After Angelica’s death, Abigail was never the same. She was a little more screwed in the head, a little scarier in the eyes of Micheal, Aiden and Damian. She had darker humour and new rising violent tendencies. She experienced night terrors that ended with her screaming and fought with more patients. She hid things in her room and sneak out alone at night every so often. Some days, her hands would be covered in dried blood and others she would have hidden intestines in her room. 

        Everyone loved Abigail. She was young, sweet and naive. She was adorable and innocent and she just was a little scared when she did the things she did to get admitted. No one was in the ward long enough to know why Abigail was in the ward. No one alive that is. No one but herself and the files that fill the ward with lies and terrors. The files that ruin lives and cause unnecessary deaths. The deaths that fill the ward with screams of physical, emotional and mental pain. The screams of ended lives. 

        The ward is a place with an atmosphere that makes you want to die. It makes the saddest things feel like dying and the happiest like the world has ended and you’re the last survivor. It’s like living in a world where nothing is real but you’re not even living. The ward wasn’t safe. It was a prison that chained the brains of people to a pile of ideals that was deemed safe and normal and locked their physical selves to a land of locked doors and operations leading to death, paranoia and psychosis. 

        Abigail wasn’t “normal”. The trauma that comes with killing your entire village and the trauma that comes with watching your best friend kill herself after her family is all dead and gone wasn’t “normal”. Abigail wasn’t “normal”. Not after she killed 18 people after she set her neighbors house on fire. Not after she watches her village go up in flames. Not after she finds the man who deflowered her; the man who stole her youth and innocence. He got beheaded by her hand. No, any normal nine year old girl would be worried when scenes like that play through her head. Any normal person for that matter would be worried. 

        A voice pulls her out of her thoughts as warm hands lift her up and into strong arms. “Abigail? Are you okay? You’re shaking.” The soft strong voice resonates through her ears and she cuddles into his touch. “Abigail? Can you hear me?” He taps her shoulder as he looks around for the other two boys, once seeing them, calling them over. 

        Loud shrill screams fill the ward as the little girl faces her panic attack alone but with people that care about her. It wasn’t something that made sense. Nothing ever makes sense. Not in the ward. Thought after thought nothing good ever came out of her thoughts. Happy memories try to pull her out of her depressive spiral yet nothing works. The fiction that haunts her brain as the people around her look from one to another to try and help her. She can’t. Nothing works. The sky. The light. She can’t see anymore. 

        Nothing ever works anymore. No matter how hard she tries it is never enough. Nothing she ever does helps people. She’s worthless. She’s broken. Her brain. Her hands. Her body is broken. Her mind is broken. She’s broken and yet no fragments of memories and thoughts can cure such a disease. She wants to scream, she really does but she can’t. She can’t do anything anymore. Everything hurts. 

        She needs help. She can’t do anything anymore. Tears well up in her eyes as she starts crying. No one understands her. She can’t have control. She needs someone to control her. She can’t do anything alone anymore. She needs to have someone in control of her. She can’t do anything for herself. She’s worthless. She doesn’t deserve to live. She needs to die. She can’t handle this. She wants to die. She can’t live anymore. She can’t handle the stressors. She can’t handle her brain. Too weak. Too worthless. She can’t do this anymore. Her voice sounds wrong. 

        She needed someone to pull her out of her panic, she needs someone. She can’t handle this all alone and she can’t handle people around her. She can’t do anything without the help of others yet she can’t handle asking for help. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. YOU SHOULDN’T TALK. YOU DON’T DESERVE TO TALK. Who was talking? It wasn’t her she knew that well enough. She knew her voice wouldn’t say anything like that yet it sounded like her own tongue. It couldn’t have been her, she can’t breathe, she can’t think, everything sounds wrong. Nothing was correct. She needed something she didn’t know was wrong to be fixed. She knew something was very wrong. She was too smart to not know. 

        A strong hand grabs her wrist as she thrashes and screams attempting to break out of the hold that she was put into. STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP GO AWAY. She freezes, thrashing coming to a halt as her body falls limp into the boy's arms. She was dizzy, her head spinning. Who was holding her? Was she even real? Spiraling into a fit of derealization, she falls to her knees as her vision fades to black and the world around her stops spinning. 

- If you could find a cure would you take it? Would you fix yourself? Would you do better than other people who deny help; deny treatment to aid them? Would you watch your life fall? If you don't accept, would your life shatter and break into a million pieces? My life did when it got taken away, I hope you're luckier. I give you my best wishes, I still love you. -