I wake up in a hospital. A white ceiling above me and an IV at my side. I reached to touch my face only to realize my arms were restrained by two leather cuffs. My mouth feels dry and I feel weird, like I'm not all here. I glance around the room taking in my surroundings when i feel a stab of pain at my side. Then it all comes flooding back to me. Although I still can't remember who's arms where around my neck I can only piece together that someone knocked me out due to my fit. I'm assuming it was a teacher. I'm to drugged to really care about it at this point, although on a regular biases I would've freaked at the touch of a stranger.

A young woman came in with a clip board in her hand. She introduced her self as Kim and said she would be taking care of me today.

"So Alister, would you like to tell me what happened?" She asked clicking her pen.

I thought about how the blood wouldn't stop, how I dug my fingers into my side in hopes of getting rid of the blood that kept pouring out and the despair when only more of it came, the overwhelming panic, my stained shirt, Tommy and the blade. Tommy.

" I don't remember." I lied.

She frowned and wrote something down.

" So you don't remember anything at all? School? Lunch? What happened at lunch? surely you must remember something."

" I remember walking down the hall way and then I woke up here. That's all."

She continued to write.

" Well Alister, judging by the witnesses looks like you gave yourself that wound. Any reason as to why you might do that?" She pressed on.

" Witnesses?" I asked

" Yes a young boy in a muscle shirt claims he found you screaming and thrashing against some lockers frantically scratch at your side, he then says he approached you and noticed a significant amount of blood, he attempted to calm you down but when you reacted violently he got you in a head lock and knocked you out. He got help and that's how you ended up here. Are you certain you don't remember anything?"

" No I'm sorry."

Muscle shirt? Could it have been Justin? Nah there are plenty of guys who wear muscle shirts.

" I'm just going to have to ask you a few more questions, then we can call your parents and you can go home. The wound wasn't to deep a few stitches did it. We don't have to keep you over night." She wrote something down again. " Have you ever had depression?"

" Yes m'am."

"How severe? Did you take anything for it?"

" Doctors said it was severe and prescribed selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, I came off them a year ago."

"Do you take anything else?"

" Zoloft and Anti-depressants"

" Have you ever tried to physically harm yourself before?"

" Yes m'am, I loose control during my panic attacks." I felt the embarrassment and heat rose to my face.

" Have you ever tried to kill yourself?'

" No M'am"

" Alright well that's everything for today. Your parents will be here soon."

Laying there on that bed, with my hands cuffed to the sides. I wanted to scream, why did I have to be such a bother? Was it too much to ask to be normal? How I envied those kids who could get through the day without timing their actions perfectly, without eating the same thing everyday, without taking so many pills and being a danger to them selves. They had friends, they could hang around all day without a care in the world. They could wake up at anytime do whatever they wanted during the day and come home at a different hour every night. What I would give to do that. I felt so ashamed of my self.

When my mother and sister came in I couldn't even look them in the eye. My mothers pretty face with pale skin once smooth, over time was littered with light wrinkles, the once light brown hair that hung in curls swept over her right shoulder, still worn the same but with greys slowly invading around them, the same emerald eyes that reflected back at me when I saw my reflection, stained her face with tears.

My eight year old sister, looking up at me with worry. Nervously clutching her teddy bear. She took after my dad, with her dirty blonde hair that just barely touched her shoulders and her dark brown eyes that wondered around the room. So small and fragile, I wish I was strong enough to protect her and be that person she looks up to. She must be so embarrassed to call me her brother.

I couldn't bare to look at either of them.

On the drive home neither of them spoke. Every now and then mother would wipe a tear away but not a word was spoken.

Once I was home I took my meds and some pain killers then went upstairs to lay down for a while. At eight o'clock father came home. I think he was drunk again because mother and him started yelling at each other. I didn't want to listen so I drowned out his ugly shouts and plugged in my iPod. My favourite Canon in D began to play. I only ever listened to classical, the beautiful sound of the instruments and how they could demonstrate so much emotion fascinated me to no end.

It's a painful reality that has taken me all these years to accept: being different, being broken. I used to wonder: if it's bad to break things, is it bad to be broken too?

His voice broke through my music like a needle through a balloon. Every shout pierced my thoughts and send painful after shocks. I could hear my sister crying in the room next door. I wanted badly to comfort her but I knew that if I were to set foot outside my room his attention would turn to us and the last thing I wanted was for him send his painful blows in my sisters way.

Shout after shout echoed through the house shaking the rooms and rattling the doors, a hatred that demanded to be let in. I wouldn't let it. I would fight it to my last breath I would not let his hatred make me a monster.

A horrifying crash broke through my music.

It followed by more crashing and the sound of glass breaking.

I ripped out my earphones to listen to what was going on.

There was silence. Canon in d continued to play.

There was the sound of my mother weeping.

The ground trembling sound of his foot steps making his way up the stairs.

Mozart's requiem began to play.

His foot steps grew closer like lightning striking the ground. He stopped in front of my door.

I don't know what was worse the heavy dreary silence of holding my breath waiting for something to happen or the paralyzing knocks he pounded on my door afterwards that sounded like gunshots.

I gingerly sat up.

The hatred I would not let in burst through my door. Face red with rage and influence of alcohol.

Like an angry tornado he stormed past me ripping everything of my shelves I had so neatly placed. He ripped the covers of my bed. The one I had made twice times this morning. He threw my books across the room and pulled my clothing out of their drawers. The same clothing I made sure to iron every week and fold three times before putting away. The pressure in my chest was unbearable.

Mozart's requiem played in the background.

The world feels like it's falling down and crushing me under it's thick fingers.

" Because of your damn problem you've cost us thousands in medical expenses today!" He shouted his words inches away from my face. " Why can't you just grow up?! Look at you! you're no man, you're just a pathetic little boy I'm forced to feed and cloth! Do us a favour and disappear!"

"Does this upset you?" He taunted as he knocked over another book shelf.

I stayed silent . Motionless.

"ANSWER ME!"

I nodded.

" You make me sick." He storms out slamming the door behind him. He stomps towards my sisters room.

My heart skips a beat and I hold my breath.

He passes it and makes his way down stairs.

Mozart's requiem comes to an end.

I exhale and my heart starts again.

I reach for a glass of water and gulp it down. Soon enough I am rocking in the foetal position, trying to think of happy things. Eventually, slowly, my heart rate decreases and I am able to breathe deeply. One more time my heart skips a beat but I manage not to freak out.

Thirty five breaths later I get up and look around.

I quickly set my self to work.

All the book shelves must align perfectly. The books must go in order from tallest to shortest. My shirts must be ordered my color. long sleeves with long sleeves and t-shirts with t-shirts. Exactly seven in each row. My posters must hang at ten centimetres from the ceiling and twenty apart. no more no less. Each item of clothing needs to be rewashed , re ironed and folded three times before going back in my drawer. My bed sheets must also be washed and bed made three times. My perfect little bubble had been destroyed. My safe haven was in ruins. i had to fix it. I JUST HAD TO. IT HAD TO BE PERFECT AGAIN.

It's three fifty five in the morning as I'm sitting here writing. I finally finished my room. The ache in my side is back. I'm waiting for it to be four so i can go to sleep. I'm going to check the room one final time. Everything has to perfect.

This is me checking out.

This is me checking out.

This is me checking out.

Alister.