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le 21 janvier 2008 (01:11)
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current mood: crappy
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E passed last night. Drug overdose. I didn't even know he was doing drugs. I don't know what to do. I don't want this journal anymore, it's too hard. I'll just only write in my other journal from now on. It's just too hard. I miss him. Sorry, I'll delete all my other post and just leave this one there. I miss him.
Title: Love Me, Leave Me, or Tear Me Apart [5]
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You guys are smart, figure it out by yourself.
Disclaimer: Semi-True, but not completely.
Aurthors Note: Thank you kianacarly for the information on lj-cut. Click on the link for previous chapters.
www.quizilla/users/xseptemberxfadesx
Ziggy still lay awake from the noises he was unaccustomed to in his short three days of being at The Ward: the moans and screaming of the people echoing up and down the halls; the scratching and squeaking of the nurses worn shoes on the linoleum floors; the sound of his three roommates. Peter, an overweight compulsive eater with sleep apnea with an unhealthy obsession, Ziggy had decided, for Manchester United had a heart monitoring machine on him at night to wake him if his heart stopped beating which kept Ziggy up even without the hourly checks.
And also Emmet’s voice, a multi personality patient that went to anger management, trying and some time later succeeding at calming his third roommate, Rupert. Rupert was an anorexic patient with night terrors that seemed to keep all of the boys up except Peter, who fell asleep as soon as lights out. Ziggy would only finally go to sleep after Emmet had calmed Rupert down enough, listening to his deep even breathing as he fell into slumber.
It had already been three days since Ziggy had arrived at The Ward, and he had already had figured what he called “The Second System,” out. The patients at The Ward were called guests, and their problems were addressed as only issues. The anorexics are called guest with food issues. The druggies, or as some refer to themselves as narcotic abusers, are called guest with substance abuse issues. The rest, Ziggy included, were just psychos, though they were also called guest with behavioral issues. It wasn’t called a loony bin or a crazy house, no, instead it was called a Residential Treatment Facility for Troubled Youth.
The nurses weren’t called nurses, instead they’re referred to by the staff as “attendants.” But all of the guests know they’re nurses, nothing more than escorts to Level One guests and nightly room checkers. Twice a day Ziggy and his roommates plus one other boy named John had Group Therapy. At lunch they’re encouraged to sit next to your Group and are constantly badgered by their Group Leader,
On the board are names of everyone in The Residential Treatment Center, and there schedules and the levels they’re on. Under Ziggy’s name was Level One and under that; Group Therapy, another appointment with his therapist, Natalie, he then has to go to the infirmary and then much later in the day another Group Therapy.
Ziggy was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Rupert’s familiar whimpers. He waited a moment for Emmet to get up and climb up on to the top bunk where Rupert slept, to hear his hushed whispers of comfort to the crying boy. But instead all he heard was the steady in and out of his breathing, and Rupert’s continuing cries.
He knew if he was caught out of bed by one of the nurses they would give him a sleeping pills. Everybody hated them, and called them stone pills. As quietly as possible, due to there being no door in the doorway, he tiptoed over to the other side of the small room, almost tripping on a cord from Peter’s breathing machine, and climbed up on the top bunk where Rupert’s whimpers were growing louder.
“Are you okay?” he asked the shrunken, quivering form. He reached out and stroked his hair lightly, but recoiled when he realized it only made him shiver more. He heard Emmet rustling in his bed. “What are you doing?” Emmet hissed. Ziggy looked over at him, his usual happy face etched with anger and jealousy. “He was crying and you didn’t get up.” Ziggy said a bit too loud. Emmet marched over to the bed and climbed on top of it, pushing Ziggy out of the way and cradling a still crying, and quiet, Rupert.
“Checks,” an attendant/nurse called into the room. She flashed her flashlight at Peter, who was sleeping soundly, then at Ziggy’s, Emmet’s, and Rupert’s bed. Emmet had already laid Rupert back down on his sheets; relationships were strictly forbidden at The Ward. “What are you three doing?” the attendant/nurse asked, irritated. “I—we were just trying to stop him from crying.” Emmet explained. “Emmet, if I keep catching you doing this I’m going to have to demote you back to Level One.” “No,” he yelled. “Then both of you, back to bed and take these,” she said handing us both two stone sized pills. “Does he need one?” she asked looking over at a quiet Rupert. “No, he’s asleep now,” Emmet lied. Ziggy knew he wasn’t really asleep.
