I rapidly scanned the new environment with my eyes as I walked down the hallway with my psychiatrist and one of my contact persons. They smiled at me while they showed me around, pointed in different directions while explaining the rules around here and patted my arm to calm me down. I was practically hyperventilating and repeatedly pinched and clawed my fingers.

I had spent two nights at the emergency ward with nowhere else to go, and the doctors decided to move me to the clinic for at least three weeks. They'd reevaluate after that, they said.

Well, those three weeks scared the crap out of me.

My schedule – and I had no say in that matter – said that I would have to sit and talk to my psychiatrist every day for those three weeks. I felt the panic attack come creeping just by the thought of it. They wanted me to talk to them about my problems. They wanted me to describe my feelings about life, about non-life, about my future. They wanted me to open up to them and sort out all of my problems.

Well, the thing is, I don't have any concrete problems. There's no reason that I feel hopeless. There's no reason that I'm depressed, that I live with constant anxiety and that I self harm. There's no concrete reason. I've never been abused, never been bullied, don't have an eating disorder, don't want to kill someone, don't have a problem with, well, anything. No matter how much my psychiatrist's going to dig in my brain, she won't find anything that matter. I'm just plain miserable.

I almost bumped into my contact person. She smiled at me and opened a door, then signed for me to follow her. The door had a '4' on it, and when I walked inside, I realized that this was my room. This would be my home for the next three weeks.

There was a wooden bed with white sheets, an empty wardrobe, a window to the right and some white and blue clothes for me to borrow from the clinic. I met my eyes in the mirror and hurried to look away. I didn't want to see myself.

"There we go, Donatello. Dinner's ready in just a few minutes. Is there anything I can do for you?"

I looked at my psychiatrist and slowly shook my head in silence.

She smiled, patted my shoulder and then left with my contact person. I just stood there for a minute, staring at the pale room with a burning throat. I tried swallowing it away, but failed as a pair of tears let themselves out and down my cheeks. I hiccupped and threw my bag on the floor as I sat down on the bed, scratching my hands and hearing a buzzing inside my head that grew more intense with every heartbeat.

I didn't want to be here. I just wanted to disappear, never come back. No one would miss me; I was just a burden that always was in the way of everything. I tried sculpting myself into something that would please everyone, something that would be a great thing. But, as fucking usual, I failed. And I hated myself for that. And I was sure everyone else hated me as well. What was there not to hate?

I lost my breath and leaned forward over my knees, folding my arms around myself. The tears kept streaming down my face and I couldn't breathe. My whole being hurt and shook and I just didn't want to be here. I didn't want to live. I wished that someone would just come in and dig an axe into my stomach. It felt as if my lungs had expanded to a double size and that my ribs were in the way, as if they pushed my lungs back and made it so damn impossible to breathe normally. I wanted to dig my fingers into my stomach, grab the ribs and just rip them open. Let all this pain just flow out of me; put it somewhere where it couldn't hurt anyone.

I groaned as I fell forward onto the floor, still holding myself together with my arms, scratching my nails into my shoulder. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe and everything seemed far away, as if I wouldn't find reality if I reached for it. I groaned again, hiccupping, trying desperately to breathe.

Suddenly, the door was pushed open and a man walked up to me, squatting next to me on the floor. He put a hand on my shoulder, rubbing it to get my attention.

"Donatello? It's alright, you hear me? It'll be over soon. You're having a panic attack. Try to breathe, okay?"

I couldn't focus my eyes on his face, but I heard him. How in the world was I supposed to breathe? It felt as if I was dying, for god's sake!

"You have to breathe. Here, hold my hand. We'll get through this together, okay?"

I couldn't see his damn hand and I couldn't breathe. I was dying and he asked me to breathe?

I suddenly took a deep, shaky breath.

"That's it. Keep doing that. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."

