Fifteen

                                    

                                          
TW: swearing
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Y/n
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This chapter and probably the next one or two will be letters Y/n is writing to Dream from her facility. 
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*one week later*
Dear Clay,
I don't even know why I'm bothering to write you but they allowed me to have a sharpened pencil so what else am I supposed to do? I can't draw, I have no family and no friends and for some reason my mind keeps coming back to you. 
I hate you.
I mean that with every bone in my body, from the very bottom of my heart. When I get out of this place, if that ever happens, we're over. You promised me you wouldn't send me away and now I'm on 24/7 watch. Imagine not even being able to shower alone. I feel like an animal locked in a cage completely helpless. 
Tomorrow I start therapy, they force all of us to either sit in a circle or, if we're 'violent', we have one on one. Guess which I am? If you guessed one on one you'd be correct. I'm not allowed to have a roommate so it's just me and these four walls. If you were here you'd tell me going to therapy is a good thing and I should let it all out but I wouldn't listen, because I hate you. 
I feel fucking psychotic. 
Last night I accidentally reopened the cuts on my right arm, I must have scratched it in my sleep. They considered it a suicide attempt and had a guard stand in my room the whole night. I haven't slept in 33 hours because of that. 
On top of that every time I close my eyes I feel like I'm back in that apartment, unable to leave, being told what to do and when to do it. This place reminds me of Mark and at this point I think I hate you more than I hate him. He can't tell me what to do anymore, he's dead. But you? You sent me here, against my will. 
I overheard a woman talking about missing her kids, she has a four month old baby waiting for her at home. Her husband thought she was going crazy when all she was experiencing was postpartum depression. Would that have happened to me? Is that what this is? Am I just a mother grieving the loss of her baby? 
Sometimes I sit and think about how tiny Dakotas hands were and how soft his skin was. He would have been such a sweet boy. I would have shown him how to love, how to live freely and to be kind to the world. 
Clay, if you're reading this right now, don't wait for me. Move on with your life and find someone who isn't as fucked up as I am. Someone who loves you, because I think I'm all out of love. I have no more to give. 
Truly not yours,
Y/n.
"All done?" The guard asked, gesturing down to my note.
"Yeah," I folded the paper into thirds and handed it to him, "Are you going to mail it? I put an address at the bottom."
"Do you want us to?" He asked.
"Yes, please." I responded confidently. I needed Clay to know how I was feeling, the raw emotions running through my veins.
"Give me the pencil back. I know it's behind your back." The guard held his hand out yet again and I furrowed my brows, giving him a confused look. 
"I gave the pencil back to you." I lied, putting on my best innocent act I possibly could. I didn't want the pencil to hurt myself. I wanted the pencil because I needed something here to be mine. This was my pencil, it even had my teeth marks indented on the wood from chewing on it while I focused. 
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Mrs. L/n," I sat and stared at him as if I was clueless, "Three, two—"
"Okay, my fucking god. It's a pencil!" I exclaimed, reaching behind me and laying the pencil aggressively into his opened hand.