“Okay, both of you asleep now,” she said firmer this time. Both boys went back to their own beds, but as soon as she left Emmet went back to Rupert. As Ziggy’s eyes became accustomed to the darkness again he could see both boys’ silhouettes. He knew Emmet hadn’t really swallowed his stone pill and he knew what he was going to do until the nurse came by for another round of checks in an hour.
“He didn’t want to listen in on them but the stone pill never made him sleepy despite it’s enormous size. He could here Emmet’s slightly indistinct murmurs, and Rupert’s silent protests. “…kiss, it’ll make you feel better,” Emmet coo. He could see their silhouettes, and Emmet pulled Rupert and roughly kissed his lips; Rupert cried louder. He tried clearing his mind of all thought, of all the different sounds coming from that top bunk, and tried letting the stone pill do it’s job. And soon, after many unpleasant sounds, he fell into as peaceful of a slumber that he could.
“Want to go for a walk?” Ziggy was in the Study Hall, absentmindedly drumming his felt-tip pen on the chemistry paper his school had faxed in for him, when Emmet came up to him. Ziggy looked over at the clock that sat above one of the rooms built-in bookshelves. It read 3:07. “I—I can’t, I’m only a Level One.” He was glad that he had an excuse to avoid walking with him. “No it’s alright ‘cause I’m a Level Two so I can escort you around,” he countered, still smiling. Ziggy searched frantically in his head for another excuse then remembered that the board had said he had an appointment at 3:30 that day.
“No,” Ziggy said, coming off sharper than he meant to. “No thank you,” he said softer this time, “I have an appointment in a few minutes—and I really have to finish this chemistry homework before group.” “Okay, well I could just sit here with you.” Ziggy nodded, and then went back to drumming his pen on his unwritten paper. Emmet idly scrapped his overgrown fingernails cross the table top. Ziggy could see pink marks and what looked like cigarette burns on his wrist, and Emmet caught him staring. “They’re old,” Emmet whispered. Ziggy jerked his head away and stupidly pretended he didn’t see anything. “It’s no big deal, they’re real old, see,” he said holding out his arm, an almost proud smile on his lightly freckled face. He shyly looked at them, then away.
“Where’s Rupert?” he asked, desperate to change the subject to something lighter. “He has relaxation therapy. But we’re all going to sit next to each other at lunch, right?” Ziggy nodded, for some reason still not looking at the unusually happy boy. “What were you doing with him—last night?” Emmet looked up innocently, shrugging his shoulders. “We were just kissing,” he said. “He doesn’t like it,” he whispered, not even knowing the words were coming out of his mouth.
“It’ll make him feel better,” he said. Ziggy still didn’t understand. “He’s a manic depressant, and—you know, maybe he just never had somebody to love him. I mean come on, nobody bothers even coming on visitor’s weekend. He just sits alone by himself. So,” he continued, “if somebody showed him that he’s loved maybe he’ll be happier.” “So you love him?” Emmet shook his head laughing out loud, which made the attendant to shush him. “No, of course not, I’m not even gay,” he said laughing still.
Ziggy wasn’t sure how to respond to the conversation he had just had, but luckily he didn’t have to. He was already late for his appointment. “I have to go,” he said shoving his chemistry work into his text book, “but I’ll see you at lunch.”
“I’m just saying, they don’t focus on my kind of eating disorder. They want all of the skinny twigs getting bigger and they serve all this greasy, fattening food, and expect me to lose weight.” Peter, Ziggy’s overweight roommate, was on a rant about how The Ward didn’t do enough to treat his “illness.” It had only been brought up because Matt, who was in Ziggy’s Group Therapy, asked Rupert why he never spoke, and then eventually elevated to Emmet discussing every illness that “Rupert was courageously battling.” That’s when Peter attacked the silent Rupert with how The Ward doesn’t pay the same attention they do to compulsive eaters as they do to anorexics or bulimics.
“Okay, people does anybody want to talk about visitors weekend?”
“Well my weekend was great, my mum visited, she brought everybody cookies. But I just felt so bad for Rupert,” he said sympathetically rubbing Rupert’s shoulder. Everyone was now looking at Rupert, who desperately tried hiding behind his oversized sweater. “Why do you even care,” John, who Ziggy learned had paranoid personality disorder, spat. Emmet looked hurt. “
“And just what is “your situation,” Emmet?” he said making air quotations. “Well just, you know me being here, in this place. But she knows I’m getting help, and I tell her all about Rupert, she’s happy I have friends.” John let out an exaggerated moan. “Why can’t you just fucking say it, you’re in a loony bin. We’re all in this dump, ‘cause we’re fucking mental.” He laughed. “You’re a fucking head case, Emmet.”
