Still don't own Misfits.

Meet you at the bottom :)

...

He wakes with a start, sitting up and gasping for air. There's a sheen layer of sweat across his brow, his clothing sticking to his skin, with his throat feeling so very raw. It hurts to swallow. His whole body is aching in ways he never imagined it could. It doesn't help that things are still hazy, his vision blurring every couple seconds. He blinks a couple times and reaches up, rubbing at his eyes before taking a look around the room, scanning his surroundings. The burning smell of antiseptic in the air makes his nose wrinkle.

A beeping sound draws his attention to the left, where he finds a heart monitor machine. His eyebrows come together as he glances down at the contraption on the tip of his finger. He takes another painful swallow as the realization sinks in- he's at the hospital.

Anxiety wraps around his insides as he struggles to pull in air and quickly yanks the device off his finger, which only causes it to blare a single flat line.

"Simon?"

He jumps and looks to his right to find his sister sitting in a chair near his bed. Her eyes are wide, there are tear stains on her cheeks.

"Simon?" she says again.

He can't look at her, can't face her like this. His eyes go to the bed sheets. "Hi," he croaks. "I didn't.. know you were here."

"I've been here most of the night."

"Dad and mum?"

Her mouth becomes a thin line. "Talking with the doctors. You were asleep for a long time. They were worried about you."

"Doubtful," he murmurs.

"What?"

He shakes his head. "What happened? How..."

"The chair on the floor," she says quietly. "I got a knife and climbed on the chair and cut you down. You knocked your head on the dresser." He reaches up to touch his head. "Don't!" Becca cries. "You... you had to get four stitches."

"I can't feel anything," he tells her, voice disjointed. It's not too much a surprise that he can't feel much beyond the pounding in his head and how badly his throat hurts. But maybe it's more than that? Maybe there's an emotional numbness to this, too.

"Maybe you should tell-"

"No," he cuts her off, with a small shake of his head. "No. I'll be all right."

"Y- your iPod broke. You fell on it. Mum said something about getting you a new one."

He feels a pang in his chest at this news. His music has always been a life line. It hurts hearing that he's lost that. The edges of his eyes wet and he has to put all his focus and energy into not breaking down- he doesn't want Becca to see that. Even so, he's always had a well enough relationship with her that she's in tune to whatever is bothering him. She knows there's something wrong, aside from just the obvious.

She stands from the chair and moves slowly, almost tentatively, over to the bed. Taking a seat on the very end, she asks, "How are you feeling?"

How is he feeling? Sick, hurt, in pain, embarrassed, angry.

"Fine."

That's when he notices she can't stop staring at him. No, not him, his neck.

He looks up at her. "Is it bad?"

She blinks, looking surprised at his direct question, how he's just called her on it. Giving him a tight smile, she replies, "It's not so bad. You can always wear a jumper with a neck to cover it up."

He nods. "So... pretty bad."

Her eyes soften around the edges, a look of sincerity seeping into them as she leans close and presses her hand on his feet, buried beneath the sheets. "Simon, what happened to you? The bruises... your face-" She lifts her hand and moves it towards his brow but he flinches away. "Who hurt you?"

"It's nothing."

She sighs. "Simon-"

"I'm fine," he answers tersely.

"How can you say that, Simon? You tried to kill yourself! Everyone is worried about you. I was super worried about you. What if I hadn't come home? You'd be dead. You'd-"

"I said I'm fine, Becca," he snaps, his eyes landing on hers.

Her gaze widens, her mouth opening and closing as the tears spring up. He's never lost his temper with her before, never yelled at her like he's just done. "O-okay," she says quietly. "You're fine." She quickly stands from the chair and starts walking away.

"Rebecca," he calls after her. "Becca, wait, I-" It's no use, she's already gone from the room. "I didn't mean it," he says to himself, looking back at the spot she was just sitting with a sigh.

Not even a minute later, a nurse comes into the room and moves swiftly towards his bed. "Everything all right in here?"

He looks up at her with a slight scowl. "Why do you ask?"

"Your monitor is off and we could hear you yelling from the hall."

"Everything is fine."

"Well, then, lets get this back on you," she replies, reaching for the device.

He snatches it up before she can do so and crams it back on his finger. "Sorted."

There's the smallest fraction of annoyance in her eyes that he tries to pretend he doesn't see as she asks, "Can I get you anything."

"A new life."

"What?"

