Pristine white walls, sparkling white floors, smooth white doors.
Nothing was out of place in the perfect little room. All the
shelves were neatly organised and the files on the desk were
tidily piled together. At one end of the room as an open window,
allowing fresh air to circulate the room. But not so much so any
paper would be ruffled by the breeze, just enough to keep reality
in check. For it to be known an outside world existed. Here, it
was easy to forget.
I sat in front of a modern glass-and-metal desk, with white
filing baskets stored at one side. The chair I was upon didn't
fit in with the rest of the white, perfect room. It was an old
chair, wooden, with millions of tiny fingernail marks dotted
along the sides, where countless patients had dug their nails in.
I lightly ran my hand over the side of the chair, my fingers
gliding over each individual mark, some deeper than others, as
well as some longer. Countless different age groups and sizes had
sat in this exact chair, waiting.
Removing my left hand from the chair I gently tugged my fringe
further away from my eyes, a pointless exercise as the black
bangs feel back into place.
I had to of been here at least a good 10 minutes, due to my
step-fathers haste to get rid of me. You would have thought he
would want to keep his punch-bag around. Maybe a mental wife was
too much for him to cope with, not that he coped with her. He was
just disappointed he couldn't use her for sex anymore; I was the
one who looked after her.
Not that she liked me, always laughing when her husband bashed my
head against the side of the table. Well, when she wasn't
laughing and yelling at herself.
I fiddled with my sleeves, wishing someone could hurry up and get
here already. But by the look of what I guess most people would
call a receptionist, no-one was getting here anytime soon, or if
they were they were taking their sweet time. So, it would
probably be acceptable to have my ipod in.
I slipped my headphones in and leaned back in the wooden chair.
Did they make it uncomfortable on purpose? Just so the patient
was under even more pressure, no wonder people felt the need to
destroy the chair.
Look at all those fashion zombies hanging outside
Maybe that was the point in the white walled room as well, to
make it seem calm. But it just annoyed me, what was wrong with
colour? This white just made me feel like I was suffocating.
Other people found it that way as well. So why were the
decorators so set on painting everything in sight white?
It was just annoying.
I pressed the fast forward button and skipped songs till I found
a good one, well, a good one for this situation.
"Just great, they're twats" I muttered to myself, I had never
been keen on the authorities, especially the mental health
related ones. Ever since they somehow came to the conclusion I
was bi-polar, they had acted like I was a sheet of glass that
could break any second. I could take more than them.
Were they keeping me waiting on purpose, to build my nerves? It
wouldn't work; I had been here before, I knew how to deal with
it. But still, I hated waiting in this stupid room.
Rise up and take the power back, it's time that
The fat cats had a heart attack, you know that
Their time is coming to an end
I hated the fact the sun was out. That it was shining brightly
through the window, I hated that the birds were singing, I hated
the blue sky.
I just hated the fact it had chosen the one day I was to be taken
here to be sunny. I glared enviously out of the slightly ajar
window. They probably left it open just so the unmistakable smell
of summer could glide in. Just to annoy me further, just to wind
me up. Just so I would snap.
No such luck, sure it annoyed the hell out of me that I could be
outside right now, but it wasn't pushing me that far. It was just
an open window.
Don't mind me I'm only
A man in a suit walked into the room, I didn't look up, I refused
to give them the satisfaction of curiosity. His suit was black,
his hair was black, his shoes were black. Nice way to stand out.
I see now.
Paint the room white and dress in black, get your patient's
Not clever enough.
He was young, great. He was going to think he knew what it was
like to be me, what a twat. Or he was going to be kind and think
he was making me think 'this guy isn't so bad' but this is real
life, not some fairy story when the character doesn't want help
but then suddenly they feel like they can open up to someone
nice. No, this was reality, and this guy was just another man. I
didn't care how nice he was. He couldn't call me spoiled, I was
just being realistic. I didn't know him, I didn't want to know.
