It had been a full week since Colorado Mental Health Institute had accepted a new victim in the shape of Firkle Ablah. The boy was quiet, almost mousy if it weren’t for the glare permanently placed in his icy blue eyes. The holes punched into his upper lip and his left eyebrow were bare of their usual piercings, and the thirteen year old found himself itching for a cigarette so bad he would have taken one smuggled in in ways he didn’t want to think about.
Since his ‘episode’, as they called it, he’d been coerced into eating three meals a day, and it lead to his mood being even more sour. He wasn’t used to so much food in a day, not with parents like he had, and as he found his way to a chair in the main hub of the place, pulling up his sock-clad feet and hugging his knees, he scowled. There was supposed to be a new girl, Wendy, whose name was scrawled up on the white board. Lucky bitch got her own room, while he had to share with Jeremy, who was possibly the smelliest human being he’d ever met.
If they hadn’t confiscated all writing utensils from him for being violent towards others as well as himself, then he would have stabbed the guy in his sleep. Instead, he was left to grit his jaw and hope that he could stare someone down long enough to watch their head explode from the intensity of his gaze. So far, it hadn’t worked, but it wasn’t even two o’clock, yet.
Head jerking to the side when the impassable doors opened to let in the newest patient, the goth blinked his eyes a few times as if he knew they were lying. He knew this girl. Or, at least, he knew of her, and that made her far more a friend than any of these other fruitcakes. Of course, she’d need to check in first, before he could talk to her, get her stuff figured out, her shoes taken away, her rights stripped of her. So far, he’d been at this crap they handed out in a folder for the entire week he was here, and they still wouldn’t give him his collection of H.P. Lovecraft, claiming it was too ‘scary’ for a kid his age.
One nurse had had the gall to say that it was too advanced. That had ended in solitary for Firkle and a bleeding hand for the jackass that thought he wasn’t smart enough to handle himself around his Old God.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he sucked in a deep breath, before rising from his nearly owl-like seating in the corner. On his feet, dressed in black, silky pyjama bottoms and a band t-shirt that was a few sizes too big, he finally made his way to the girl and quietly looked around. The nurses were all in a tizzy over this, that and the other thing, so he had a moment to speak.
“Hey, uh. Wendy, right?” Rubbing one bandaged arm, he picked absently at his wristband, “Surprised to see a familiar face.” This wasn’t working. He wasn’t used to talking to someone outside of his usual friend group…