Had he said that out loud? "Um..." He swallows and it's like someone's set off a match inside his throat. It feels like it's on fire. "Water," he tells her. "Some water would be good."

"Okay, I'll just be back in a minute or two."

He gives her a tight nod and listens to her muttering under her breath as she leaves and silently hopes there will be a shift change sometime soon so he doesn't have to deal with her again. Looking around the room once more, he wonders where Rebecca may have gone, and why his parents have yet to come in and see him. He lifts his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow and bumps into his stitches, causing a hiss to fall from between his clenched teeth.

Simon hates this, hates being confined to a room he doesn't know. The only familiarity is that it's just as lonely here as it is at home. And that loneliness only gives him more time to think about things he doesn't care to think about. Like Rebecca's words about him not being okay. He did almost die.

There are a million things racing through his head and he can't get his mind to just settle. As if that wasn't enough, the urge to use the loo strikes. He glances down at the contraption on his finger and frowns. Taking it off means the nurse will come back. He turns in his bed and looks at the monitor, leans as far over as his bruised body will let him and searches for a way to shut it off.

It doesn't take him long to figure it out, he's always been good with electronics. He's always been good at a lot of things that no one's ever given him credit for, like that time he took that microwave apart in fifteen minutes and then reassembled it. He's still rather proud of that.

When he takes the device off, he almost smiles to himself as it stays silent. Gathering all the strength he can muster, he pushes himself from the bed and takes slow, careful steps in the direction of the bathroom. Each bit of motion, each time his foot falls against the floor, it sends painstaking jabs through his entire body. He's nearly out of breath by the time he pushes his way into the loo. He uses the sink and wall for support until he's made it to the toilet, and finds himself embarrassed that he can't stand to use it, but instead has to sit because his legs feel like they'll give out on him.

As soon as he's finished, it's back to leaning against the wall until he makes it to the sink. He tells himself to keep moving, but his feet seem to lock into place of their own accord, leaving him standing directly in front of the mirror. He wants so desperately to look, to assess the damage, but fears that whatever he sees might make this whole situation worse. He has to actually force himself not to look, to keep his eyes averted to the white porcelain of the sink as he washes his hands.

Not even a moment later, a loud cracking sound fills the air and he jumps, almost loosing his footing. Balancing himself, he begins to edge his way back into his room with a curious pinch of his eyebrows. Another crack rings out, and he notes the sound is coming from somewhere outside. With careful steps, he makes his way over to the window and raises the blinds. There's a loud boom, and suddenly the dark night sky is filling up with color, a mix of blue and green and purple.

Fireworks.

Somewhere out there, someone is lighting up the sky with fireworks. He watches as another goes off, and another after that, the room catching the reflection of each one and bouncing it around. He smiles even though it hurts. He hasn't had the courage to go near fire since attempting to burn Matt's house down. The thought makes him frown and step back from the window. That's when the thing he was trying the hardest to avoid happens- he catches his reflection in the window.

The air catches in his throat as he leans closer to get a better look. There's so much to take in at one time. Both his lips are swollen, and one of his eyes is half shut. His hair is a tangled mess and matted to the one side of his head and there's a cut above his left eyebrow. If all that wasn't enough to make his stomach twist, he gets a closer look at the stitches Rebecca told him about. The area surrounding them is raised up and round, about the size of a golf ball. In fact, the entire right side of his face is swollen. He looks like a monster.

Reaching up, despite how badly his aching back screams in protest at the motion, he tries to flatten his hair down over the stitches. He frantically pushes and pulls at it, trying to smooth it down just enough to cover them and, when it won't work, the sob bursts out from somewhere deep inside his chest. His eyes fill up until his vision is blurry and he can't stop pulling at his hair, doesn't want to stop. This must be what losing his mind feels like, he thinks, as he lets himself slips to the floor and curls his knees up against his chest.

That's how the nurse finds him and, of course, she calls for the doctor. She comes over to him and bends down so her face is close to his and shines a light through the tears in his eyes and just touches and touches him everywhere until he screams at her to stop.

All he wants is that damn glass of water... and some air. He can't breathe. That's what he tells her through gasps. "I can't breathe. Why... can't... I breathe?"

"It appears you're having a panic attack."

There's a name for this?

"I want you to put your face between your knees and try to take some deep breaths."

