I Made You up to Hurt Myself

I'd been stuck in this hellhole a week when I first saw him. His blond hair was straightened to perfection, and his brown eyes were warm and glowing. He obviously hadn't been here too long. This place was enough to suck the spirit out of even the most joyful of people. I could tell you that instantly and I hadn't even been here all that long myself. He was sat idly flicking through a magazine with a bored expression on his perfect little face. I wondered why no one had confiscated the magazine yet. I know none of us were allowed them, so what makes him so high and mighty? In fact, no one seemed to be paying any attention to him at all. I assumed he must have been one of those snitches you hear about on TV. He feeds them all the latest information and gossip on us, and in return, they turn a blind eye to whatever he does and whatever rules and regulations he breaks. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me, where do I sign up?

I sat, doing nothing but staring at the boy for what felt like only a minute, but was probably closer to ten. Everyone's going to think I'm a creep. Oh, wait, they probably already do. Pft, who cares. They're all mental shots anyway, why else would they be in this dump? The pretty boy - wow, what an imaginative nickname, you've really outdone yourself this time, Ian - didn't look up once, just kept his eyes cast down to the magazine, ocassionally smiling when he found something that interested him. He didn't even respond when we were called for dinner, and NO ONE skips dinner. It doesn't matter if you've some sort of eating disorder, or if you're terrified of brocolli or something (you never know, some people have weird phobias), you're still dragged out to the dining hall, and force fed if needs be. He didn't seem to care, though, and continued reading even after I had been led into the hall by one of the orderlies.

"What are you looking at, Ian?" she hissed. Whatever happened to being nice to people with a screw lose? I'm not saying I'm crazy, but they seem to think I am, so surely they're supposed to be nice to me? Ugh, talk about confusing.

I shook my head and looked at my feet as I trudged on. It was easier to just ignore them when they started asking questions, or tried to pull a fly one.

He was still there after dinner, still reading the same magazine, with the same bored expression. He must've been sitting there for at least an hour whilst we ate and then another half hour when the orderlies tried in vain to prevent the other nutters from flinging their food all round one another. How I ended up in here is really beyond me. I wondered what was wrong with blondie. They don't stick people in here without good reason as I'd just experienced, I was the only exception to this. Hm.. This could actually be a good game. Guess what's wrong with the blond kid. Maybe he was anorexic? Nah, he wasn't fat, but he certainly wasn't anorexic. OCD? They usually showed a few more signs than that. Suicidal? No, they were normally more jittery, a bit of a wreck really, it's a shame. Psychopathic murderer? I fucking hope not.

It wasn't long before I was made to leave the lounge, and led into my room for the night. It was only eight o'clock, but they weren't too lenient with bedtimes around here. I made my mind up to ask the new boy (well, I don't know how long he'd been here... I was the new boy, wasn't I?) why he was here. That might be just a tad rude, but hey, if he's sane enough I might even go all out and introduce myself. At least I'd have less chance of actually turning insane - can you catch crazy? - if I had someone else to talk to. But for now, it was lights out, and resistance here is futile, so the best thing would be to sleep. Tomorrow would be interesting to say the least.