And I'm not about to go, like you would expect in a story, that
actually he is nice, sure he is. I have nothing personal against
him; he probably has a family, lots of friends, maybe a pet or
two, I just didn't like his job.
I lied; I do have something personal against him.
He thinks there is something wrong with me. He won't say it, but
I know he thinks it, even if he doesn't want to, part of him is
pissed off people like me exist, deifying his perfect little
world and making his job hard.
Not my problem he chose a job that had happened to include
working with 'difficult' teenagers. Because apparently I'm a
difficult teenager. And he thinks that. And that is why I don't
And his shoes. I really don't like his shoes. They are longer
than his feet and glossy black. He looks like a clown. His hair
as well, short and gelled up. And his tie, stripes. I really
don't like stripes on ties, it gives me the impression they are
trying to appear older than they are. He was obviously trying to
do this, despite his hair; he might have convinced an idiot he
was older than he looked if it wasn't for the hair.
He sat down at the desk. I watched him carefully, depicting his
movements. He was new at this. He looked momentarily lost on
where to put his papers before deciding the empty draw on the
desk would be a good move.
"I am Dr. Fosser"
Wow, I really wanted to know that.
He already knew this; of course he did he must have been reading
my papers for the last 10 minutes, sorting through my long
Actually, he probably doesn't have lots of friends.
He kept talking, something about bi-polar, being here before and
'getting me back on my feet'
"I'm not mental"
I muttered at him, a hint of disgust thrown into my words as I
watched him stop mid-rant to stare at me.
Then he leaned in with a patronising smile.
"Don't worry; no-one here thinks you're mental. You just need a
bit of fixing up"
He actually has some fucking nerve.
"I'm not mental" I repeated, trying to keep my voice the same as
before, controlled but disgusted.
"Why else would you feel the need to inflict pain on yourself?
Tell me that, Francis?"
"I didn't do it to myself, it was that pathetic excuse for a
human some people call my step-father"
That's what I wanted to say. Instead I grunted at him,
displeasure written all over my face. He leaned back, apparently
satisfied with my answer.
Actually, he was probably single, lived alone in a small flat
with his mum in hospital, hopefully his dad has deserted him when
he six and he had never had a girlfriend.
Oh, and had one best friend.
Who lived in America and he had met over the internet when he was
in the 'political debate' chat room.
Sounded about right.
Well, this is depressing.
Another blank room, two white beds, a white desk, a white door, a
And no ipod.
I looked again at the beds, I was obviously meant to share this
room with someone, probably to try and 'boost' my positive
Probably, it was Carl's idea.
Carl is the doctor I was speaking to before. Or a random clown
that decided to wander in, I'm not sure.
I have come to the conclusion I hate Carl, on the way to my room,
I saw him 'calling' someone. But his phone was off; he has one of
those flip phones with a screen on the front as well as inside.
The screen on the front was blank.
Those phones usually belong to woman.
So he was calling his imaginary friend who he had probably named
Derek, because that is the sort of name he probably thought was
quite cool. Let's make this clear, the name Derek is not cool.
Sure, I have nothing against people called Derek, and a lot of
people might object to this but, about 60% of people called
Derek's had fathers with names like Carl, who were probably
secretly gay. Carl thought he was giving his son a cool name when
he called him Derek, little did he realise that Derek has never
been a cool name, and never will be.
I don't even know why I'm writing this.
Carl doesn't even have a son; it's just fun laughing at him.
I'm sorry Carl; I didn't mean any offence, but really, get some
I lied, I did mean to offend, I just really don't like you.
Apparently I'm meant to take anti-depressants, I'm going to need
them if I have to stay here for a week. Carl keeps trying to talk
to me about my 'problems' while at the same time I try to address
Here's a conversation I had with him the other day:
"So Kiddo, are you ready to address your issues?"
"My name is Francis"
He continued smiling.
