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“Good plan. Leave me with the fucking crazy men. Real smart.”
They matched my aesthetic. Yes, my aesthetic was mental illness; no, I didn’t want to talk about it.
I’d been fine when I first got back to the room, if you defined fine as a state of being in perpetual agony and manically hallucinating.
Instead of applauding my impressive drawing skills, Dr. Palmer had asked me if I was trying to be institutionalized. I missed her energy.
Your personality is messy, and I don’t see it improving.”
A little forehead blood would really round out the “I am mentally crumbling” vibe. But I didn’t. It seemed like too much work.
They wanted me to act righteously. Well then, I was going to be the best person there ever was. Maybe. Eh, honestly. Probably not.
Shockingly, pushing on the contusions while I prayed for death didn’t help with pain management.
People always said that moderation was the key to a happy life. Although, who were these supposed happy people? They sounded fake.
Luka snarled, “Fuck yourself.” Someone was clearly not open to self-improvement. Sad. In
