Entry Nineteen
He Laughed

Some good news: I actually had a conversation with Marcus that didn't end with me ripping his head off.
    Actually, we've never had a confrontation in which I had ripped his head off, but you get what I mean, right? As in, symbolically? Yeah, that's it. I've dreamt up more than enough scenarios in which I had done such things. O how Marcus would've hated to know this, too. I let him think sometimes that I have actual respect for the fool. Let him kid himself. Let him. How he would've hated me then just knowing such things that he wished I had truly forgotten. You won't tell him, will you, Blue Book?
    In any case, Marcus agreed with the staff to reduce some of my medication. It's good, because for a while I thought I was starting to get addicted on some of it. I get easily addicted to things, you see. Marcus is starting to realize this now.
    He told me to start calling him Director or some shit like that. Just so you know, I usually call him Asshole, Bastard, Motherfucker (he gets a kick out of that one)...the list goes on.
    To which I politely told him to go fuck himself.
    He just laughed. For the first time I don't think he faked it.

Had another "jam session" with Wendel. I had a little incident with the group sessions so he decided to have our talks in private, and that I'm grateful for. I don't particularly care to open myself up to a bunch of strangers--none of them in particular are listening anyway, just waiting for their turn. I don't blame them. We're all selfish. Isn't that how humans do things?
    Wendel seemed to be understanding of my situation. Between the nightmares, my mental state, and the drugs, he thought it was a good idea to reduce the dosage until either apparent improvement or degeneration is made known. I think it's bullshit, though. There ain't any kind of cure for bad dreams, so the next time he asks I think I'm just going to tell him that the nightmares have stopped occurring. That'll be easier on all of us.
    Granted, I don't wake up with any more scars next time. I'm sick of seeing my own blood.

I've heard them talking. People are starting to think all the scars on my body are self-inflicted. What'd they know? They don't know me. On occasion they've asked. I lie to them. I tell them I can't remember, so I guess all the assumptions are partially my own fault. Can't say I blame them--there're more than enough mutilators in this ward to go around.
    Thing is, I do remember what happened to me. I remember it very well. It's just that it's easier to pretend. Wouldn't you agree?
 
    I moved to a better location where no one's reading over my shoulder. In case if you were wondering (which is doubtful), I'd been in the library. Zayn came by asking me how I was doing and I said fine, then he asked about my book so I wanted to leave. Here I am. It's stupid, because right when I did, I realized I have nothing I really want to tell you about.
    I feel like my scars are taunting me again. They're throbbing and giving me another migraine. Maybe I should ask Sarah if she could give me some pain blockers.
    ...nah.

--Alexander

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