out the papers. The woman flipped through it, her fingers nimble. She typed something in the computer then pulled out a clip-on with his name on it.

"Here you are. You will be escorted to see Stiles Stilinski in a moment."

Who the hell named their kid Stiles?

Kid Cudi - Trapped In My Mind

Sorry for any spelling mistakes.