Aww, look, it's a little baby chapter! It's 1,019 words, and don't let Fanfiction tell you otherwise. Their word counts are always so fucked up.
Don't worry, this little baby chapter will be the back-up for big things to come. *pets* You're not useless...
How are we on a scale of one to ten? Eh? Eh? EH? Get it. It's the first line of the chapter. How are we on a scale of one to ten. Seriously, though. If you guys remember by the time you review, rate yourself on a scale of how good you're doing right now.
It'sChristmassoyoushouldallsayten.
Wut.
I think by now you should all know what it means when a segment opens with lyrics - lyrics that are *all* from the song of the story's title, just so you know. *nudge nudge* The actual line where "hospital for souls" is said will come up eventually. We're not there yet. That's the end chorus. Reserved for the end only. Which we're no where near at the moment.
It's ten minutes before midnight - I made it! I finished before the end of the day. *wipes sweat off forehead* My puppy has already clonked out on top of me. I'm going to bed as well and when I awake I cross my fingers for reviews to read. ^.^
How are we on a scale of one to ten?
Could you tell me what you see?
Do you wanna talk about it?
How does that make you feel?
There was a click worthy of a flinch to anyone who had been sitting in silence as long as Sam had, and then the thick, soundproof door opened. Sam didn't turn his head to see who it was; he already knew.
"Samuel, your brother is here to see you," the nurse informed him.
"I don't want to see him," he deadpanned. After a moment of hesitation, the nurse left him in peace. There was no point in pressuring someone who was admitted into a mental hospital. It wouldn't end well. She was new; Sam knew that because he had been here long enough to memorize every face. She was new, but she wasn't stupid.
Neither was Sam. That's why he wouldn't see Michael. Sam couldn't sit there and listen to his brother tell lies…
Everything was becoming too scheduled and robotic. And stuffy. So stuffy.
Sam wasn't allowed much time outside because the days were chillier, but the staff told him that on days where the weather was warm, he would be allowed outside up to four times a day, for a total of four hours.
As if he was going to be here long enough to see the changing of the seasons.
To be honest, though, he probably would be around to see the changing of multiple seasons.
They brought him food regularly, but Sam ate none of it. He didn't sleep, didn't speak. And the weirdest part…was that he didn't know who he was trying to punish, here. His family, the doctors, or himself? What kind of a statement was he really making?
You're losing, a voice told him. If you didn't believe what they're telling you, you wouldn't be acting this way. You think they might be telling the truth. You think you might be nuts.
Shut up.
"Sam? Are you listening to me?" came the gentle voice of his psychiatrist. When he hadn't opened up after many group sessions with other patients, they thought they might make progress if they worked with him alone – so they hired Ms. Cecile Brown.
What a boring-ass name.
No, he thought. He wasn't listening to her. She may as well have been having a conversation with herself for the last ten minutes. But Sam said nothing; his arms stayed crossed over his chest and he stared out the window—one of the only windows he got to see in this damned place. The blinds were opened halfway and sunlight poured him. After how long in the institute, of being locked up in his room and staring at blank walls constantly, it was more than refreshing.
When Sam never responded, she said, "I've been told you haven't been eating. Or sleeping. Or…talking. Do you want to tell me why?"
Still nothing. He refused to say a word to her.
Absent-mindedly, she clicked her pen. She glanced at her notes and then cocked her head to the side. "Who's David?"
Sam sent her a steely look that was sharper than knives. If looks could kill.
If only.
"It says here," she went on, adjusting her glasses, "that while under a sleep study once, you said his name."
When the hell was I ever under a "sleep study"?
"Who is he?" she asked again.
Who was he? Nobody. Nobody at all. David was only the first man Sam ever loved, quite possibly the last. The man he trusted more than anyone else, who had jumped through hoops for Sam before—someone Sam could never fully express his love to, no matter how hard he tried—someone he hated so much sometimes because he could be so damn difficult—someone Sam had, at one point, dreamed of running off with so they could live a life of solitude away from their messed up lives—someone he wished so badly he could spend the rest of his life with—someone who might not even be real.
No, David was no one to Sam. That name meant nothing.
Back in his room, Sam glared daggers at his Jell-O. With a frustrated growl, he chucked the little plate across the room. The plastic plate made a clinging noise as it hit the surface, as did the spoon, but the red gelatin splattered across the white wall in a way that reminded him of blood.
Everything that had happened was real. It had to be. Never mind that he had a history of psychological issues (heavily put). There was no way he had imagined everything he felt or experienced the last year. There was no way his mind had conjured up such a vivid, complex world, complete with fleshed-out characters, violence, romance, death…
And everything that he had felt… All that fear and pain at his lowest experiences, and the love and content at his highest. That wasn't something he just thought up one day. He had scars to prove it.
Scars they attributed to various childhood accidents. They being the doctors and his family. His family being Lucy and Michael.
I didn't make it up, he insisted.
Not all the times he had been beaten up or bitten,
Not the nights he spent in his arms, trying to ignore all the impending doom he had constantly felt.
And certainly not that one fateful night he had witnessed someone being murdered right before his eyes—someone he had come to consider a part of their big, dysfunctional he missed, admittedly, because Sam would love to hear what that vamp had to say about this predicament.
Would they help break him away from this madness? Were the others working on getting him out? He really, really hoped so.
If they really do exist…
Please, he thought, as he sat curled up in a ball on his bed that night. Hurry up…
Have you ever took a blade to your wrists?
Have you been skipping meals?
We're gonna try something new today
How does that make you feel?