EEP so I went to see Perks Of Being A Wallflower today and ohmysweetjesus it was BRILLIANT. Literally my new favourite film. It was funny and sad and the acting was great and the story was wonderful and it gave me so many feels! Seriously, if you can, GO AND SEE THIS MOVIE.

Anyway, here's chapter two!

(Blaine's POV)

I've always been a quiet person. I just don't feel the need to communicate or participate as much as other people do, and I don't see a problem with staying quiet. Sometimes I quite like being quiet. I don't have to think too much about what to say to people, and they usually just leave me alone. They don't try too hard to involve me because I guess they don't really want me around anyway. I sometimes think that it'd be nice to have a friend, just one person to talk to, share things with, go places with… But then they'd know about me. They'd know about what goes on in my head.

They'd know I was insane, and that I've been put on a psychiatric ward three times now.

Most of the time I don't feel insane. But sometimes I hardly feel like myself at all. Those are the worst times, when I feel like I'm just going to disappear into nothing, getting sucked in on myself until I implode. I never feel particularly important or outgoing, but when I go through a bad phase I feel so irrelevant and invisible that it hurts.

Mom tries talking with me quite often. I remember the most recent lecture; she sat me down in the living room and said very seriously, "Blaine Anderson. I know that things are tough for you; I know that life hasn't dealt you the best hand in the game, but you really need to try. Just try to make some friends, talk to people, because it'll make you feel so much better. Just try."

I felt awful after that conversation. My mom loves me very much, and it kills her that I am this way. But no matter how hard I try, people just don't want to be my friend. Maybe they can sense that I'm insane.

I'm in the Cookson psychiatric ward this time because I had a minor breakdown. I was in a bad phase again. I remember just feeling hopeless and insignificant and so, so alone. Like I was losing myself. I couldn't do anything, I could hardly breathe and my vision was blurring with a mix of tears and dizziness, like my pitch black bedroom was suffocating me and swallowing me whole. I couldn't get the images out of my head, the images that have been haunting me my whole life.

I hate the dark. It's always been so daunting, so cold and empty. I have terrible memories of the dark… A locked door, rough hands, whispered words that I didn't understand…

NO. Don't go back there, don't think about it.

I don't really know why they bother sending me to Cookson, nothing ever comes of it. Maybe they just want to see me safely through my bad phases, make sure I don't do anything too drastic just to find myself again. Cookson isn't so bad. They feed me and entertain me, and I just stay away from the other patients. The workers there always try to get me to talk to people, to participate more and get involved. But I don't see the point of getting involved with people if I'll just disappear at some point.

I just stare out of the window blankly as Mom drives down a familiar road, lined with leafless trees, heading to the ward. I can feel her glancing at me periodically, but I don't acknowledge her. I just keep watching the road, counting the cars that pass us in the opposite direction.

I had just reached number 863, when we took a sharp right and pulled onto the vast gravel driveway leading to Cookson. The ward was located away from the main hospital, which was about half a mile down the road. It was a dreary grey building, only one storey high, with ivy growing over one whole side of it. The surrounding grounds were dull and too uniform, trimmed grass and little bushes cut into perfect square shapes. The trees that ran around the outside fence had few leaves at this time of year, and the skeletal branches swayed violently in the cold wind.

As my mom pulled into the little car park in front of the building and turned of the engine, I finally turned my head to look at her. Her face was calm and relaxed, but I could see in her eyes that she was upset.

I was always upsetting her.

"Look, Blaine… I know that coming here is hard for you. I just want you to get better. You deserve so much better, you deserve to be happy, and even though you may feel like you're in a bad place right now, these people are going to help you. You will get better, Blaine."

A single tear ran down her cheek, and she pressed her fingers into the bridge of her nose for a moment. I pursed my lips and looked down, heart racing as I prepared to say goodbye to my mom for god knows how long.

She sniffed and blinked a few times, clearing her head a little, before pulling me into a hug. She kissed the top of my head and whispered, "I love you, Blaine." It was all I could do not to cry.

We got out of the car, me carrying my single bag. I don't have a need for many possessions, and all I packed was the essentials, and my camera. I take my camera everywhere I go; photography helps me remember myself sometimes. If I take pictures of the places I go, it feels like I have a life to live, memories to keep.

But sometimes the pictures aren't enough. That's why I had to give my mother one final hug, and walk up into Cookson for the third time in my sixteen year life.

"Good afternoon, Blaine," the receptionist greeted me, recognising me seeing as I was expected to arrive that afternoon. Mrs Inglis was alright. She never pushed me to talk to her, not like some of the other workers on the ward. She was young, with dark brown hair that was always tied back, with one piece that would curl down onto her forehead. She would always joke about how it annoyed her and it looked like an Elvis quiff, but I liked it. It was something to remember her by, for her to remember herself by.

I have curls like that, but I gel them down. Sometimes I try to pull out one curl on my forehead, to remember myself with, but it never works for me. I get frustrated and gel it down instead, but I guess that's just one more thing to make me forgettable, unimportant.

Mrs Inglis handed me the necessary forms, and I filled them in as she called one of the ward attendants to inform them of my arrival. When I was done, I handed them back with a small smile, and a short, plump woman came around the corner into the reception.

"Hello! You must be Blaine Anderson!" Her voice was high pitched and nasal, and she was too perky for my liking. Her hair was bleached blonde and tied in pigtails, making her look like an overgrown toddler. She had bright blue eye shadow and bright red lipstick, and gave me an enormous grin as she bustled over. She must have been new to the ward. I decided already that I didn't like her. "My name is Cameron; it's wonderful to meet you!"

I just stared silently at her, and her smile faltered slightly before she recomposed herself into her factory made grin. "Come on then, I'll show you to your room!" She turned on her heel and waddled off in the direction of the patients' rooms, as I scurried to follow.

She took me to the room furthest from the reception, right at the end of the long corridor. It was average sized, and adequately furnished with a bed, cupboard, desk, and door that I guessed led to a bathroom. At Cookson there were only toilets and sinks in our own rooms; we had to go to the communal bathrooms to shower, and we could only shave under supervision.

"Make yourself at home, Blaine. You'll need to go to the social room in half an hour though; we're having a little party for today's newcomers." Cameron gave me another huge grin, and I honestly had the urge to slap it off her face. I didn't know what it was about her that annoyed me so much, but it was intense. I didn't mind it though, annoyance was good. It meant feeling. Feeling something reminded me I was alive, I was real.

"Newcomers? There are more?" I asked, and she seemed surprised that I had chosen to actually speak to her. I didn't care for her particularly, I was just curious. It was rare for there to be more than one new patient in a day.

"Yes, we've also had a young lady named Annabelle and a young man named Kurt join us today."

"What's wrong with them?"

Cameron gave me a bit of a stern look for my language choice, before saying "I don't think it's really my place to give away confidential patient information, is it Blaine?"

I just stared at her for a moment more before turning my back on her and walking over to the bed. She stood in the doorway for another few seconds, before reminding me to be in the social room in half an hour and shutting the door behind her.

I sat down on the edge of bed, bouncing up and down a few times to test it out. It was a bit too hard for my liking, but I couldn't bring myself to care too much. I kicked off my shoes and crawled under the covers, staring at the grey wall. I felt tiny and alone, and I squeezed my eyes closed.

That didn't stop a few tears escaping and dropping onto my pillow.

Thanks for reading, let me know what you think?