"Answer the question"
"No, I'm not ready to address nothing"
"Kid, we both know you have a serious problem"
I was very pissed of at him; my name was Francis, not kiddo.
"How about we address your issues?"
"The fact that you constantly call your imaginary friend?"
He looked taken-a-back.
"And that you wear clown shoes, fully well knowing they are too
big for you" I continued, he looked too stunned to answer.
Clearly everyone else working here had enjoyed laughing at him
behind his back too much to of told him he looked like a prick.
I sat back in my chair raising my eyebrows at him, waiting for
He didn't speak.
"Carl, answer the question"
He got up and walked out.
The next day he walked in and continued pressing me like
yesterday had never happened.
But we both know it did, I haven't seen him on the phone since,
and he has new shoes, which I made a comment going along the
"I like the new shoes, where did you get them?"
"So you listened to me? Aren't I meant to be mental?"
Which had a double meaning of
"Francis 1, Carl 0"
Asylums suck, they are boring.
They arrange activities that are meant to be fun, but let's face
it, there not. Maybe for the really mentally patients but the
wrongly accused mental patients just stand there going-
"No, I will not dance dressed as a crocodile, no I will not play
with play dough, no I will not play against anyone on the wii
fit, no I will not sit down and join that stupid circle"
So, I sat in my room singing, turns out I was meant to have a
roommate, but Carl suddenly thought it was a better idea to put
him in with someone else. This arrangement happened after he
changed his shoes.
I wasn't allowed my music, a guitar, make-up, nothing.
Did I mention I have a thing for eyeliner?
6 years of my friends forcing me to wear it and now I can't stop,
it's sad really. But girls who like guy-liner think it is sexy.
Homosexual boys think flirting with me is acceptable, until I
find away to prove them wrong.
So I get a lot of guy attention, which is more unnerving than the
girl attention can be.
There are books though, boring ones, happy ones for the depressed
people, I heard a friend who had been in here before say
everything was extremely patronising when they thought you were
depressed. You wanted to act happy to prove them wrong, but then
they might think it was because of them. But acting depressed
would just keep you in there for longer.
In my case being happy was out of the question, I loathed the
fact they might think a prick like Carl actually helped me. Well,
he did help me write, in my opinion, a fantastic paragraph or two
laughing at him.
But that wasn't his job.
Did I mention he still has the same phone?
I've seen him make a call, an actual call, with someone other
than Derek talking back to him. On the outside screen it said
'Clive' which is a fantastic name. In an opinion of someone like
Clive, calling Carl has now, in my mind, put him in the 80% of
Clive's who are nerds with friends like, well, Carl. Clive is
most likely very smart and nerdy; he was probably bullied in
school, wears glasses and lives with his mum, and will until she
dies. Because Clive's mum is a soft-hearted old lady who most
people avoid because she scares them. So she hasn't got the guts
to tell Clive that, frankly, he needs to clean-up his looks and
get a girlfriend.
Clive is probably rich, but lives with his mum because he hates
being on his own, and living in a big mansion with designer
clothes is way too lonely for him. Despite being clever, he
doesn't realise living like this will attract gold-diggers. Very
attractive gold diggers that will do anything for a bit of money
Actually, Clive might have figured this out. But he might have
listened to someone like say, Carl, who said he would be lonely,
and decided to stay with his mum. When his mum dies he will be
lonely, and he will probably move in with Carl, who will go
against spending any money on well, anything. Including a new
Oh great, a talent show.
I bet it was Carl's idea, who else would arrange for some mental
ill patients to take part in a show. No-one could win, and no-one
could lose, it was utterly pointless, I mean, what was the point?
And everyone had to take part; everyone had some 'hidden talent'.
So, some girl is going to sing for us, isn't that fantastic? She
can barely talk, she isn't mentally disabled I mean when she
talks your mind instantly wonders off. Her singing would just be
unbearable, but some guy called John is encouraging her that she
John is a perfectly good man; he is kind, and good at his job.
