A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter seven! Everyone basically loved it, but you're going to want to strangle me after you read this chapter! Lol. So, might as well just get it over with. No point delaying the inevitable: me getting strangled.

Enjoy and please review!

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At her next session with Mrs. Diaz, Piper was informed that, although she was getting better, she had to remain at the institution for the remainder of her eight months: another five weeks, as she had been originally told. Aggravated and upset, Piper didn't speak for the rest of the session, or while she was waiting to be escorted back to her room.

Julia wasn't there when Piper was dropped off, so Piper was free to sit on the bed and sulk and, when that didn't work, throw things around and kick things. Angry tears filled her eyes and mingled with her hair as they slid down her cheeks. She had gotten better! She had been doing everything right! So why couldn't she go home?

Heart pounding, blood bumping, and determination to piss everyone off caused her to loose control. She spotted a sharp and broken piece of the plastic headboard of her bed. She glanced outside to make sure no one was around. Then she stepped to it and pulled a chunk of the plastic off. Its edge was sharp and a sense of foreboding filled Piper's body as she stared at it, clutched in her shaking hand.

Did she dare? She'd been doing so well and to start cutting again would be the end of her progress. She'd eng up right back at the beginning.

But then again, she'd been doing so well! So why wouldn't they let her leave?

Anger coursing through her, Piper lowered the plastic to her flesh . . .

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"Okay, Piper, you know the routine by now," Dr. Carlson said as she put on her gloves. She turned to face Piper with a kind smile.

Piper felt her face heat up with worry and fear. What was she going to do now? If she removed her long-sleeved shirt (After two weeks, patients were allowed to trade in their gowns for white, long-sleeved shirts and blue pajama-like pants), Dr. Carlson would see where she had cut herself. Then she'd be in trouble. But if she refused, the doctor would know she was hiding something, anyway.

"Piper?" Dr. Carlson prompted.

Piper looked up at the doctor, her mind racing for an excuse to stay dressed. But she found none and was forced to remove her shirt and pants. But she took the pants off first to buy some time. It only gave her another two seconds to pray for a miracle. When none came, she carefully removed the shirt, but hid her wrists slightly. She stood near the exam table and waited.

Dr. Carlson made some marks on her chart, then smiled and walked to Piper. "Okay, let's have a look."

Piper was forced to move nearer the center of the room and put her arms out so Dr. Carlson could see.

Before Dr. Carlson had even checked anything, she spotted the two big slash marks, one on each wrist. She frowned deeply.

"Piper, what's this?" she asked, though she already knew. She looked at Piper with a disappointed frown.

Piper didn't look at her.

"You were doing so well. You hadn't cut in four weeks. What happened?"

Still, Piper didn't look at her, nor did she reply.

Dr. Carlson sighed. "I'm going to have to put this on the chart and speak to Mrs. Saunders. You might have to stay here longer than five more weeks."

Piper swallowed back her tears.

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"Piper, answer me. Why did you do it?"

Piper looked up. She was in Mrs. Diaz's office with Mrs. Diaz herself and Maryanne Saunders.

Piper shrugged, her hands – with her wrists wrapped in a ring of white gauze – shaking with fear.

"No," Maryanne Saunders said firmly. "Shrugging is not n answer, young lady. Give us a real answer."

"I did it," Piper said suddenly, unable to force her tears back any longer, "because I was doing so well for so long. I asked about getting to go home early and I was told no. I don't understand why I was told no! If I was doing so well and I was getting better – I even said I had no desire to cut anymore! – then why was I told no? I want to go home!" She was sobbing horribly now.

Maryanne Saunders opened her mouth to reply, but Mrs. Diaz cut her off and said, "Because you might have said you had no desire to cut anymore, but look: One thing angered you and you cut. You might have thought you were better, Piper, but you weren't and we knew you weren't. We're professionals and we know when you can and can't go home yet. We know when you are and aren't better."

Piper's chin trembled. She felt so stupid and ashamed now. Now she'd never get to go home.

"You'll be monitored more closely from now on," Mrs. Saunders informed Piper. "An escort will be with you at all times. When you're in your room, an orderly will sit outside and check on you every half hour. We're going to change your weekly doctor visits to Dr. Carlson to three times a week. If you cut yourself again, you'll have to stay here for four more months, not two months and one week that you have left. Do you understand?"

Piper nodded numbly.

"We're also changing your medication, although that I will not be discussing at this time." Maryanne Saunders stood. "Mitch is waiting outside to take you back to your room." With that, she turned and left.

Mrs. Diaz stared hard at Piper for a long time.

"I don't understand why you did it, Piper, even after you're explanation. In my opinion, it was a very poor reason for cutting yourself. I thought you wanted to get better-"

"I do!" Piper snapped.

"-and you know I'll have to call your grams to tell her what's happened," Mrs. Diaz continued, ignoring Piper.

Piper looked up, horrified. It was the worst thing that she had been told so far.

"Please don't. She'll be so upset," Piper cried.

"I don't have a choice," Mrs. Diaz said sadly. "Go with Mitch back to your room, Piper. I need to call your grams."

Piper slumped out of the room and walked silently down the hall with Mitch. He waited until she was in the room then, nodding at the orderly sitting in a plastic chair outside the door, he left.

Piper laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling as tears, for about the hundredth time in two days, sprang into her eyes. She ran her fingers over the white gauze on her wrist (they had taken her white shirt and blue pants and she had been forced to wear the gown again so that her wrists and legs were exposed) and thought of home, of being with her family and not here, being watched twenty-four seven. Why had she done it? Why had she cut herself? Why had she acted out instead of talking it over with Mrs. Diaz? That was the reasonable thing to have done.

Then again, she thought sadly, doing stupid things instead of reasonable things was what had landed her here in the first place: When she had been bullied in school, she had cut herself when she should have gone and spoken to a teacher or counselor, or even Prue or Grams.

It seemed her life was just made up of a series of stupid mistakes. Her last one had landed her at Los Angelus Psychiatric Institution, and her very last mistake had ended all hopes of going home early.