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
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. Including me.
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 Abercrombie
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 dying
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 attention.
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 like him.
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 medical history.
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 white window.
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 attitude.
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 new shoes.
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 his answer.
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 lines of
“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
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 Carl.
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 and fame.
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 non-homosexual phone.
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 can.
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 naturedly.
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 called Jenny.
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 bright.
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 loser.
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 life?
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 dirty look.
“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 the conversation:
“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 studs.
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 door.
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 same.
And with that comforting thought I slipped the razor from my pocket and slashed my wrists with an almost uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
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.
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