“How does that make you feel Emmet?”
“Ha, you think I’m here by choice?” Peter said laughing, his chin seeming to jiggle as he laughed. Ziggy noticed he was wearing his red Manchester United jersey, one of three red ones. “If it weren’t for my dad scared that I would never shag a girl in my life I’d be home right now eating a nice big bowl of spaghetti.” John laughed, “real big eh,” he said reaching over the small group circle and slapping hands with Peter.
The second Group Therapy session had ended, Ziggy was standing in front of the board with all of all of the patient’s names on it. Emmet had anger management, John, solo therapy, and Peter had treadmill exercise. Ziggy had already seen his therapist, and since he was only a Level One he couldn’t be in his room alone, so his only option was Study Hall. He had to catch up on his chemistry exams anyway.
Walking into Study Hall he saw Rupert’s oversized sweatshirt folded into the shape of a pillow, and Rupert sleeping on it. He walked over. “Hi,” Rupert shot up, looking around frantically at everyone but Ziggy. “It’s alright it’s just me,” Ziggy said smiling a bit. “Oh, hi,” he said calming down, “and, thank you, for last night and everything, I know I keep you up, I’m sorry.” Ziggy was at a loss for words, he had never heard Rupert talk so much at once. His voice was surprisingly strong. “Oh, it’s fine.” Rupert smiled at him.
“I’m sorry, but, you just seem so happy.” Rupert covered his mouth with his long sleeve, his smile still not going away. “You make me happy,” he said behind his sleeve. “I do?” He nodded. “What about Emmet, aren’t you two together?” The smile flushed from Rupert’s face immediately and he looked around the near-empty room as if anybody heard. “No, people think we are, but we’re not. I hate him. He always talks about me in Group, and he always tries to make me eat.” “Isn’t that a good thing?” Rupert shook his head no. “But don’t you want to get better?” Rupert shook his head again. “Not if getting better means getting fat.”
Ziggy looked at him, his small frame hidden underneath the oversized sweater, and couldn’t really tell if he was as “fat” as he said he was. “What are you doing?” Rupert asked nervously. “Oh, just some exams for chemistry,” Ziggy said jumping on the change of subject. “I’m really bad at chemistry,” Rubert said, as if he had asked for help. “Well what level are you on?” Ziggy asked, hoping he was a Level Two and they could walk back to their dorm. “I’m a level one still, kind of sad huh? I’ve been here for almost a year and I’m still a Level One.”
“Well maybe if you ate more they would bump you up,” Ziggy said, instantly regretting it. Rupert gave him the cruelest look ever, before making an excuse to leave. Ziggy thumped his head continuously on the wood table, until an attendant/nurse told him to stop. He was infuriated with himself. The one chance he gets at making a friend, somebody who’s actually a little saner then the rest of the loony’s, and he blows it on telling the kid to basically get fat.
Life at The Ward.
I'm scared to meet people, becuase I'm scared i'll lie. Usually i don't feel all that bad when i lie, but when i really get to know that person, i feel guilty, because i know time cannot be rewound. I think about what it would be like to die--do you sufforcate untill you die, or do you just stop breathing. I don't have any friends, lierally, because nobody really gets me. I know that sounds like some played out apathetic lyric from another screamo post hardcore band, but it's the truth. People don't understand my deep lyrical words, or my grey vision of the world. And I find it hard to sink down to their level of stupidity and petty high school drama that five years from now won't mean shit. I'm not trying to say that I'm superior over others, or that I purposly push people away, although I sometimes do. I push people away. I just don't want them to get hurt. Not so long ago I did something really bad, something that could have ruined a life--and now, even in my own mothers eyes, I am trash. I'm not even the piece of trash that you pick up off the ground and put into the garage. I'm that piece of trash you see on the freeway, constantly being upturned and sent wooshing through the air, hitting car windshiels, and getting stuck in between tires. I seem to be on my own kind of self-destruct mode that I despratley want to get out of, I can get out sometimes, whenever I'm writing. It's my escape from reality. When I'm writing I feel so free, yet so safe. I feel nobody can judge me because in writing, lies are merley called...Fiction. And fiction is called Art. And in that sense I don't feel like the decipated piece of trash, I feel like an artist.
