Amicus Mortis
TWO
By the time they were finished searching through my bags, I was left with just a few pairs of clothes and my shampoo and conditioner. They’d taken my shaver and my mouth cleaner, and so I told them they’d better take my shampoo as well because I was planning to poison myself to death with it later.
That earned me a stern look and a warning about how jokes about suicide weren’t funny, and that they wouldn’t be tolerated in St John’s. In response I told them that if they gave me back my fucking mouthwash I wouldn’t have to drink my shampoo.
After I’d finished unpacking they took me to see my assigned psychiatrist, who was a dreary looking woman wearing a grey pantsuit and black shoes.
“So, Noah, what brings you to St John’s?”
I glared blankly at the wall, drumming my fingers against my knee in irritation. “It’s cheap,” I said simply, because frankly, it was a stupid question, because I hadn’t had a choice and we both knew it. “And I don’t have to cook for myself.”
She stared at me with a slight tilt of disapproval in her brows. “Do you always lie so much, Noah?”
I clenched my jaw. “Do you always dress like you’re not sure about your sexuality?” I said in response.
She simply stared at me, not looking the slightest bit bothered by my comment. “So you’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder,” she said finally, glancing down at her notes. “Do we want to talk about the incident that brought you here?”
No, we didn’t, because I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to remember – I didn’t want to be brought back into reality and realise that I had finally done it this time. That I had taken that step and landed myself in a psychiatric clinic, because I couldn’t stand the feelings of hatred that came along with it.
“Noah? You at-“
“I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” I shouted, my voice loud and rough as I pushed myself out of the chair. “You can mind your own fucking business.”
She didn’t even flinch. “Noah, I understand that you’re upset about what happened.”
“You don’t know anything,” I spat, shoving the chair away from me. “You can go fuck yourself.”
She let me walk out of the room, and by then I was buzzing with so much anger and frustration that I wanted to tear the place to pieces. Because I was thinking about it again – she had made me think about it, and now it was all starting up and I was remembering why my family thought I was goddamn insane in the first place.
And so I banged my fist against the wall and shouted that I wanted to get the hell out of here, because I did – I wanted to go home, but first I wanted to kill everyone wearing fucking white and break through God’s walls with an axe.
“You’re being immature.”
She had stepped out of her room and was looking at me in disdain, still just a ghost of herself as she stood there and looked at me. Her hair was in tangled ruins and there were bags under her eyes, and she was so thin that a single push could’ve snapped her in half. But for some strange reason she was perfect and beautiful and for that I found myself hating her.
“Mind your own business.”
And then I walked into my room and slammed my door shut.
That earned me a stern look and a warning about how jokes about suicide weren’t funny, and that they wouldn’t be tolerated in St John’s. In response I told them that if they gave me back my fucking mouthwash I wouldn’t have to drink my shampoo.
After I’d finished unpacking they took me to see my assigned psychiatrist, who was a dreary looking woman wearing a grey pantsuit and black shoes.
“So, Noah, what brings you to St John’s?”
I glared blankly at the wall, drumming my fingers against my knee in irritation. “It’s cheap,” I said simply, because frankly, it was a stupid question, because I hadn’t had a choice and we both knew it. “And I don’t have to cook for myself.”
She stared at me with a slight tilt of disapproval in her brows. “Do you always lie so much, Noah?”
I clenched my jaw. “Do you always dress like you’re not sure about your sexuality?” I said in response.
She simply stared at me, not looking the slightest bit bothered by my comment. “So you’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder,” she said finally, glancing down at her notes. “Do we want to talk about the incident that brought you here?”
No, we didn’t, because I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to remember – I didn’t want to be brought back into reality and realise that I had finally done it this time. That I had taken that step and landed myself in a psychiatric clinic, because I couldn’t stand the feelings of hatred that came along with it.
“Noah? You at-“
“I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” I shouted, my voice loud and rough as I pushed myself out of the chair. “You can mind your own fucking business.”
She didn’t even flinch. “Noah, I understand that you’re upset about what happened.”
“You don’t know anything,” I spat, shoving the chair away from me. “You can go fuck yourself.”
She let me walk out of the room, and by then I was buzzing with so much anger and frustration that I wanted to tear the place to pieces. Because I was thinking about it again – she had made me think about it, and now it was all starting up and I was remembering why my family thought I was goddamn insane in the first place.
And so I banged my fist against the wall and shouted that I wanted to get the hell out of here, because I did – I wanted to go home, but first I wanted to kill everyone wearing fucking white and break through God’s walls with an axe.
“You’re being immature.”
She had stepped out of her room and was looking at me in disdain, still just a ghost of herself as she stood there and looked at me. Her hair was in tangled ruins and there were bags under her eyes, and she was so thin that a single push could’ve snapped her in half. But for some strange reason she was perfect and beautiful and for that I found myself hating her.
“Mind your own business.”
And then I walked into my room and slammed my door shut.
♠ ♠ ♠
I don't even know what I'm doing...