Glee 1. Chapter 1

**Title: Insanity And Its Quirks**

**Full Descript**: Matt Rutherford has checked in to a mental hospital specifically for treating teenage mental illnesses. He's clinically depressed-who isn't? But the pamphlets never said anything about making friends, roommates with secrets, thrilling riots, schizophrenic dancers, and maybe even a love interest.

**A/N: Remember, this is an AU. Here, Ms. Pillsbury was never involved in school counseling, just became a psychologist. Glee club never existed, and the kids never met, or even went to the same school. Also, don't expect every chapter to be this long! I was surprised how long this actually turned out. Well ,enjoy.  
**

According to his files, Matt Rutherford is clinically depressed. It's an idiotic term, he thinks. What does 'clinically' even mean in this context. He may be sad at some times, but never depressed. He just sometimes gets really down, and the world starts to sink, and he can't even manage to crawl out of bed-

Yeah, he's depressed.

His current therapist, Mrs.'Call Me Emma' Pillsbury recommended to his mother that he should be going to the Ohio Youth Mental Hospital. The name sounds like it's a freaking YMCA.

Another thing about Matt is that he has a sense of humor. At least, he thinks so. It's what's keeping him from collapsing into a nervous breakdown as he enters the front doors of the asylum-ahem, hospital. The walls are much too clean. You could see your reflection in the floor. The plants are all fake, and the receptionist so much as bites your head off if you do more then breathe loudly. After a few tearful goodbye hugs from his mother, Matt was taken into his first private therapy session with a doctor, which was the 'initiation' of sorts. Everyone had to have this session before he could meet his new roommate and go to group therapy.

He was ushered into a claustrophobically small room, and the walls were a ill beige color. The doctor twitches his mustache, and speaks in short sentences.

"You're Matt," Doc says, eyes sweeping over him.

"So they tell me," he says jokingly. The doctor is unamused. Crap, if his therapist doesn't have a sense of humor, then he was doomed.

"Why are you here, Matt?" he asks. Ah, the typical question. Like the don't already know.

"Apparently I'm clinically depressed," Matt says.

"Are you?"

"I guess."

"You guess? So you're not sure?" Man, this guy is a douche. Thereby earning the name Dr. Douche from now on.

"I'm clinically depressed," Matt says confidentially. Dr. Douche nods, and continues to ask inane questions, like "What do you dream about?" and "Do you have many friends?"

Then he's shown his new room. It has two beds, and one window. With bars on it. Like a prison. It makes him feel even more nervous, stomach sinking down to the floor. They present him with his backpack.

"Here's your stuff. To comply with hospital rules, some items have been removed," one of the nurses says.

"Like what?" he asks, digging through his bag.

"Your cell phone, your iPod, and various belts and watches that have sharp attachments that may be harmful."

This was going from worse to horrendous. Without his iPod, he would probably become even more depressed. His breathing gets heavier, and he clutches a bed post.

"Your roommate will be coming back to lunch in ten minutes. Get settled," the nurse continues, oblivious to Matt's panic attack. She leaves, closing the door behind her. He notices with chagrin that there's no lock on the door. Speaking of doors, there's no door to the bathroom. It's just an archway. Meaning he was going to have to pee without a door. How bad can this place get? He shuffles into the bathroom and splashes water on his face, trying to calm himself down. He looks at himself in the mirror, seeing if he's really there. A stubble is growing on his chin, and he has some food in his teeth, but other than that, he's fine. Perfectly fine.

In a physical sense, of course.

Emotionally, he was freaking out. He was going to be living here forever, until he gets un-depressed. He wanted to scream and run, but he locked his jaw firmly in place. He will not be a disappointment to his mother. He will get better.

Right?

"Hello, anyone here?" a voice asks, opening the door with a knock.

"Uh...me?" he says tentatively.

"Who's me?" the voice asks, coming into the bathroom. "Oh," it says. A boy is in the doorway. His hair is a mop of wild curls, but short. His eyebrows are kind of thick, but Matt is really paying attention to the 100-watt smile that he's flashing. The boy sticks out a hand to shake. "Hi, I'm Blaine. You must be the new roommate."

