It’s been months since I’ve seen him. I’m too stupid to count the days. Even if I did, it would probably depress me more, anyway. Maybe he was never real in the first place. Maybe I was (am?) schizophrenic. 

Eventually, I start looking again. In my room, in the yard, in the cafeteria, where I am now. Sometimes I don’t even catch myself doing it. Calling for someone whose name I don’t know, who’s not even there anymore. The boy with the sly eyes, with the messy hair, with that look that says “I get you” and “I won’t judge you”, even if he looks a little… unhinged, for lack of a better word.

I really am going crazy.

My spiraling thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a plastic knife hitting the wall beside my ear, followed by a voice that has never addressed me before. Thankfully. But I guess it’s my turn.

“Fuck, I missed.”

I spin around quickly, trying to orient myself again. Behind me is the most well-known and poorly avoided patient in the facility. His name is Jackie Martin- which seemed a little girly the first time I heard it- but now it occurs to me that his name is the last thing I should be worrying about. 

He approaches stiffly, clearly agitated. “Keep your mouth shut, crazy bitch,” he hisses.

I step back towards the wall, trying to keep away from him. Stupid decision, really. Now there’s nowhere to run.

“Do you hear me?” He snarls, standing right in front of me now. I shrink back further, my back up against the wall. 

I nod. I’m not about to get in a pointless fight just because this guy is acting like he owns the world. I’m not due for an ass-beating quite yet.

He stops and just stands there a moment, and I’m worried he’s debating kicking my ass anyway. He’s more of an “equal right, equal fights” kind of guy, so there won’t be any mercy involved. After another minute, he huffs and storms away.

What the hell? Who does he think he is? Throwing a knife at me… 

I look down at the knife to see that there’s a piece of paper impaled on it. I pick it up, starting to realize that I completely misjudged this situation. My eyes scan the paper. “They’ll never let you out of here like that. Learn to shut up and act normal if you ever want to leave.” I furrow my brows. What’s this about? Why does he care if I get out or not? I pocket the note and try to forget about it. Even if I did stop acting “crazy”, they can’t let me out- my parents just left me here. Besides, I’ll be eighteen in a year. I can stick it out that long. 

It’s not a fun year. Virtually alone in a mental hospital… anyone would start to believe they were crazy. 

I don’t think he ever really existed. 

On my eighteenth birthday, I’m allowed out. There’s a long legal process that I zone out for, and then twenty thousand papers to sign, but eventually I’m permitted exit from this hell.

I don’t reach out to my parents. I go straight to the bank and check my existing account, then talk with one of the clerks about transferring all the money to a new adult account. When we check the balance, there’s a substantially larger amount in it than there was before. That’s too much to be interest… It’s probably my college fund. My parents must’ve transferred all the money into my account so they wouldn’t have to talk to me about it. I don’t know whether to be grateful or pissed off. 

Once that’s all over and done with, I set my sights on housing. I need an apartment- preferably alone. For now, I’ll have to stay in a motel or something until I get everything sorted out. This new adult stuff is bullshit.

I throw my bag down on the bed of the motel room I’m staying in. I’m exhausted, but I still need to look for a job. Or… write a resume in the first place. Being stuck in a mental facility really fucks your life up. I should’ve had half this shit done when I was seventeen. 

I lay back and close my eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. My lungs are assaulted with musty motel air, and I cough. I feel terrible. How do I deserve any of this? 

I resolve to throw myself a pity party for a few minutes, crying into my pillow, tossing and turning.

I sit up and wipe my eyes. Something shimmers in my peripheral vision and I snap my eyes open completely, whipping my head over to look. Nothing.

“...I am going crazy. I’m totally fucking crazy…” 

I take another deep breath, bury my head in my pillow, and let out a frustrated scream. 

How am I supposed to fix all this…?