frankly, we both need help.

sometimes he wants to cry out loud. sometimes he wants someone to hear him yell. wants to hear you stressing over something, and jake will tell you that everything will be okay. jake wants someone to pat him on the back, and tell him that it's never his fault, that his parents and friends' death are not his fault—but he's not someone significant to be a victim. in the eyes and ears of everyone, he's just a psychotic, delusional, immoral, ungrateful hypocrite.

he got used to it, being called as such and lived with it in the psychiatric hospital though it hurts by trying alone. but he got you to not make the self criticisms he was having and the bad thoughts worse—his one and only nurse. though he can't really tell if you love your job or not. but who would be happy to work in a nuthouse, less assigned to a killer, right?

but then again, it was almost as if we acknowledged each other's presence. like we're the last two pieces of a puzzle, fit for each other perfectly— it's uncanny at its worst, and destiny at best. perhaps we're fated to become like this, though he would be foolish if he believed that, so he didn't. he don't really know where he stood.

we didn't do much during the day though, just there playing games and browsing through magazines. in fact, we barely even spoke to each other. and you're just there, observing, with that look, whether it's dull, deep, or bitchy. he's the one who was confined there but you look like you're the one who needs it. or was he just hallucinating again?

looking down the book he borrowed from an elderly downstairs, who's just one less marble than he was. "your laugh is like the spray of the sea, your head is a star between my hands, and the world grows green again when you smile." he reads, trying to make you smile.