For the record, it is impossible for one to laugh when experiencing a panic attack. He would know, he tries. Because he wants to laugh at the stupidity of being told to take deep breaths when he can't breathe. He wants to spit fire and venom at this nurse who's doing nothing to help him. He only ends up choking and spluttering and crying harder.

He really is losing it.

It doesn't take long for a doctor to come in. His parents either, apparently. He mum ends up beside him, practically shoving the nurse out of the way.

"Are you okay?" she asks, touching his face. "What is it, honey? Simon?"

She won't shut up. He still can't breathe or think and she's crowding all his space. His mind only registers one thing, making it stop. He ends up shoving his mum backwards and struggling to his feet, but his legs are flimsy and he ends up collapsing on himself. It makes him feel so ashamed.

Everything around him has become so distorted he can only make out certain words from the doctor, like episode and sedative. Something he vehemently tries to express not wanting. The words he can't speak are lost on him as the nurse comes up beside him and raises the arm of his gown. He doesn't even try to fight as the needle pinches into his arm with a sting.

He flips over with a cringe and looks up to find his parents staring down at him, disappointment on his father's face, sadness on his mum's.

Things start to get hazy again, the way they did when he nearly died. The feeling coats him like a heavy wave, its undertow far too strong to fight as it drags him under.

He finally manages to take a breath.

...

There are seventy- two ceilings tiles in his room. He's counted them six times. There are seventy- two tiles and he only knows this because he started staring at them to avoid what's sitting in front of him.

"Simon?"

He slowly lowers his gaze until he's looking at his parents. His fathers stare is hard, but there's a softness to the edge of his eyes. He's trying to look stern while his mind wanders. Simon knows this because he's been told by Becca that he gets the same look.

He glances to his mum. She has her eyes cast to the floor. She hasn't really looked at him since he pushed her. He's wanted to apologize so many times, but that requires talking, and that's something he's been avoiding as of late.

"Are you ready to talk about this?" his father asks.

He doesn't respond, hardly even blinks.

Shifting on his feet, seeming almost uncomfortable, his father continues. "The doctor's said you've been refusing to take your med's and haven't been eating much. They say they can't get you to talk. This isn't healthy, son. Everyone's worried about you. We're worried about you."

Worried. He's heard that word get thrown around so often these days, and he's gotten quite good at not letting it affect him. No one was worried when he was being bullied everyday. But apparently trying to burn someone's house down and kill yourself after makes everyone worry. Makes them just want to make sure you're okay.

He stews over this thought. He's done that a lot lately, been so angry at everything.

"We wanted to speak to you about the unit."

He lowers his eyebrows and clenches his teeth so tightly together his jaw screams in protest. He wonders if he looks as angry as he feels, like he could tear the whole room down with his hands. It was much worse two days prior when he was informed that, in order to assess his mental health before starting community service, they were going to put him away for a little while. In an institution.

There had been a lot of talk about his well- being, a variety of words used against him. Unstable, painfully shy, introverted, unpredictable... unsafe. These are the things people think about him. At least he knows that now. They said they wanted to send him there to assess his health, but he knows the real reason. They think he's crazy.

They look for proof of this, so he gives them nothing. Since the news of where he would be going, he's said nothing. Because nothing can't be crazy. It's too busy being void of everything. He's made himself nothing.

"If you have any questions-" his father stops as Simon's eyes go back to the ceiling, back to counting the tiles.

"Simon?"

He glances down, in his mum's direction as she's finally spoken to him. There are tears on her face and, no matter how much he tells himself to feel nothing, his stomach still clenches. His hard stare softens.

"Did Matt and his friends do this to you?"

His eyes widen for the briefest of seconds before he catches himself, reins in the look of surprise.

"Your sister told us what kids at school are saying. That he- that Matt told his friends to beat you up. Is that true?"

He wishes she'd stop saying his name. His gaze goes to his lap, at his hands wrung so tightly together the bones are beginning to ache.

"Talk to us," she pleads. "Tell us what happened! We can go to the police."

He shakes his head.

Her own jaw tightens for the smallest of moments. "Simon, you are our son and we love you. We want to know you're okay. We... I, would like answers. Are those boys the reason you did... what you did?"

What he did. She can't even bring herself to say the words, to acknowledge that he tried to kill himself. Everyone tip- toes around him since his mini break down two days prior. Like anything they say or do will drive him back to that point. As if he's so mentally fragile he can't handle things on his own, so they're going to send him away because none of them knows how to handle him, either.

