I own nothing. Same warnings as before. Enjoy!
"For what Tim?" Gibbs asked carefully, "What were the medications for?"
I just laughed at his question. In truth I didn't know what the medications were. No one told me the medications that were being forced down my throat. My parents knew what they were though.
I wanted to ask them why I had to take them. I wanted to know what they were exactly, but they never told me. They never told Sarah either. No one thought that Sarah needed to know I was crazy.
And I knew I was crazy. I mean, who had dreams about killing themselves? No one even knew what I was thinking or doing to myself until my mother found a story I was writing.
I always had a knack for writing stories and these dreams just needed to be written down. For weeks I wrote these stories. Each one getting more in detail and darker. The way I was able to describe the dreams was surprising even to me.
Notebooks started to pile up in my closet. I didn't want anyone to know these thoughts. I even had a hard time talking to people. My focus was shot. I could only think of suicide.
I knew that my grades were slipping and I didn't care. The only thing that truly mattered was how sharp the object I had was. The glass that I had started out with was getting dull and covered in blood.
I had to throw it out and get something else. One night while everyone was asleep I went into the kitchen and stared at the knives. My dad always kept the knives sharpened to the point of them being brand new.
At dinner I would watch as my dad would cut his meat and imagine it being my muscles. I could tell that the knives would do a lot more damage then the glass I had before.
I took a small fillet knife and went back up to my room. When I looked at the clock I saw that it was almost two o'clock in the morning, but I didn't care. I knew I wouldn't sleep at all that night.
My sleeping habits had changed along with my eating habits. I had lost a lot of weight. Since my clothes had always been very baggy on me no one noticed that I wasn't eating.
When I looked in the mirror, which wasn't often, I looked sick. My eyes were sunken and my skin was pale. I wondered why my family hadn't asked me about what was going on.
That next day I walked downstairs a few hours later and saw my parents sitting on the couch talking. I could barely hear what they said, but I did hear my name a few times in the conversation.
I wasn't very concerned by what they were doing and just left for school without saying anything to anybody. It was in that time that I realized that I should have done something to cover it up.
When I got back from school my parents were sitting on the couch quietly. It was Friday and Sarah had a sleepover with her friends. I went to go upstairs, but my Dad wouldn't let me.
They called me over and I tried to get them to leave me alone, but they wouldn't. I started to yell at them and get angrier. I was never an angry person so it was a little weird, but I just wanted to go upstairs to my room.
Then my dad stabbed a small fillet knife into the table. The same one that I had stolen a few nights ago. I grew silent and stared at the dried blood that coated the blade in layers.
My mom started to read something. It was a dream I had turned into a story. Tears were streaming down her face as she read the story. After she read a few more lines my dad asked me what it was.
I felt myself shrug, but I didn't talk to them. It wasn't any of their business it this was something I was doing. It took them this long to figure out something was wrong so why should I tell them anything now?
For hours they asked me questions, but I didn't speak at all. Worry seemed to be etched into their faces, but that didn't matter to me. They had taken my knife and I needed it back.
Standing up I tried to get to my room, but my dad kept pushing me down on the couch. I was getting angry and I moved to hit him. My fist connected with his jaw and he fell backwards.
My dad looked so shocked and I grinned and laughed. As I laughed I could feel a tightening in my chest. The laughs started to become more breathy and my hand went to clutch my chest.
I couldn't breathe. I was terrified and I could see that my mom saw that too. My mom tried to pull me closer to her, but I pushed her away. I saw fear in my dad's eyes and that was the last thing I saw before passing out.
When I awoke I was in a hospital and hooked up to these machines. I could see that there was an IV and blood hooked up to my arms. My wrists were clean and wrapped in gauze.
No one was in the room, but that changed quickly. A doctor walked in with my parents and started to talk to me. He told me that I was not going to be released until I went to go talk to someone.
I laughed. My parents had fear in their eyes and the doctor was concerned. I don't think he had met someone like me before and that was nice. I didn't want to go to the shrink though.
Days came and went. The shrink would come in and try to get me to talk, but I refused. He told me that I needed to talk to get over this. For the first time I did talk. I said I didn't want to get over this.
The doctor was surprised. I don't think he was expecting that. For a few days I didn't see the shrink, but he came back. This time he had my notebooks with me. He read from the notebooks and asked me questions.
For the first time I felt connected to him. I felt like he actually knew what he was doing. I started to talk. Hours turned into days and I poured my soul to this shrink. Then he came with my parents and a few bottles of pills.
"The shrink had a few bottles," I said calmly, "I was never told what they were."
"Did you know what they treated?" Gibbs asked slowly.
"I assumed craziness," I said shrugging, "Although maybe I should still be on them. You never know."