Found

Ten

"Mitch! Time to go, Honey." My mother knocked on the door. My mom had postponed my doctor's appointment because of Tuesday's Funeral. But today, we got my test results back on just how bad everything about me was.

I called out that I knew, still careful to watch my tongue, to keep my words respectful. I waited until I heard the creaking of the steps before I left my bedroom. I made a beeline to sneak a look at the bathroom. It had only been up a day and I had tried my hardest to memorize every word that had replaced the crosses out ones. But I was still a long way from succeeding at that.

That's because you are so fucking stupid. Just ignore what the doctors will tell you. You have a year of your disease. Only two more down. Just don't take the medication. Then it will all end. The world would be rid of you. Or, you can just swallow all of them, end it that way.

As the voice spoke, I was hit with a head ache. Not again. If I had what the doctors fear, then this was just a symptom. Nothing I could do to stop it as the disease raged in my body. I would soon be laid up in bed, sick, but not with a flu virus. No, sick with something so much worse.

I slowly left my house, my starved, scared body hidden under a pair of black jeans and a very large black knit sweater with a skeleton on the front and back. It hung passed my hands and down to my legs. Somehow, I felt better hiding my body from others. I refused to let anyone see the marks on my once beautiful skin. It was ugly now, puckered and discolored.

I climbed cautiously into the back of the car, watching as my mother then climbed into the drivers. I buckled my seatbelt and closed my eyes, letting my mind wander. It wandered in the one direction I hadn't allowed it to wander, but today, I didn't care. I found it hard to muster the will to care anymore about so many things.

There, in the house foyer, was my mother, father, and my best friend.

"You're home, Mitchie!" My mom beamed at me.

I stared at her, blinking silently. Then something in me clicked and I dropped my gaze, speaking out timidly. "Home?" My gaze flicked up as I spoke, but dropped instantly when I finished. It felt strange. I hadn't uttered that word aloud in years. But I looked around me, and knew that it wasn't home.

"Yes, Home." My dad confirmed, laying an arm over my mother's shoulders. They all seemed so happy. But they had no idea how much of a nightmare this was. A house I barely recognized, with pleasant faces.

"No." I contradicted. "Not Home. This is just another hell hole with a nice name slapped on it." I said boldly then shrunk into myself, backing away. Slowly, I gasped out a repeated apology. "I am sorry. I shouldn't have spoken out. I am sorry. So, so sorry. I'm sorry." I whispered, dropping to my knees, the backs of my hands against the fabric of my pants as I arched my spine uncomfortably backwards, sniveling, apologizing.

I felt something fall down my face and reached up, swiping at the tear. No. You can't cry about that! I scolded myself.

Suddenly I doubled over in pain, groaning and whimpering in pain. I felt the car come to a stop. Before anything else, I unbuckled my seatbelt and practically fall out of the car the moment I opened the door. I knelt there, in my hands and knees, as the contents of my stomach emptied from me.

I hadn't eaten anything in the past day or so, so my body dry heaved most of it. My head throbbed, and I had just emptied what little food I had put in my body. I felt like shit and just knelt there, on the side of the road, acidy saliva dripping on my chin, crying in pain, hands gripping the grass.

Suck it up. Others have it worse. You have no room to be crying. Be a fucking man. Fucking grow up already.

I withered under the words, trying my best to stop crying. As I cleaned myself up, I began to bury my emotions, hide them deep, making me numb. This blocked out everything, good, bad, voice. To many, I seemed dead, past feeling, because of this. Yet, it only worked for a short while.

I unfeelingly stumbled back into the car, beginning to shake, sweating. I wanted nothing more than to go curl up and die. I certainly didn't want to sit while a doctor told me about what was wrong with me.

Back in LA, I had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and an STD. They only knew because of the living space correlation between Tuesday and I. I wouldn't let them anywhere near me with needles or anything else like that. Too many horrible memories of the last place I was kept swarmed my brain as they tried to go near me with needles.

When I had been out of it on morphine, they drew some blood, but then had to discard it because of the Medication they had me on. They managed to get some blood later on, which they sent to a lab, after they had to physically restrain my sobbing body as I struggled, begging them, and the demons in my head, to leave me alone.

Today, the were going to tell us what I had, and what medication I needed to take.

Today, they were going to tell me exactly how bad my STD was and how long I had to live, as well as other things. All because I was kidnapped.

I managed to uncurl my stiff body as I got out of the car when we pulled up to the hospital. My mom headed into reception as I went to go sit down, shaking, skin clammy, head an aching mess. I felt like shit. I made sure that I stayed away from everyone else, sitting in the far corner of the waiting room.

"Mitchell Grassi?" A nurse called out a little later, eyes seeking us out. As my mother and I moved towards the door, the nurse's kind, hooded green-hazel eyes landed on me.

When we walked passed her, she made the grave mistake of laying a hand in my shoulder. My body stiffened as I struggled against the panic. I didn't need to panic. I was safe. I kept telling my brain, but it fought.

Here they come to hurt you again, you filthy animal. That's all you're good for, beatings and other people's pleasure. Other than that, you are the most useless person ever. You don't deserve a happy ending. Not with everything that's happened. No one will ever love you. They gave up on you, Mitch. And they will again.

I tried my hardest to block out the voice as the young nurse led us into a room. My breathing was rapid and I bunched my sweater in my hands, trying my best to fight it off.

She gave me a grave smile as I sat on the exam table, fighting back the voice and the touches of memory. "The doctor will be in soon with your results."

Just as she promised, a woman came into the room and introduced herself to us as Dr. Wibble. By now, I had managed to shut my brain down. I just sat there and stared at the floor between my feet.

As she looked at the chart she held in her hands, she passed it to me, while confirming my fears. I stared at the paper, then let the clip board clatter to the ground.

"I'm so, so sorry, Mitch. It is even worse than we had ever dreamed."

~°~
So, next Mitch chapter, I will reveal what he has. For your information, though, it takes three years with a person with this disease to die, if left untreated. Everything he is suffering from are mostly Symptoms of this Sickness, they just don't know how bad, as well as other mental problems from his ordeal, including PTSD, which induces Panic Attacks.

Don't you all just love the voice?

Oh, and stay sexy
-Scomiche❤🍓❤