Entry Twenty-Two
Broken Hand

Do you understand now? Do you get why I can't leave this place even though I so want to? They say I can get better but I'm not. I'm not getting any better. Things are just getting worse. I'm coming to accept that now. Why can't you?
    Bless Sarah, bless that goddamned woman for being so good to me when she brought my blue book over to my room and let me be free to write and think and be temporarily out of my confinement. She asked me what I did to my hands and I didn't realize it until a moment later. My right hand was bandaged up, broken. Shit, it'd been a few days and I hadn't even noticed it. Well, Blue Book, thankfully I'm left-handed!
    Zayn hasn't visited me lately. He's gone to a tamer ward now. I think he's gonna be transferred soon to a rehabilitation clinic. It seems he was suffering from manic depression and acute paranoia for a while. He tried to commit suicide a few times. No wonder he rubbed his arms and kept them covered up. His wrists are covered in scars and blood underneath those pretty little perfect sleeves of his. They're concealed and kept as his own little secret just the way he likes them. It's funny, because I always thought he did it to hide his muscles. No one tries to pick a fight with you if you show you're far weaker than them, and Zayn always held this teddy bear persona that made him more likeable than fightable.
    Next week Mohammed Zayn will leave and then I'll be alone again. I find I rather like it this way. I like being alone. Fuck Zayn. Fuck Marcus, Wendel, Sarah, everyone.
    Well, maybe not Sarah.
    I can see her again...that Doll. She's hovering outside my window, so calm and peaceful. She's trying to speak to me but her voice is so soft it's inaudible and I don't care. She's an angel and a demon and I am the monster she wanted to create. You wanted me to be this way, didn't you? Are you happy? I hope you are because I'm not. For a week I was strapped and unable to move my hands and I hate not being able to move my hands because then I can't write or eat or, for Christ's sake, even scratch the itch on my fucking nose!
    From here I can hear Jake shouting from the corridor. He's been in the room next to me and I can't stand his shouting all day. "Sure OK we feel like we're getting better because I like myself I LIKE MYSELF I LIKE MYSELF." Jesus H Christ, was I seriously that bad? Was I screaming and shouting like a madman?
    I really don't like Jake all that much.

--Alexander

Actually, I think I'm starting to really hate Jake now. He seems to think that yelling at me will help keep all of him in tact. Right. Whatever. As always, Beth (one of the staff) will come around to make sure he shuts up. I hope she does that soon. He's starting to give me a migraine and I hate that. I'm used to pain but I still hate it.

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