The Crazy Ones

Finlay

Nametags with the all too cheery phrase;

Hello, My Name Is...

Followed by a name that nobody cares to know. Only the people that already knew who you actually were from the start should or would, of course, already know your name.

I get the point of how it is horribly annoying and tiring to be saying, “Hi, my name is...” over and over as an introduction to future acquaintances, but let’s be honest here, you’ll be doing it anyway, if you do it at all, for that matter.

I on the other hand, do not associate myself with people like them anyway.

I’m just Finlay, not somebody that is anybody at all.

I don’t find this very necessary either, we’ll all know each other at some point anyway... Or not, either way, it’s not important. We’ll all leave here either dead or alive at some point in the near future.

I don’t want to be here. I am certainly not as crazy or ill as most of the people around me were. There was some girl with her arms missing chunks of skin, all healed or bandaged to not get the fresh ones infected, I couldn’t tell if they were cuts or something else. I wonder what the hell she was using to harm herself?

There’s another kid, hands trembling as he scratched at his arms compulsively, he has massive chunks of hair ripped from his head. Looking into his eyes I could tell he was loony. He held his mouth open, making some weird sounds. It’s creepy.

Then, there’s the girl with at least six names written on the tag, she’s having a full on conversation, all with herself and from what I could tell, there were, Alexa, Trent and Jonas all talking to each other… Wow.

Another kid is twitching and staring at me, he scares me and I feel like he can read my mind so I’m not going to go much into detail with him.

Then there’s the kid sat in the corner jerking off so hard that I kind of expected his dick to come clean off in his hands as he stares heavily into the floor. I actually think that if he stares at it long enough, the weight of his violent glare, will cause the floor to cave in.

There’s also a few people here like me, just mostly mental illness, like, depression, bipolar disorder, tourette’s, and a few others like that. Also, the group had a few ill kids, cancer patients, severe head injury, physical therapy kids, lots of things like that.

I didn’t belong, even with people more like me than anybody in the ‘real world’, I still didn’t seem to fit in.

I was the kid with weird clothes and too-bright, dyed hair, and I just, wasn’t like any of these people.

I was the one who thought it would be good to finally go get help but now I was thinking of backing out. Anorexia and depression are both reasons for this, I did need help and my mother and brother were so helpful with getting me into the best hospital in all of America, which just so happened to be in New Jersey, not far from home. My family was so happy when I finally came to them and told them about how I wanted this.

I regret it already.

And then, a kid with jet-black, shoulder-length hair waltz’s into the room, dressed in some weird clothes that oddly enough, looked normal on him. His name tag was placed on upside down and it read ‘Nobody You Fuck’. I grin at it even though he reminded me too much of a 13 year old on Tumblr that smokes cigarettes out of their nose for the ‘aesthetic’ of it or whatever.

He’s charming compared to the rest of the crazies in here.

“You know, when you write your name as ’the hesitant alien boy’, that makes them think you’re crazier than you’re letting on.” The jet-black locks taps his finger on the red and white tag on my jacket. He is impossibly short.

“You know, when you write ’Nobody, You Fuck’ on your name tag that makes many people think you’re both insane and rude.” I reply, looking down at the cocky stranger who stares right back.

“At least they’re thinking the truth.” He replies, too smoothly spoken and calm.

“Oh really? Are you here for the same reason as the girl with like six names on her tag or the one that has missing chunks of hair?” I question, “Oh, what about the one staring a hole into my head?” I speak with a dull tone.

“Hmm, none.” He shakes his head, “More like the kid that lights fire to things for fun, enjoys getting into fights and fighting with his bruised and bloodied knuckles, likes the bitter taste of his own copper-like blood, has covered up scares all over his body, of which, he can’t for the life of him, remember whether they were self-inflicted or not and most-definitely, loves to kiss pretty boys with smooth lips and soft skin, you know, the kind that gives you horrible butterflies and make your skin tingle when their skin meets yours.” He rambles, it’s nonsensical but I hang onto each word like they could be the thing to save my life, but I really can’t tell why, “What kind of crazy are you, Mr. Alien Boy? Are you bandaged arms or chapped hands?” He throws the spotlight at me and I barely know how to respond.

“Well, I’m definitely neither of them.” I shake my head, “I’m the kid that isn’t ever skinny enough, the kid that likes the sound of night time silence when they’re alone on the rooftops, loves to envy everybody else because they have it all better than them, the person that likes to hate others because then they can hate themselves so much less, I’m the one that likes being alone because that’s all they seem to know and I’m also the one who very much enjoys kissing boys with soft lips and a sweet touch but they can be rough and tumble if they wanted to be.”

The kid runs his tongue over his lips momentarily, soaking in my words, “I’m Atticus Patrick.” He says, “Congratulations on joining the not-so-crazy-ones club. Members, two… You and I.” He sticks his hand towards me.

“Finlay Grayson.” I reply, swallowing a little too hard, “And, that’s where you are incorrect, Mr. Patrick, in here, we are the crazy ones.”