All hospitals smell the same. They smell too clean. Too much like disinfectants. No matter what, I would never get the smell of hospitals out of my head. I knew when I walked into the mental wing yesterday, this would be my home for the next couple of years.

After the accident, things got bad. I was so angry. I lost any memories I had of my childhood. I couldn’t remember any of my first anythings. I would never have any stories to tell my kids, if I ever had them. Why couldn’t I just remember them? Why did the stupid vase have to fall on my head and knock every single precious memory? Why me? It wasn’t fair. Goddamn Jacob. And my parents wouldn’t even press charges against him! He ruined my life and they wouldn’t even do anything to rectify it. 

I didn’t know who I was. I will probably never figure it out. That’s when I stopped eating. What did it matter? If I didn’t know who I was, why exist? That’s when I started cutting. I could create my own memories. Maybe they would hurt. Maybe they would cause pain. But I wanted to remember something. I wanted to feel something. The anorexia and self harm would help me with that. 

No one noticed, especially at school. All my friends had left me. They didn’t want to talk to me and deal with me anymore. I stopped eating lunch at school, but I was sitting by myself anyway. It was the winter, so the cuts on my arms were never visible. No one knew. I wasn’t crying out for help. I wasn’t planning on killing myself. I still had the belief that I wanted to die leaving some kind of impression. If I couldn’t remember myself, how could I expect anyone else to?

Mom finally noticed. It might have been the scratches on my face. I had gotten so frustrated with my reflection one night that I literally clawed my face. Not pretty. She spoke with Dad. And they decided I needed to go to this mental hospital. I went silently. There was no point in arguing. It wasn’t like the hospital was going to help me anyway. I was a lost cause, as far as I was concerned. 

Walking along the squeaky clean white tiles, I sighed. My parents had dropped me off downstairs. I checked in with the receptionist and she made me hand over a bunch of my possessions. I headed for the common area, being led by an older nurse with hair that almost looked blue. I didn’t want to be here. I spied a free chair in the corner of the room and sat down in it. Who knew there would be so many teenagers in a mental hospital? I guess we were all fucked up in our own special ways. 

I stayed there for most of my first day. I didn’t talk to anyone and no one talked to me. I noticed everything - the different quirks everyone had, the conditions that were so blatantly present. In the evening, they served us dinner. I didn’t eat and since it was only my first day, no one forced me. After, they sent us all to our rooms. The old nurse took me to my room. That’s when I met her. A beautiful blonde, who seemed shy and who’s eyes were gateways to some kind of unimaginable sadness. We introduced ourselves. It was the first word I had spoken all day. 

Her name was Almeria. We spent the whole night talking after the nurse left us. She was so interesting. She didn’t ask me any questions about why I had ended up there. And I returned the favor. We got to know each other. I shared whatever I could with her. As the night grew later, I eventually ended up opening up to her and explained why I was there. I didn’t expect her to do the same. I was young and an open book. Quite frankly, I was a pain in the ass. I felt closer to her than I had ever felt to anyone of my former friends. She got me. She didn’t ask me any questions, satisfied with the information I had given her willingly.

It was the start of a lasting friendship. I could tell that. Maybe this hospital would be the best thing that had happened to me in a long time.