Micheal wasn’t in the ward for just a suicide attempt. No one would get sent there for just that. Not to say suicide wasn’t important but it wouldn’t get you sent for too long. Two weeks at max. No, after months no one knew why he was there and what was wrong with him. No one knew about his mental disorder, if you could even call it a disorder. Nothing was “wrong” with him yet everything was. He couldn’t stand the thought of even touching people before he went to the ward. Now, he’s got Abigail. He's got people to help; to keep him anchored.

        It wasn’t a mental disorder to say but it clearly was a burden to his everyday life. He couldn’t go anywhere without sanitizing every piece of shelf, every tile of wall, every door handle, anything. He couldn’t touch people. He couldn’t even stand the thought of being in close proximity with people. He wasn’t able to and he wasn’t as suicidal as people thought. He didn’t “attempt suicide” as people think. No, he drank bleach to kill all of the germs inside of him not to kill himself and he laughed at the thought when he heard. 

        He didn’t regret the feeling of almost dying. If anything he lived for the feeling of the bleach burning his insides out. He wasn’t against slicing his skin off once it was contaminated and he didn’t mind that people thought he was suicidal. It was a pretty good cover story to why he did the things he did. He wasn’t mentally ill but he was mentally ill. There was a large difference between him and everyone else in the ward. They all had a reason to be the way they are. He was just a screw up. A failure. 

        He didn’t mind. He lessened the importance of his life enough already. A little pain and a chance at death was all that was at stake. His world was already monochrome enough without the people that were a decade ago in his life. It wasn’t necessarily right but it wasn’t wrong either. Nothing was right nor wrong. Nothing ever made sense in his brain. It was normal. He laughs in pain? No one would know, he doesn't either. It didn't really matter.

        Why was he at the ward anyways? People asked him all the time and he’d just reply with a simple, “attempt to die” not even going to the extent of suicide. He wasn’t even going to sugar coat his words if they weren’t true. He didn’t attempt, he was just killing the germs in his broken body, killing the germs in his broken brain. He didn’t even want to share his story as he wasn’t struggling as badly as the others. At least that’s what he thought. 

        His brain was just as messed up as all of theirs, if not worse then some. His brain twisted the truth to the extent of almost dying as his hallucinations tell him he’s perfectly fine and nothing ever makes sense anymore. He never understood himself. He never understood people in general. They never made sense anyways. Neither did his thoughts though. 

        Micheal was in the ward for severe Mysophobia. Severe enough to attempt on his life not even for the act of killing himself. . Severe to an extent that he had almost died three times. Severe to an extent that he had almost killed himself three times. The first one was poisoning an open wound he made in his arm after someone touched him. The second was scrubbing off a large patch of skin with an alcohol wipe. The third was drinking bleach and pesticides. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that he had gotten tainted by the people surrounding him. 

        Micheal never knew why he did what he did. He never tried knowing. He just knew that contamination was wrong; was bad; was deadly. He knew it would be the death of him. He himself, his brain, his body. All would be the death of him. Because, “When you’re dead, no one gives a damn. When you’re dead, who would worry about you? No one would care if the one thing that ruins their life dies because NO ONE CARES. NO ONE EVER DOES. WHEN YOU DIE WHO WOULD CARE? NO ONE!” is all he ever hears. It’s all he ever knew. 

        He was everything and he was nothing. He’ll never be the same after his diagnosis. It was always the same. The same four lines. The same exact words. Like the gods up in the sky were mocking him. It’s always the same, it never changes. He always has to deal with the same pain, the same thoughts when it gets said to him. Every friendship. Every relationship. Every. Single. Damn. Time.

        Every lie was the same, it would start with an empty promise and it would end like a sand castle built up on lies in which then it would crumble and what is left is not usable and trash. No one likes trash, no one likes lies and the empty promises never get filled. They just fill a gaping hole with glass -- precious hope and dreams; glass is just changed sand though. It all goes together; a cycle of need and fear that builds and builds up. It always does. 

        Glass, it can cut you and destroy everything you think you have. It can kill. It can destroy. But it can give life and protect. It's like lies. Maybe that's why young children build sand castles. They know the truth behind the words -- sand and how when you sugarcoat lies -- glass it can be for better or for worse. It can heal, nourish and love or it can hurt, kill and destroy. There may be no in between. Life is hard. Everyone in the ward could tell you that. Anyone alive that is. Don't ask Angelica Chase. She died far too long ago. One month ago.