But what stops me from fully appreciating his skill is that he
and Carl have lately been talking a lot.
They walk past my room together, low voices chatting good
Also, John is gay. No joke, he is. I did a bit of poking around
with the boy next door, his name is Jack. Jack tells me John
leaves the hospital everyday in a car that is driven by another
man. And that, one time John had kissed this man before entering
the car. Another thing, the car is a mini, usually known as a
good start-off car. For women. And John has to be at-least 22. So
his boyfriend has to be around the same age, I doubt he would
just be learning to drive, according to Jack there are no L
plates on his car.
Anyway, moving on from John, I'm taking part in the talent
contest. On the condition that I could have my guitar. After a
very long 10 minute, actually that's a lie it was about 5,
argument, or 'civilised conversation' as Carl called it, we
reached that agreement.
I would play the guitar and sing for the talent show if I was
allowed to keep the guitar for a week to practice. Some girl
called Samantha is bringing the guitar in, apparently her
boyfriends. I know a girl called Samantha, her girlfriend is
I didn't really need to practice; I know the guitar like the back
of my hand. Well, not literally, I'm not sure about you but I
don't usually stare at the back of my hand; memorizing it. It's
just a saying that some guy made up, obviously, he wasn't very
Carl has yet to give me a restriction on what I'm allowed to
play; he probably thinks I'm going to play something nice. What a
I'll play something by 'My Chemical Romance' that should piss him
off. And all the other staff, but most of them had taken Carls
opinion of me and come to the conclusion I was unwillingly to get
better. I was, because I was never ill in the first place.
The day before the talent show is a visiting day, no-one has
bothered to get off their asses and visit me, but I wasn't
excepting them too. In fact I told them directly to "not bother
coming" who would want some nosey doctor to see your personal
Especially a doctor like Carl.
But today some bitch called Amy is coming to visit me, I mean,
she is seriously a bitch. She calls me gay all the time, swears
I'm homosexual and laughs at me. Charming lady.
"FRANCIS YOU GAY!"
Something collides into me, hugging me.
"Amy you whore" I answer back, gripping her tightly.
She pulls back after a long minute, and looks me up and down with
chocolate brown eyes.
Amy is someone I would call pretty; my meaning of the word is
very limited. Amy has caramel skin, almond shaped eyes, and a
cute nose. Freckles are sprinkled over her nose and cheek-bones,
and she is around the perfect weight.
Despite the some-what innocent looks she has some attitude. All
you have to do is look at her again to see the real her, two
loops of metal in her lip, a stud in her nose, tight black jeans
with three belts looping through, each getting lower, neon
multi-coloured high-top shoes, a white tee with 'Get off my lawn
hoes!' written on it and a check-board hooded jumper on top.
About 6 necklaces with various words and cute animals hung from
her neck, her pale blonde hair was streaked with colours and
eyeliner outlined her eyes perfectly.
Also, her stance, the way she stood. It was like she wasn't
bothered, something about it drew you in instantly and at the
same time repelled you. The word that fits her is 'cool' but that
is such a lame word I'm not even going to bother.
"Dude, are they actually feeding you here?" she asked, screwing
up her nose and putting her hand on her hip. "Or are they
offering you the same shit here they offered me when I was here?
I came out bloody anorexic, the hoes" she scuffed the floor with
her high-tops and sent the mirror, which was in fact a window, a
"Got it in one bitch, not that I ate much anyway" she snorted and
casually flipped her fringe from her face.
"So what you playing for the bitches tomorrow?" she asked,
placing herself on one of the two sofas occupying the room.
"You know that song I played at Jennets party? That" I smirked,
sitting opposite her, legs crossing smugly.
