Here I am in a hospital watching snow fall out my tiny window in my empty room. There isn't a single get well card or anything and no one, not even my mother bothered to call me to see if I'm ok. The only person I have to talk to is this annoying doctor who keeps asking me if I'm ready to describe why I'm so afraid of knives and men. Like I want to describe my abusive ex-boyfriend to some stupid resident doctor. I'm not even important enough to get a real doctor. I heard him and some other residents gossiping about some crazy person who was found clutching a knife in an apartment building during a search warrant. They're treating the afflicted police officer somewhere down the hall. All I know is that my doctor told me my crappy college insurance will only pay for me to be here for two more days before I'll be sent to the mental hospital near Dreamwood for "further testing and evaluation." I guess I better talk to the pompous idiot of a doctor to convince him I DO NOT need to be put in a mental hospital.
Monday, January 19, 2015
3. Apartment 217
I woke up screaming, unable to shake the looming image of Pablo from my mind and tried to move but found myself restricted by tubes. Frick, I promised not to say his name ever again, it's hard when every morning I wake up and see the scar on my chest from that night. So that brings me to last night: I was about to take the stairs up to my apartment and was halfway down the hallway when I saw a dark figure in the shadows of the stairs clutching what appeared to be a knife. I must have fainted, because the last thing I remember is walking by an advertisement for some speed dating thing. I remember thinking I'd force myself to put on a little makeup and straighten my hair and go, but I guess that plan's out the window.