Why the hell am I uploading yet another work while I still have multiple unfinished? Who knows. This was something I wrote a few months back, and just remembered I had done so. This more than likely will not be updating much, probably whenever I get hit with random inspiration. But still, let me know if the idea is all right? Feedback is appreciated.:3

Kenny: Diagnosis Not Stated.

He wore green Adidas sandals which were what I focused all of my attention on; like the way they wrapped around his feet and how his toes slightly curled over the top. I noticed on his big toe he had thicker, darkened hair than the others, and the nails were jagged, rough, to the point I imagined running my fingertips over them.

I could sense he was getting anxious by the way his leg jolted up and down and how his fingers kept gripping the fabric of his khaki pants, kneading the fabric, bunching it together to leave ruffled marks throughout.

I switched my attention from his feet to his lips, and in my head I said:

He'll get the wrong idea. Look back at the sandals.

But it was too late.

He stood up from the metal chair he sat in, and I leaned further back in my metal chair, and I let out a huge, long sigh as I watched him walk back to his room, paying attention to how he dragged his feet when he walked, motioned his arms back and forth beside him and kept his head down, focusing on the ugly, beige tile of the hospital.

This put me back into the same position I was in just hours ago – Alone with nobody to talk to. Even though the two of us never quite exchanged words, there has a mental connection we shared… or at least I thought we shared.

I laughed to myself at using the word mental. Yeah, we were mental all right. That's why we were here in the first place.

When he was back in his room, I decided to glance around at my surroundings and I took in the fact that most everyone else in the ward were sitting in the "Lobby" where all eyes were on the TV plastered to the wall. One guy – I never caught his name – held the remote in hand. His index finger grazed over the several buttons, but never quite pressed enough force onto one of them to do anything. Beside him was a girl with bright red hair. It obviously looked dyed, and I rolled my eyes at the sight of her. From where I sat, I could see the mole she had just under her left eye. I'm sure she would claim it was beauty mark. I'd still call it a mole.

I cracked my knuckles, then my neck and then my back. And afterwards, I stood up from the awful metal chair my butt stuck to. Once on my feet, I couldn't help but stretch my arms, reaching them upwards towards the ceiling which was musty and old and kind of reminded me of my late grandmother. My feet were moving now, they were walking forward in the same direction as the "Lobby" and when I reached it, I sat myself down on a comfier chair then before next to a girl with crazy, naturally curled hair and bright blues eyes just like my own. Her eyes left the TV, sideways glanced at me, and they smiled. Her mouth didn't but her eyes did, and I liked that about her.

I thought to myself:

Her hair is processed. Not the curls but the colour.

I was staring at the light blonde roots on her scalp. They looked greasy and thin, and not at all attractive but the rest of her hair - like the honey brown shade of her curls and the strands underneath that were closer to a chestnut – I admired. So I smiled her way, with my mouth instead of my eyes, and I held out a hand to offer a shake which she refused… so I frowned.

It was a Friday afternoon, nothing was on the television on a Friday afternoon. I don't know why I bothered to sit in the "Lobby" to watch crap on TV or sit next to a girl with processed hair who refused to shake my hand.

I was new to everything around here. I was new to the patients and the staff, and the room I was placed into. I was new to the schedule, the food and the medication system. I was even new to the restroom, which I learned smelled like disinfectant and medical supplies, and both genders shared the same one. I was new and apparently no one around here liked New.

I thought about getting up to leave the "Lobby", maybe go back to my room which I shared with a boy the same age as me named Kyle. But then I thought about how comfortable this chair was and how pretty the girl next to me was, and I placed a hand on her thigh closest to me in an ever-so-sly motion then I squeezed the skin of fat in hand, only to result in the fake brunette to let out a soft, yet wet moan and sink further in her seat.

Her hand touched the top of my hand. It slightly took grasp but didn't force mine away, instead she shifted my hand further down her thigh towards the crotch of her pants, and my lips smiled as large as they could. The area I was now touching, radiated with so much heat, I wanted to sweat. But I didn't, I let my index and middle finger curl so I was cupping her clothed crotch and her moaning got wetter – more erratic.

I was surprised no one heard her and that no one turned their attention from the crappy sitcom on the television to glance over to the two of us then look away in disgust.

I took my index finger, guiding it up her pants to the waistline just to feel the rough fabric because she was wearing jeans and I missed the touch of jeans. Then I stuck my hand into her pants – noticed she wasn't wearing any panties – and inserted my finger between her lips which became engulfed in moist, wet substance. But I loved it and so she did.

But then someone screamed. They screamed in jargon which was more like their own language, then all eyes were on the two of us. My hand left her pants, I wiped her pre-cum on my sweatpants and someone grabbed my shoulders. They pulled me from my super comfortable chair to guide me outside of the "Lobby", into the hallway of several rooms patients lived in. I had a smile on my face. They didn't.

"Inappropriate behavior, Mr. McCormick."

I laughed, or at least I think I laughed until I shoved them into the wall behind them. They were a nurse. His name was Kevin. I loathed people named Kevin.