“Any history of abuse?” the old woman asked. She looked away from the computer and stared at me from the tope of her glasses.

“Yes.” I said softly avoiding her gaze.

“What kinds?” she said without any expression looking down at the keyboard ready to type a response.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said looking down at my broken hand.

“You won’t get out of here anytime soon if you aren’t willing to work with us.” She said half annoyed.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, answering a list of questions.
“When did the cutting start? How often do you smoke marijuana and drink? Have you ever attempted suicide before?”
I stared at the clock it was 2 a.m. and my high had worn off. I tried to force my closing eyes open. The jingle of keys startled me awake.

“You’ll be on the adolescence ward, follow me.” She said holding open the office door.

I slowly got off the chair and followed a lengthy distance behind her. It smelled like hospital around every corner. With a buzz and a click two large glass doors opened up revealing a huge nurses station and a lounge area.

“Here.” She handed me a folder for the psychiatric hospital wih name printed in the right-hand corner. “You can sleep and skip breakfast if you’d like.” She said and then walked away.

I looked in the mirror on the wall, and staring back at me were two sunken eyes. It wasn't me. I was already dead.