"Simon," she presses.

The only solution he can find to the pestering is to look up and stare, simply stare at her until she gets so uncomfortable she looks away. His lip twitches with a small, satisfied smile, and he lets his eyes drift back to the ceiling.

He wonders, for the briefest of moments- ones that feel like a lifetime, if he really is crazy, and begins to count the ceiling tiles once more.

...

He shouldn't be here. Back pressed tight against the wall, both hands clenched into fists and shoved under his armpits, Simon watches as two large men drag a girl who can't weigh more than a bag of rocks down a hall. She kicks and screams and swipes at them, reminding him of a rabid animal. He would never behave like that, he thinks. How did he end up here?

"Bellamy?"

He jerks his head in the direction of his name to a woman a few feet away behind the counter, a nurse. She's staring at him expectantly, and he knows there's something he should be doing. Going over to her? His feet are heavy, like sludge. He's rooted to this spot he's made against the wall, trying to blend in, to disappear. Another glance down the hall, he catches a glimpse of the girls legs as she's pulled around the corner. His skin itches.

"Simon?"

A look behind him, to his mum's voice. Where'd she come from? Had she been there the whole time?

"It's the medicine," he hears another nurse whisper to his father. "He's going to be out of it for a little while."

"Bellamy?" they call again.

His mum nods at him. "Go on," she tells him.

It's almost like auto pilot. He gets from one spot to the next but can't recall how he got there. But suddenly he's at the counter and he's watching himself take things out of his pockets and put them in a white container on the counter.

His phone.

He pauses, hand suspended above the box and stares at his phone in his hand. What is he doing?

"That, too," the nurse says.

He looks up at her, blinks, back to his phone. "I- I need it."

"No phones," she replies. "No electronic devices."

"Does that mean he can't have the new iPod we got him?" his mum asks from somewhere behind him.

New iPod? The pieces come back together slow, and ill fitting. A rope, the fall, Becca's words about breaking his other one. Becca? Where was Becca? He looks around for her as images flash through his mind. That scream, that look on her face when she found him. So frantic, so scared. He tries to shake them away.

"Put the phone in the box."

"But I need it," he hears himself say as his hand sets it down. What's happening?

"Shoes."

He blinks, glances up, tries to recall when he sat down. A flicker of panic strikes. He looks around at the new, more unfamiliar setting. "Mum?" When had his parents left? "Dad?"

"They're gone, sweetie."

His gaze falls on the nurse standing up in front of him, a different one. She gives him a sympathetic look that makes her eyes crinkle at the edges and his body flushes. She's a pretty nurse, he hadn't expected pretty nurses.

"Well, thank you," she says.

Words are just tumbling from his mouth without him wanting them to. He's saying things he wouldn't usually say. "Where-"

"You were a little out of it when they went. They said to tell you goodbye."

All he finds himself able to do then is nod. Small nods, like a fit. It comes back to him, the girl being dragged away. Are they making him like her? Is that what this is?

"I need you to remove your shoes," the new nurse says.

Everything about him feels lighter, he notes, looking down at his feet and the rest of him. "My stuff?"

"Put up," she replies. "Somewhere safe. You'll get all your things back when you leave. Now, shoes."

He stares at her a few minutes longer, and then, with a sigh, kicks them off. She bends down to retrieve them and places a pair of slippers at his feet. His bare feet. Where did his socks go ? None of this is right. Time's passing, slipping away. He's missing stuff. It's all wrong. He's confused, so confused. And scared. "I'm scared," his mouth says.

"It'll be okay," she softly replies.

He wipes at tears with the back of his hand and touches his pounding head, prods at the stitches with his fingertips and pulls his hand down with a hiss. There's more caution the next time he reaches up, carefully smoothing the hair down over it.

"Here we are."

"What?" He stares at the door in front of him, brows pinched together and hands clenched at his sides. He's tense, wound up.

"Your room," she replies. "We're here. You should have this place to yourself for a bit here, but eventually you'll probably get a room mate."

"I don't want a room," he tells her. His voice seems so foreign to him. Flat and lifeless. He's like... like a robot.

"Sorry?"

"No room," he repeats. "I want to go home."

"Oh. Sorry, Simon. No can do."

He sighs and leans forward so his face is pressed against the door. Exhaustion has struck. He's suddenly so very tired. "What now?" he mumbles.

