My closet was dark. Not just regular dark, but dark as in can't see your hand in front of your face, dark. I have been sitting in the same position for over two hours. My phone died after the two-hour mark. I was nestled in the corner behind and underneath some boxes and shelves that formed walls around me. I couldn't get to my parents closet in time though. Theirs has a hidden compartment behind a mirror that leads to a safe room. The safe room has all kinds of stuff, like food, water, and a phone charger.

I woke up at 3 am to the alarm going off and footsteps running up and down the hallways. I tried to get to my parents room but the footsteps that came from around the corner forced me back into my room. I pushed the dresser in front of my door a quietly as possible. I heard footsteps, but I never heard them stop. They just, ceased to exist.

I heard footsteps outside my bedroom door and them trying to get into my room. I heard the dresser scrape across the hardwood as my breath quickened. I tried to calm down and placed a hand over my mouth to muffle the sounds. Two body shaped shadows passed in front of my closet door.

"Maybe no ones in here?" I heard a man ask.

"Yeah and who would barricade the door from the inside?" a different voice asked.

"I don't know Dean. What if they went out the window?" I heard a shush and knew the other man had figured out about the closet.

Light poured in as the French doors opened. I closed my eyes and silently prayed whoever it was didn't find me. I heard the rustling of clothes as they were pulled back along the clothes rack. The footsteps grew closer and my breaths became shallower. Then the movement stopped, for a second I though they left and I exhaled. Which was my first mistake.

The boxes that surrounded me came crashing to the ground. I saw two men in front of me, both very tall, but one was slightly shorter. I don't know whether it was the lack of air that decided to go my lungs or my fear but my second mistake was made. I passed out.

I woke up later with my hands and feet tied in the back of a car. I must have been exhausted because I blinked and I was back to sleep.

The second time I awoke, my hands and feet were still tied just not to each other. I was strapped down to a bed and surrounded by metal walls. I didn't scream. I didn't try and move. I just laid back down and stared at the star on the ceiling.

I sat there for what felt like hours before I heard footsteps. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing. I guess I didn't breathe slowly enough, because as soon as the second the door opened, four men rode my ass. One was abnormally large, one had really green eyes, one was in a trench coat, and the fourth was an older man in a worn baseball cap.

"She's awake Dean," a gravelly voice said.

"She's clearly sleeping, Cas," the man who I presumed to be Dean answered.

"I can hear her thoughts, she's been awake for hours," Cas said. The second he mentioned being able to read my mind, my walls went flying up, along with the fact that I tried to keep my mind blank.

"Why didn't she scream?" a deep yet softer voice than the others asked.

"Maybe she's in shock," an older, slightly accented voice suggested.

It wouldn't be the first time, I thought. Being bipolar had its moments. Sometimes I was overly happy, like bouncing off the walls crazy, and other times, I was so depressed, I didn't even get up to pee.

I am diagnosed with ADHD, Schizophrenia, OCD, Social Anxiety Disorder, and Bipolar Disorder. I was basically every psych doctor's guinea pig to test new and improved meds and treatments. I have been on lithium, anticonvulsants, antipsychotics, antidepressants, Adderall, Dextrostat, Clozaril, and so many others I can't pronounce their names. And if it weren't for the antidepressants, I would feel depressed because I'm a walking, talking test tube for them.

The doctors could never figure out why I had so many disorders tied to my imaginative and emotional parts of my brain. Usually there is an explanation, but for me it just was.

I was eight.

I am now twenty-five.

I was used to being strapped down. I was used to trying to kill myself in my sleep (let's just stay if I hadn't slammed the kitchen drawer, the blood that circulates in my neck, would be short a few CCs). I was used to the hallucinations. I was used to the nightmares. It had gotten to the point where the only thing that scared about the nightmares, was how I sometimes ended up outside and dirty. It had gotten to the point to where I lived in a mental hospital for over three years.

I was homeschooled (if you could even call it that). I had three friends: my mom, dad, and grandmother. And then sometimes if I was lucky, a dog from one of the programs would come into my hospital room for thirty minutes then leave to make someone else feel better then shitty again.

I was also used to the stares. When I would walk around town with my parents or Gran, teenagers that I used to be friends with (before my diagnosis) stared at me. I would hear them whisper about "the psycho," or that I "was tripping on so many drugs, they might as well send me to Wonderland." The one that hurt the most was after I tried going back to school.

Sophomore year, I wanted to try and be normal. I was already ahead of everyone because of my "homeschooling" (which was more like me doing an entire college textbook on some subject in a month or two) so I wasn't worried about my grades. I was worried about the stares. I wanted to go to homecoming, be a cheerleader. I had even made the team, not that anyone on the team was particularly nice to me, they weren't mean either. I stayed out of everyone's way and just hit my motions with a fake smile while being tossed and caught by girls who probably feared me.

It was right before the homecoming rally in late October. I walked up to my locker after cheer practice, and "psychopath" was painted in red block letters on my locker door. I heard some people behind me snickering but I just turned around and walked in the girl's bathroom. I suppose everyone thought I went in there to cry, but really I just got wet paper towels. Everyone's expression turned from amused to shock in about two seconds. I just wiped the word the best I could with everyone staring at me. Once I was satisfied I had done all I could, I went and threw away the towels in the trashcan near the snickering girls. I looked their "Queen Bee" right in the eyes as I tossed them in.

I turned back and started gathering up books. The people started to disappear but they all came rushing back when the girl poured her coffee on my head. I didn't cry, didn't shout, but I let a few of the other cheerleaders who saw this go down escort me to the locker room. They stripped me down and put me in the shower. They gave me some of their practice clothes to wear after I got out so I wouldn't walk around in my stained ones.

