0.3

            "You don't have a choice, Piper," Mom sighs, folding my clothes into an old suitcase because I refuse to do it myself. "This is what Dr. Day says is best for you, and frankly, I have to agree with her."

            I want to yell, to scream, to smash my fists against my body. But I don't. I stand still, my arms at my sides. I feel numb.

            "Did you take your pill today?" she asked.

            "I don't want to go," I deadpan.

            With another sigh – something she has been doing often since the bridge incident – she sets another perfectly folded shirt and lays it on top of the others. Slowly, she turns to me. Her blue eyes are sad, disappointed. I wish it doesn't hurt as much as it does.

            "You're going," she states. "And you ignored my question. Did you take your pill?"

            I stay silent. I've never been one who's good at lying.

            "Piper."

            No response.

            Breathing in a heavy gust, she runs her hand along her forehead and shakes her head. For a moment she leans back against my bed like it's too much effort for her to stand.

            "You can't just not take your pills, Piper. Why won't you take them?"

            I move my gaze to the windowsill, the grey peeling paint gaining my attention.

            "They're going to help you," she says, as if it's a plea.

            My voice is barely a whisper. "Maybe I don't want to be helped."