A/N: Trigger warnings include hints of drug abuse, mental breakdowns, and depression. Reader discretion is advised.

***********

Wendell's POV

"So, how do you feel after spending time in isolation?" Dr. Sellers asked me after she and I cleared our respective lunches and began with my private therapy session. It had been only minutes since I was released from the health-imposed isolation unit and I was still reeling. And yet, I was here at the lunch hour with Sellers and my respective watchdogs getting ready to talk things out. "You gave Logan and Dr. St. Pierre a nasty fright with your vomiting and fainting episode."

"I know," I breathed. "I was hoping that I wouldn't have to face down my withdrawal like that, but it couldn't be helped. I suppose."

"Some things aren't meant to be avoided, the effects of withdrawal included," Dr. St. Pierre responded. "But really, Wendell. How are you doing right now?"

I took a deep breath. "Honestly? I can't say since I'm reeling from being released from isolation," I began. "I guess you can say that I'm all but drained out of my emotions save the ones like devoid, tired, and just downright..."

"Alone?" Logan suggested.

I nodded. "You know of my inner saboteur, right? Well, he's the one who mainly dictated how I should react or giving me ways to read people for filth when I get pushed to my limits. Anyway, it turns out that I kind of saw him- like I was hallucinating. He was dressed in the same all-white flannels like I was during isolation, yet his sharp-tongued wit never evaded him. And he was very unhappy to see me as I am right now."

"You mean that he's wanting you to put up a fight with all of us," Dr. Sellers deduced. "He wanted you to take the low road and fight people off, is that correct?"

I nodded. "And when he saw that I didn't want to play his games anymore, he decided to cut me loose," I replied. "He even warned me that he wouldn't be around me when everything would begin to blow up in front of me and he just took off.

"I should have felt overjoyed that he decided to take off and leave me alone. That way, I could focus on getting better and start to improve my life. Instead, all I can feel right now is a sense of emptiness that seemed to mock me. That's when I began to sing 'Decode' by Paramore."

Dr. St. Pierre gave me a comforting grin. "I heard about that," he told me. "Logan said that you were blessed with some vocal pipes. I even stumbled on you singing since all the isolation units have cameras to watch students deal with their emotions or see if they were planning something stupid."

That's a load off my mind, if not an intrusion of my privacy. Oh well, reap what you sow and all that jazz.

"He's pretty good," Logan piped up. "I even told him that I want to hear him sing again should the moment arise. And I hope you'll keep your promise, Wendell."

"I will," I nodded. "I mean, it might take me a while to collect my mental and emotional bearings. But I might have a bit of a song to share."

"Good," Dr. Sellers said. "Now, about your scare with addiction to antidepressants. Can you tell me what it was like going through the withdrawal? Take a moment to think about it and describe it in your own words."

I just sat back and began to "blow bubbles," letting myself try and remember that fateful night of the withdrawal symptoms. And then I remembered that I recorded the narrative and the poetic versions in my journal on the first night of my isolation. I went to my backpack and pulled out my trusted journal, handing it to the therapist. "Read the first few pages," I said. "I'll tell you while you read."

"By all means," Logan said.

I took a deep breath. "On that night, it was like I was coming out of a high that I wanted to never end like I was on an endless trip with PCP and LSD and things were feeling like I was lost in a giddy masquerade party full of drugs, wine, and lots of painkillers to share- Oxycontin, Prozac, Vicodin, Xanax- the usual stuff," I began. "And just when it seemed like the party was at its highest peak... everything started to crash down on me with my family laughing at me from the sidelines while the music began to die away. I have ripped away from the faceless circle of masks and feathers and left to be exposed and ridiculed by everyone who followed the laws of my ex-father... even Ms. Whitfield and my late grandparents."

"So in that state of mind, you felt like you were being ripped away from the party scene just to be humiliated," Dr. Sellers deduced. "And your grandparents and counselor joined in the mocking?"

I slowly nodded. "It felt like... I was being drowned and forgotten all in one go," I said sadly. "At times, I thought I was back in kindergarten and I was begging, 'Please, Daddy, don't hate me. I'll be better and do what you want. I promise' over and over again. And then, I heard gunshots- the loud ones that would signal the end of my life. The next thing I realized, I was in a coffin lying in an open grave with everyone laughing and celebrating my demise- defecating and urinating on me while I was screaming to be free before they buried me alive without a trace of regret in their eyes. And that's when I raced to the toilet to vomit."

"Oh, wow," Dr. Sellers said, handing me the journal. "That's pretty descriptive, your withdrawal hallucinations, Wendell. And I liked the poem that you wrote on the side. You ought to share that with Dr. Valenzia and the others at group therapy later this afternoon."

