It's raining where I am.

I can't see it from where I lay, but I can hear it. And smell it. I love the smell of rain. It reminds me I'm alive.

It's all around me. The rain, I mean. It's coming down softly, pattering across the roof and streaking down the windows. It's a strange comfort.

Ever since I was little, I always loved the rain. I used to dance in it all the time, waving my arms about. It's the most liberating feeling ever.

But I can't dance now. I can't go outside and revel in the rain like I want to. I can't be happy, can't have fun. I'm locked inside this prison, locked up like a dog. But that doesn't mean I can't listen to the rain, doesn't mean I can't close my eyes and remember what it was like to be free and unaffected. No one can take that away from me.

This room is cold. I usually don't mind the cold, being a hockey player and all, but this time, it's different. The cold is…different. I can hear clattering going on in the hall outside my room. I wish it would stop, I just want to lay and listen to the rain. But the noise is loud, and no matter how hard I try, I can't block it out.

It's dark in this room, too. It's cold and dark and it feels so strange. I don't want to be here, and I don't know why I have to be. There's nothing wrong with me, I didn't do anything wrong, so why am I here?

But they all know, and deep down, I know too. I have to stay here because I'm sick. Not forever, but for a little while.

I guess there's a story to why I'm here. There's always a story. I don't really have anything to do, so I guess I could tell you my story. I don't know where to start. Should I start by saying why I'm here? Why I'm in the hospital?

I tried to kill myself last week.

My wrists are swabbed in white and every time I look at them, it reminds me of how weak I am. How I can't even deal with life.

I don't think I want to die. I never cut my wrists with the intention to kill myself. But I guess this time…I cut too deep, or too much. And now I'm here, in this hospital for crazy people.

I'm not crazy. I just get a little sad sometimes…

None of my friends know. I don't want them too, either. Especially my boyfriend. He's not the kind of person that understands self-hate, or depression. It's funny, I spend nearly everyday with him, and he still has no idea that I'm so sick.

But I love him. I shouldn't, but I do.

He's the first boy I ever dated, the first boy I ever kissed. When I told him I was gay, he said it was ok.

He's led a picture-perfect life. Loving parents, a little sister who adores him. He has everything I want. He's never had to deal with any of the bad shit in my life. He's never had to deal with beatings, or the hateful names, or the anger. He's so impervious.

But I love him. I just don't know if he'll still love me after he finds out about this. Which he will, this won't stay secret forever.

Guy will find out. And he won't want to be with me because he'll see me as weak, as a fragile child who needs to be taken care of. He won't see me anymore, he'll see the scars, the bandages. He'll see that whenever he looks at me.

He'll see Adam Banks, the pathetic loser that has to cut himself to feel alive. The dismal, wretched shell of someone who used to love life so much. He'll see that the Adam Banks of a few years ago is gone.

The rain is falling harder now. It's starting to overtake the sounds from the hallway outside my room. I'm going to close my eyes now, and think. Think about Guy, my friends, my life. I'm being released tomorrow. I have to go back to school, to my dorm room, to the curious glances and whispered rumors.

I have to go back and explain what I did…