"Rest," she answers. "You can go inside and lie down if you'd like. It's up to you. I'll be around to get you for dinner."

"Not hungry."

"That's fine. Today's just a day for settling in. Tomorrow will be when things really start."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. You do remember what I said? About the activities around here?"

Simon shakes his head. The last thing he recalls is slippers. He stares down at them and takes a deep breath. It hurts. "Ow," he says quietly.

"Bout ready for your pain meds?"

"No," he answers sharply, more clear than he's been this whole time. "No medicine." The idea of anymore of what he's already been dealing with terrifies him. He just wants this to be over.

"All right. Then you can just-"

Simon opens his eyes and his heartbeat spikes. He has to blink a few times before his eyes adjust to the dark, while his hands slide over a smooth, cool material. Sheets, he recognizes. He's in a bed. But when? This takes some thought, quite a bit of it, but it's easier than before. The medicine appears to be wearing off. He recalls the nurse helping him into the room. But getting into bed?

He lifts his hand and sets it on his stomach, noting that his clothing is different. She must have helped him get changed, too. Heat creeps into his cheeks at the thought. A woman had undressed him and he couldn't even remember it? Probably doesn't want to, he tells himself. As if he'd need anymore humiliation. All he knows now, in this moment, is that he never wants to have that experience again.

It's scary to him, how lost he'd felt. Like he really had gone out of his mind. And that can't be right, can it? He's not that girl being dragged down the hall, he's not the person he can hear through the wall taking to themselves. That's not him at all. Is it?

The weight of sleep creeps in again while his mind races. There's always tomorrow he thinks. He can figure it out, then. He doesn't belong here. This is some sort of mistake. Only the real crazies stay here so they have to let him out.

He'll get out.

He says it over and over in his head until it sounds convincing enough a lie for him to drift away again.

...

"Light's out!"

This is his cue, this is how he knows it's coming. Something clicks from out in the hall, a switch, and suddenly his room is shrouded in darkness.

The first shriek makes his blood run cold, goose bumps spreading across his skin. It reaches places he didn't know he could get such chills. A shiver runs through him.

They scream. Every night they scream.

He reaches up, hands covering his ears and pressing against them, trying to block out the sound. He pushes so hard his head hurts. He'll have a migraine in the morning. He stares up at the ceiling, watches the way the light from the moon filtering in through the windows catches reflection and dances around. He tries to find a pattern in them. Usually this works and he's able to drift off.

It doesn't work tonight.

Closing his eyes, he counts each breath of air he pulls into his lungs and lets his mind wander. He tries to go somewhere else, think of something else, but his mind is trapped in this place. Only a week and already this place has dug its way deep down inside him and grasped him in its clutches so it's all he can think about. He hates it.

The worst of it is the smell. The sight he can block out with a simple motion of shutting his eyes, but the smell remains. It reminds him of the hospital. Antiseptic and paint and piss. It's curled itself around the inside of his nostrils and he can't get it out.

If that wasn't enough, the entire place is one big sheet of white and blue. White walls, blue tiles... everywhere throughout this place. There was a time when he would look around his own room and find his surroundings boring and bland, but it was his space, so he still had a fondness for it. This is different.

He doesn't understand how a place can be so bright and still seem so dark. He hates the colors, hates the way the ground squeaks beneath his feet when he walks, and the inspirational posters littering the halls. Sometimes he swears if he sees one more, 'Believe in yourself,' picture, he just might decide to kill himself again and manage to succeed his second go.

He recalls how he once loved structure and plans, enjoyed order. That's changing. There's too much order here. Sometimes he wishes he could go to sleep and not wake up because he knows what will be coming when he does. Routine. He'll get up and go to the breakfast hall to eat, go back to his room and brush his teeth, spend a few hours staring at the wall. Then there's therapy, lunch, a little free time in the rec room before heading to group therapy, dinner, then back to his room for the rest of the night where they'll pass out meds right before he goes to sleep. And he'll get up and do it all over again the next day.

No one's called him.

Neither his parents or Rebecca have come by to see him.

This place is loud and too quiet and suffocating and lonely.

The screams in the halls become a crescendo of noise that dip into his mind and block out all other thought. He squeezes his eyes shut and begs for sleep as a means of escaping it. It won't come, this place is no solitude for granting desires.

He hates it here.

No one cares that he hates it here.

...

Please leave your thoughts, it's super appreciated.