"Oh you are gunna get them hoes good Gay-boy"
"I got my guitar and singing skills, how can I not get them? But
of course, you won't be there to see me kick their asses"
"But of course" she repeated rolling her eyes; she switched
places so that she was now sitting right next to me. I say right
meaning her jeans were centimetres from mine. For some reason,
some people who write books think writing 'right next to me'
would mean in the seat next to you. I guess it is a way of
putting emphasise on that fact that maybe you didn't except it,
or there is tension between the characters, but really, you could
use other words. But then again, not all authors have the obvious
intelligence I myself own.
Nor the sarcasm.
Anyway, where were we?
Oh yeah, Amy sat next to me and leaned forward, a devious smile
on her face. She reached up for my chin.
I'm sure you all know how a kiss goes, if not, go and find a
cheesy romance and they'll be a full-page description.
Welcome back if you actually went to look for one.
So for the next 10 minutes we made out, then Amy's time was up.
"In a few whore"
Oh, I might have forgotten to mention, but Amy is my girlfriend.
Carl isn't very happy with me.
Well, he never is, but today he is particularly not very happy
with me. And I'm very happy.
Anyone guess what day it is?
The day after the Talent show of course, he wasn't very
'impressed' as he put it with my performance, let's just re-play
"I'm not very impressed with you Francis" Told you.
"Cool" Cool is such a lame word.
"That was a very inappropriate song to sing"
"Hardly, just because it wasn't a lullaby"
"Rock is not a very soothing genre"
"Actually, Panic at the disco is Alternative or Punk"
"Still, it wasn't a very good song to play at a talent show"
"Why aren't you having a go at Olli?"
Olli was my drummer and back-up singer for it, I had discovered
him three days towards the talent competition. He didn't have a
part and he knew all of Panic at the disco's songs. So naturally
after I had a 'civilised conversation' with Carl, he agreed to
get some drums.
So Olli and I got to play a song we both liked, and at the same
time majorly pissed of Carl. And Ken, who is Olli's
carer/doctor/wanna-be cool guy.
Olli is a pretty awesome guy, blonde hair, fair skin and
greeny-browny eyes. He was about 5'11, which worked well for me
since I was 6'0. He was into rock, had a thing for skinny jeans
and had a nose ring. We got along well.
Did I mention I had piercings? If not, I have snake-bites and ear
In fact, i doubt you even know what I look like.
You already know my height, but for the impatient, stupid and
rather annoying readers who haven't picked up on it, I'm 6 foot.
My hair is black, naturally brown. It hangs over my face, because
I like it there, problem? My skin is pale, and my eyes are blue
bordering around violet.
And that is all I can be fucked to tell you.
No really, you are all probably girls, because girls read the
most. Not that boys are retarded, it's just we have better things
to do, in which I am not going to wonder since it most boys
cases, they probably are retards.
Personally I like reading, good stories. Not romance, they suck;
seriously everyone knows what is going to happen. Here are the
elements of a good story: Sex, prostitution, magic, plots, gore,
blood, killing, assassins, homosexuals and idiot kings.
I opened the door and looked around the corridor, it was dark. Of
course it would be he wouldn't be fucked to open the curtains
after he closed them on the first night.
I climbed the stairs to my bed-room and set my iPod on the desk.
My room was how I had left it, surprisingly. He must have known I
had no money in here.
My guitar was propped against the wall, my books were in the
exact crooked pile as before and a glass of stale water was set
on the side.
I bent down and pulled a box out from under my bed. All my blades
were still there, sorted by length. I pulled the longest one out
and slipped it into my pocket. Next I lifted my pillow and
checked on my note-books. Still in the same place.
I walked back down the corridor to the bath-room, and locked the
door behind me. I sank to the floor leaning against the bathroom
Nothing had changed in the two months I was gone.
My mum was still physco, my step-dad still beat me, my knives
were still there, my poems were still there. Everything was the
And with that comforting thought I slipped the razor from my
pocket and slashed my wrists with an almost uncharacteristic
This Story Is Purely Fiction, If You know My Stories Well Enough,
Simple Cliche Endings Aren't My Thing.
If Your Name Is Carl, Ha.