In the days that followed, I had grown close to my cheer friends. They thought I didn't hear them have the secret meeting before practice the night after my coffee shower. Basically, they all agreed that I would never be left alone. I had at least one class with any of them and I sat at the cheer table during lunch. I had grown close to them. I really liked this one girl, Cara. Her stepbrother was bipolar so she understood what I was going through. She knew how to handle me when I had a Social Anxiety attack, and we weren't quite sure how I didn't get one after the coffee thing.

I had been nominated for Homecoming Queen, but wasn't elected. I went with a guy on the Lacrosse team who's name was Scott, and we dated afterwards. I finished out high school but the little attacks on me kept coming.

Someone had found out I was deathly afraid of spiders, and whenever I see them, I get really bad panic attacks. Someone put plastic spiders in my locker, so when I opened them, they all fell out. When they didn't move, I knew they were fake, but I couldn't stop the oncoming attack. Cara and another girl, Melissa, who I was also really close with, got me to the locker room, where they handled my panic attack. Obviously the school knew about my "conditions" so when Cara informed Coach Steel, they pulled Scott from class because he was one of the only people who could calm me down.

I was grateful for my little friends and eventually went to college with Scott and Cara. Cara and I roomed together and Scott and I had a lot of classes together. We all graduated, Scott and I were basically engaged until he disappeared. Right off the map. Cara and I searched and searched, but she disappeared as well.

Their disappearances caused more attacks, hallucinations, nightmares. My mother grew so concerned she had me committed to a mental hospital for another three years.

I had just gotten out a week ago, and now I was back to being chained up in an unknown location, so I just readily assumed it was a nightmare or a hallucination. The best way for me to get rid of them was for me to set myself apart, realize they aren't real.

Don't respond. Don't glance their way.

And don't give them your name.

Once they had your name, they could track down any person you ever loved, anyone that ever showed kindness to you, and hurt them. Kill them.

So when the four men asked my name, I didn't respond. I had already opened my eyes, but took up counting the bolts on the ceiling.

"Hey, do you mind telling us your name so we can help you?" a gruff man asked. I think it was that Dean guy, but I refused to look at him.

When the hallucinations start to touch me, is when I crumble. Slowly at first. Then all at once, I break down and give in. I would have been a horrible POW. Especially if I was a spy that knew a lot of information. I would crumble after one flick of a knife. One flick of a whip.

"Darlin, we can't help you, can't tell you what happened to your friends, your parents, if you don't tell us your name," an older voice said. 62, 63, 64, 65…

Time passed before the gravelly voice spoke: "She's not responding Dean. She cut me off from her mind. She isn't thinking about anything other than the bolts on the ceiling. She's counted almost 80," he trailed off.

"I don't care if she gets to a thousand, Cas. Do the zappy, finger-to-forehead thing and figure out who she is."

I stopped counting at the mention of touch. I whipped my head towards the voices and started to shake. Oh no, I thought. My mind was racing, if he touches me, I'm dead. If he places any amount of skin on mine, I will throw up on the spot. I can feel it in my stomach right now. He better not take a step closer to me or I'll scream. Scream and throw up. That's what I'll do, scream and throw up.

He walked towards me and placed his middle and index finger to my forehead. I started to convulse. My vocal chords couldn't work, though, because of how hard I started to throw up. I was trying to keep it down, but couldn't. I started choking on it because of my position. The bodies that were also in the room went to untie me, while the vomit was spilling out the side of my mouth, and forcing it's way to my lungs.

This is how I'm going to die. I thought. What a stupid way to die. Choking on your own vomit.

But I didn't die.

Somehow, the four men had untangled me from my straps. I kneeled on the floor of the circular room, convulsing into a bucket that wasn't there before. I sat there until my stomach decided it was done. When I finished, I was handed a wet towel. I wiped off my face and hands then laid back down on the bed. I put my arms and legs in the correct positions to be tied back down, as per the drill.

Yet, no one tried to tie me down. I was grateful; however, skeptical.

I turned my head to the men, who were just staring at me. I usually didn't mind he stares of fear, pity. But the curiosity and sadness that filled their eyes, made me feel uncomfortable. I went back to counting the bolts. 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106…

"We aren't going to tie you down, darlin. When you first got here you tried offing yourself so many times, we had to do something to keep you alive. That and you came at Dean with a nail file so," the older ma's voice was serious, calm, sweet, and inviting. I almost wanted to like it.

They waited for me to respond but I kept trying to distance myself from the hallucination. 135, 136, 137…

"She's still counting the bolts," the gravelly voice said. "From what little I saw, she thinks this is a hallucination. She has several mental disorders: Bipolar disorder, Schizophrenia, OCD, Social Anxiety Disorder, and ADHD. And some the doctors couldn't classify. Dean, this girl has serious issues."

"Thanks for stating the obvious," I mumble. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I acknowledged it. I acknowledged him. No, no, no, no.

"What did you say?" the hard yet soft voice asks. I don't acknowledge him.

It will only bring me more pain.

More suffering.

They wait in silence, exchanging knowing glances. Probably wondering when, and if, I'm going to talk. They'll lose themselves in the silence before I talk.

Yet somewhere,

somewhere really deep in my brain,

I know.

I know this isn't a hallucination.

I just want it to be.

hey beautiful followers!

i hope you like this idea. i kinda just thought of it and ran. review and let me know if you have any idea, comments, or concerns!

xoxo -L

disclaimer: i don't own Supernatural, only my OC (don't worry we'll learn her name :) )