Hour 26, 7:30am

Bella's Pov

"A real celebrity, huh?" Seth looked down at me, a bright smile on his face.

I chuckled emptily, glancing over at the protective detail the detectives had given me. It was only two cops and they weren't particularly doing their jobs. But I guess locked up in the crazy ward, one wouldn't expect something bad to happen. Like a psycho mother appearing at random, in the middle of the night, and taunting her child.

"Yep. That's me," I gave him a thumbs up.

"Oh, Bella. Alas, I'm not here for our charming conversations, sadly. I'm here to get you for art class. It started twenty minutes ago," he announced as he plopped down beside me, grabbing the remote controller.

Of course. I didn't particularly want to do the art class. I loved art but my stuff was dark. I wonder why. Because no one else did. Renee certainly didn't understand it. I had the perfect life, why would I draw images of a bloody girl, of scars across a man's back, broken glass in someone's eyes? What would be going on in my life that was so terrible, I would draw something so disturbing? The answer for her was easy.

Attention.

Because who would try to commit suicide more than one time other than for attention? Not someone hurting, not someone struggling with depression, not someone facing the darkest forces of abuse in her bedroom with no one to help.

Oh no.

My scars were for attention.

My tears were for the pitiful looks.

My screams were for someone to validate me.

Not because I was in pain.

"Bella?"

I blinked, looking at Seth.

"Right. Let's go."

The art room was large; it had enough space that I could place my things in the back of the room without being too bothered. I didn't exactly like it, simply because there were quite a few people I hadn't seen earlier, but I did my best to get over it.

I stared at my blank canvas and I knew what I wanted to draw. But I didn't think I could draw more without them adding more time to my sentence. I mean, would you let someone out of psychiatric ward after you saw them draw a broken body through the glass of a car?

The answer would be a big, fat, NO.

So I drew a wilting rose. Not exactly what I wanted but it was much more calmer than my screaming thoughts. The lady overseeing all of this was short woman with a bored expression. She was really giving off a vibe of comfort and security.

When she saw me looking she pasted a large smile on her face and rushed over to me, inspecting my artwork like a critic.

"Very...interesting," her voice was full of judgement.

Wasn't that the one thing you weren't supposed to do on a mental ward? And besides, I didn't even want to paint in the first place. If they're going to make us "paint our feelings" then they definitely shouldn't be judging.

"Thanks."

"Do you always feel like a wilted flower?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, her arms crossed.

I bit back any rude retort that wanted to come out and gave her bright smile, "No. But in this case, I feel like the petals. The flower is dying, it's been neglected. Left out in the sun, unwatered, unattended. I, like these flowers, feel like I am not cared for. The broken stem, that's my body. Broken, bruised, not what it used to be. And the deep red reflects the inside of my body."

"The inside of your body?" she sounded a bit disgusted.

"Oh, yes. Blood is red. It's inside my body. I thought that was pretty obvious."

She gave me a look, her lips pursed as she walked off, inspecting someone else's drawing. I let out a long breath, looking at my flower.

Whores don't get flowers.

Phil's voice rang in my head and the image of him burning the flower I'd gotten on Valentine's day flashed across my memory. I shook my head, standing up and leaving. I took the painting with me and walked all the way to my room, slamming the door shut.

I looked at the painting and then punched a hole through it, hitting it over and over until it was just a mess on the floor. I let out a deep breath and sat back on the chair by the window, watching the rain drizzle down slowly.

"Isabella?"

I glanced over at the door and saw Benjamin, the therapist who led the therapy groups. He had a look in his eyes that I couldn't describe but I didn't like it.

"I heard what happened. I'd like to talk, if that's okay with you."

It didn't particularly sound like he was asking.

Reluctantly, I stood and followed him to his office. It was plain room; bare, white walls except for a small shelf with different books on mental health, a small, green couch which seemed to be his way of spicing things up, and a chair which he took up.

I set myself on the couch, watching him closely.

"Now, Bella. Tell me about the drawing." he crossed one leg over the other, observing me.

"Nothing to tell."

He chuckled, "Bella, I was told you thought of yourself as a wilted flower. Bruised and broken. Uncared for. What makes you feel that way? From what I've seen, your family seems very attentive. Your father and brother are here so often we all but kick them out."

I glared at him, "What, that's it? You see them so my feelings are disregarded?"

"Of course not. I just would like to know your story. Your mother, for instance. How much time do you spend with her?" he leaned forward, pressing play on a recorder. "Forgot to start it."

"I lived with her. I ran away," I was holding back my anger.

This man sounded incompetent. And had no doubt in my mind that if I spilled the deepest, darkest, parts of my soul that he'd have me committed indefinitely. After all, I was pretty sure they had my records. They would know by now that this would be, in two years, my fifth time in a mental ward.

"And why's that?"

"Because she's a... she's not a good parent," I refrained from what I really wanted to say. "I don't want to talk about her."

He leaned forward, his eyes shining, "Why? Does she make you feel as if you lack the proper parental attention? After all, that's very vital for children."

I hadn't realized my leg was bouncing but I couldn't stop. Why couldn't he just drop it? All I did was draw a damn flower.

"Look, I don't care for her attention or her husband's. I don't care for anyone's attention. I just want to be alone," I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest.

Maybe this would protect me from his badgering words.

"Tell me about your stepfather."

Oh my God. I was screaming in my head and I was sure steam was shooting from my ears.

"He's a dick. She's a bitch. Happy?" I snapped angrily, balling my hands into fists to keep from hitting something.

Him in particular.

He nodded, leaning back.

"Take me back to your childhood."

I wanted to strangle him.

I apologize for the short chapter! This is just sort of a filler chapter before we get to big stuff! Please review and let me know what you think!