Why are hospital lights so bright? How do doctors expect us to wake up after agonizing pain just to be blinded by the bright, old, lights with rusted metal frames.
You'd think i'd be used to them at this point with the amount of times i've woken up here. You see, I have lots of reasons to end up here. From my father knocking me out, to me popping enough pills to cure deadly diseases, it's obvious that I end up here quite a lot.
My situation is closer to that second option at the moment. I think I might honestly be insane. That would be the only reasonable answer to why I had took a knife and cut open my arms repeatedly while laughing at the pain, despite the tears that had rolled down my face.
I'm so sick of myself. Why can't I either grow up and go to therapy, or finish the job for good?
"Mr. Rosier? How are you feeling? You were out for a few hours," the small nurse interrupts my thoughts.
That would be Nurse Lovegood, or just Pandora since thats what I always call her. She's just a student in the medical field at the moment, but she's allowed to do the easy stuff as she completes her college degree.
Pandora is probably the only nurse that makes me feel truly safe. The others are just cold hands and stares of pity. I could just shiver at the thought. Pandora's kind and light. God, I swear she's actually just completely made of light.
"I'm fine. When do I get discharged?"
"Why is that always your first thought Evan? Don't you want people to help you?"
"I just want to go home."
"Well alright, you can leave a but after we check you vitals one last time and re-rap your bandages. I better not see you here again."
"Yes ma'am," I say light-heartedly.
She leaves the room with one last look of warning, the calming light leaving with her.
I sigh and stand up, my vision momentarily going black. I must've lost a lot of blood. I grab the plastic bag that hold my clothes off the cheap plastic chair next to my hospital bed. Luckily, I hadn't gotten blood on these clothes during my breakdown, and people won't look at me and immediately know, 'Oh he's definitely someone who self harms' as soon as they look at me.
He isn't always this lucky.
He changes out of the white and blue spotted hospital gown, and throws it carelessly onto the bed. He hears a bit of rumbling from the other side of the curtain that separates his hospital bed from someone else's before the curtain in question suddenly opens.
"Hello."
It's a strange boy. He has black hair with messy green highlights and has messy makeup on. He's also covered in tattoos and piercings. He looks kind of scary, and honestly very unapproachable.
"Um hi? What do you want?" I reply awkwardly.
"I'm bored."
"And why does that require you invading my privacy?" I ask pointedly.
"What brings you here?" the boy completely ignores my earlier tone. His question makes me subconsciously pull down at my sleeves to make sure they cover my bandages.
His eyes follow the movement and I pull my hands away from my arms with a wince. I hate this part. This is the part where he looks at me with pity in his eyes and tells me that it's gonna be okay. How does he know? What if everything just keeps bottling up until I implode from the pressure?
He doesn't tell me that though. The boy doesn't even flinch actually. He just meets his eyes with mine once again and smiles before running his mouth again.
"I'm Barty. What's your name?"
"Evan. You have a weird name."
"You think I don't fucking know that?" Barty snaps out of nowhere. I flinch at the tone.
"Sorry."
"No," Barty groans and runs his hands over his face, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."
"It's fine, I guess. Why are you here?"
"I got into a fight and the other guy brought way more people than I thought he would. Even though I still won, I got beat up pretty bad."
"You get into fights a lot?" It would make sense given Bartys' whole look.
"Yeah, i'm here a lot."
"Me too."
"I like you. And I don't usually like people."
I chuckle.
"I'm honored to be your first."
"Can I see?" Barty asks.
I look at him with a confused expression. See what? I'm not sure what he wants to see and it must be clear on my face. He quickly clarifies.
"Your arm," Oh.
"Oh."
"I mean you don't have to, only if you feel comfortable enough," he stutters out.
I roll up my sleeves silently, red blood seeping through the now visible bandages. I start to unravel the white cloths, slowly revealing my abused arm.
"Sometimes things become too much for me and I can't take it anymore. It feels like i'm imploding when I finally break," I explain weakly.
"Yeah I get it. Well, kinda. For me it's like a short fuse trailing through me at all times. The second I feel threatened.. well I just explode."
There's a long beat of silence. Of comfortable, understanding silence.
Barty huffs a laugh under his breath.
"Look at us, complete opposites. The imploding vs. the exploding." Barty breathes out.
"Well you know what they say, opposites attract."
"Yeah." Barty replies softly, meeting my eyes.
This should be fun.