"You think so?" I asked. "I mean, I know that I'm far from being Maya Angelou or Nikki Giovanni, but I'm not sure if I can be ready to share it with everyone."

"Well, how can you know if you don't try?" Dr. St. Pierre asked me. "And you know that Logan and I will be there, so there's no excuse to hide."

"That's true," I conceded. "All right, then. I'll do it. For my sake and to finally let another step in the right direction be sealed in my progress."

"That's the spirit," Dr. Sellers cheered. "And next time, I want you to talk with me about your relationships with your grandparents and Ms. Whitfield. I want you to tell me all about them and what you see in them, okay?"

I nodded. "I have nothing to say but nice things about them," I replied. "But I still have one thing that made me sad and betrayed."

"Well, we can work together," Dr. Sellers told me. "And in the next session, draw for me something that symbolizes them- an everyday object or a specific trinket that you have."

"Of course," I said just as the bell rang. "Well, it's off to do my homework and finish up catching up on my missed work. See you tomorrow, Doc."

******************

Doctor, doctor. Please give me relief.

The venomous voices in my head threatening to take me down in a whirlwind of insanity,

making me dance to the hallucinogenic beats of depravity and mockery.

I need uppers, downers, stallers, and sedatives to silence the noise filling my mind-

something to deaden the winds of a psychotic hurricane that's been left in my wake.

I try to do right by the laws of the Pharisees and the Sadducees, but the bar's keep on getting higher and higher.

I say the right words, but they end up being hollow and vain.

Tell me, dear doctor, can you ever decode the messages of the heart?

Can you ever decrypt what lies in the masks of the soul?

And then you ask me while you dry a tear in my eye:

"How many ships in the desert lie in wait by the cedars of Arabia?"

Doctor, doctor. Please, I am on my knees as I am on the edge of total destruction-

Spare me the chaotic thunderstorm that is my insanity with a pill from your pantry.

Give me a little bit of death's dust to make me walk without life and talk without zest.

Because I feel like I am at the end of my rope right now and I want to end it all.

*****************

I took in the smattering of applause, bowing low slightly as I saw Dr. Valenzia wipe away a stray tear. "That's just the poetic part of my feelings with dealing with the withdrawals," I explained. "The rest of what I wrote in isolation is in my journal if you want to-"

"No need," the blonde therapist said. "That's pretty good, young man. I never knew that you wrote poetry. And I'm surprised that you decided to use your journal to record it down."

"I figured as much since I didn't want to use my other notebooks in case I lose it," I replied. "And thank you, ma'am. I was afraid that no one would like it."

"We like it a lot," Victor told me as he sat on my right and his brother took the left. "Very soulfully written, if you ask me."

Pablo nodded, silently patting me on the back.

The rest of the group therapy made way for a Q&A session from all angles, asking me what it was like and most of everyone relating to me their similar experiences. I often heard that some kids had wished they could properly tell me what they felt like when they were going through the same thing. And all too soon, it was time for lunch and everyone wanted to talk some more about me.

Well, everyone except for Braeden who was surprisingly transferred to this group for some reason. And though my attention was on a few freshmen, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was planning something against me- like he had marked me for death. "Pablo?" I turned my attention to the stoic and serious Guerro twin. "Can you accompany me to dinner?"

"Sure, man. Why?"

I felt Braeden's cold stare shake all in my nerves. "I feel like I'm being marked for death by Braeden," I admitted. "It's like he's planning something serious and I don't like it. I'm probably overthinking it, but-"

"I'll tell Logan," he promised me. "His uncle, too. If Braeden's staring you down as if you were next on his list, then it means that you already are on his list. And if I know better, he's planning something nasty. But I'll protect you, man."

'Thank you," I breathed as I felt the stares of Braden and his goons dissipate as we left the conference room and headed for the dining hall.

Quite a poem, am I right?

Anyway, the poem mentioned above pertains to people struggling with depression, anxiety, or fighting drug abuse who have to find other ways other than prescription pills to cope. Sometimes, they are at the end of their rope and are ready to end it all. And others are constantly fighting to keep up appearances and not let their masquerade be revealed. I feel like this most time and have to remember what my mother and parents taught me.

If you are struggling with thoughts of depression or suicide or know someone who is; please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-275-TALK (8255) or dial 988 so you can talk to someone. Please, people, remember that you don't have to go through your pain alone. Talk to someone whom you can trust.

As for Wendell, he could use a break from his therapy. He'll get some good old-fashioned loving with Logan in the next chapter before the boys talk about their nights and where they stand as more than roommates. And unfortunately, Braden has a message for Wendell. All that and more is coming up, so don't miss out.

Vote.
Comment.
Share.
Follow.
Add.
FAN!