I felt his hand working its way in between my hand and my shoulder, and soon I was holding it for my dear life. I took another deep breath, feeling the buzzing in my head slowly disappearing. I tried focusing my eyes on something, and soon found a pair of blue, calm eyes. I practically stared into them, but I couldn't care less. It felt safe to do so, so I did it.

"There we go. Keep breathing."

I did what he said and suddenly found that it wasn't that hard to breathe anymore. The buzzing was gone and I didn't felt as if I was dying a painful death.

I felt ashamed of my behavior and quickly let go of his hand. I sat up, still with one arm over my stomach, and looked away.

"S-sorry."

I wanted to slap myself. I was blushing and I felt like crying again. Why couldn't I just control myself better? Why couldn't I just start my three weeks here with something else than a panic attack?

"Donatello?"

I looked up at the man in front of me.

"This is what you're here for getting help with. And you can't control panic attacks. No one can."

I looked down again. I couldn't take his kind words, and another pair of tears made their way out of my eyes.

"I'm s-so sorry."

The man in front of me smiled and took my hand again.

"You don't ever have to apologize for feeling. Remember that."

I looked up at him again.

Right. I should be able to control panic attacks, no matter if it was even possible or not. And I shouldn't behave like a baby the first few minutes I get here, no matter if it was okay or not. I'm disgusting and I'm worthless.

"I'm Carson, your contact person this week. I'm guessing you've already met Angelica? She's your other contact person."

I blinked and nodded as I tried to remember the names. Carson and Angelica.

"If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. Alright?"

I nodded again, without taking it seriously. I wouldn't ask for help. That would just make me an even bigger pain than I already was.

"Dinner's ready. Do you feel like eating?"

I nodded once again, getting up off the floor and gluing my eyes to the floor. I followed Carson as he led the way to the kitchen. I didn't look up when we entered, but I could feel the other kids staring at me. I found an empty chair and sat down, Carson taking place next to me. It felt safe to have him there, somehow. I was glad I got him as contact person.

"Can someone pass the rice, please?"

I could hear the warm smile in Carson's voice, and it even made me smile. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to live here for a couple of weeks. Maybe Carson would make it bearable.

He grabbed the bowl of rice being passed to him, and he put it right next to my plate. I was just about to grab the spoon in the bowl when I heard loud voices outside the kitchen. The other patients weren't paying it any attention, but for me, screaming and slamming was something unusual.

Suddenly another turtle boy with a red bandana, black t-shirt and blue jeans came rushing through the corridor outside the kitchen.

"What is it that ya don't understand? I fuckin' hate ya and I don't wanna talk to ya! Leave me alone!"

His voice was rumbling but at the same time very boyish, and he scared me. The boy turned to walk into the kitchen, but was stopped by a hand and a low, calming voice, clearly trying to stop him from entering the room. He batted the hand away and pointed at the person next to him.

"Don't. Touch. Me. Got it? Imma go eat sumthin' so stop followin' me."

The turtle walked into the kitchen, sitting down at the last empty chair and grabbed some food. I couldn't help looking at him. First of all, I've never seen another turtle before. And second of all, he seemed so very comfortable with saying exactly what he's thinking. Exactly what he's feeling. I couldn't understand him, not at all. And he still scared me, golden eyes framed with that red bandana and rough appearance.

Suddenly, he looked up and I couldn't look away from his glowing eyes. He pointed at me with his knife, swallowing what he had in his mouth.

"Yur new here, right?"

I nodded slowly, not knowing what to say.

"Raphael, you can talk to Donatello later. He just got here and probably just wants to eat his food."

I looked at Carson, grateful that he said something when I couldn't. I looked back at the other turtle, obviously named Raphael. He snarled and turned back to his food. I started eating my own food, but I just kept peeking at him. His eyes were cold as ice and hot as the sun at the same time. Judging from his body he seemed at least twenty years old, but I knew that you could only be at the clinic if you're seventeen or younger. His plastron showed a bit when he leaned forward over the plate, and his arms were…

That's when I noticed the scars.