"I'm Matt. At least, that's what they tell me," he says, shaking the hand. Blaine laughs, and Matt relaxes a bit. Thankfully someone isn't so uptight in this place.

"Welcome to the Youth Asylum," Blaine says. "That's what we all call it here. Or just the Asylum, for short."

"Cool, I guess," Matt says. He sticks his hands in his pocket.

"Sit," Blaine says, gesturing to the beds. Matt slowly sits indian style on top of the covers. He begins to take off his shoes, but stops when Blaine visibly flinches.

"Uh, can you not take off your shoes?" Blaine asks. "I have a phobia." He gives an awkward laugh.

"Sure." Matt shrugs, and puts them back on. "Is that why you're here?"

"For a foot phobia? As if." Blaine laughs some more. Matt wants to ask why he _is _there then, but he figures it would be too nosy, him knowing this Blaine guy for about two minutes. "Ready for group therapy?" he asks.

"What's group therapy?" Matt asks.

"It's where all of the teens, there's about 20 or so of us, sit in a circle and talk about our feelings," he explains.

"Sounds kind of..." Matt searched for the right words.

"Lame?" Blaine offers. "Totally. But as long as you don't cuss or throw any chairs, you get points."

Matt's eyes widen at that. "People throw chairs?"

"Not all the time. But there's this chick named Santana, and her 'talks' get pretty violent."

"Wow."

"Yep. But it's not all bad. About once a week, we have something called 'song therapy', where we all get together and sing. It helps us relax or something."

"Could we dance?" Matt asks, perking up.

"Sure. Just as long as we don't touch each other," he says. When Matt raises an eyebrow, Blaine elaborates. "There are a lot of rules here. But one of the main ones is that no one is allowed to touch eachother. Not even accidentally. If you do, you lose major points and get a 'detention'."

"What are points?" Matt asks. This is all getting seriously confusing.

"All in good time," Blaine says, and starts to get up. "But right now, it's group therapy time."

The group therapy room is actually quite big, despite the other rooms in this place. It consists of a circle of bright blue plastic chairs, and a lot of motivational posters on the wall. Apparently, there's different levels in this hospital. Young children, pre-teens, and teenagers. Matt's a teenager, obviously, and he can only have therapy sessions and interact with other teenagers. He'd rather play with a seven year old psycho then a seventeen year old babbling brook, but here we are. Other people shuffle in, and take a seat randomly.

There's a kid with a mohawk who looks thoroughly terrifying, a blonde girl who looks very lost, and an asian kid who can't seem to keep still. There are varying degrees of other kids, but it would take a month to list them all and their odd quirks. Besides, the therapist comes in to start. She's fairly young, and has a bouncing brown ponytail and kind glasses. She calls herself Dr. Kale.

"Welcome everyone," she says, looking around the room. "Today we have a new member, Matt Rutherford." People nod and say hello, but are mostly bored with Matt. "Matt, can you introduce yourself for me?"

Matt grudgingly stands up, clearing his throat. "I'm Matt. I'm sixteen." He begins to sit back down, but the therapist stops him.

"Why are you here, Matt?" she asks.

"Well, I, uh," he starts, stuttering uncontrollably. Several people snicker, and Dr. Kale shush them. She gives me an encouraging smile, and her teeth are sparkling bright. "I'm here because I'm depressed and stuff. But I dance and I like music. I think I just started to get really bummed out at one point, and it started to consume me, and eventually..." All of the emotions that have started to build up in the past few months are threatening to spill, and Matt quickly sits back down before he could start crying or something. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice his little freak-out. He tries to swallow the huge lump in his throat, but he ends up coughing. Really loudly.

"Very good, Matt. Now, who can explain the first thing we do here in Group Therapy?" she asks, looking around the circle. A girl in a thick animal sweater and long socks eagerly raises her hand. Dr. Kale calls on her.

"We start with I Like, I Dislike, where we say something that we liked today, and something we didn't like," she says promptly, then smiles. She has perfect teeth, too. Maybe they all have the same dentist.

"Good job, Rachel," Dr. Kale says. "Would you like to start?"

"Certainly," Rachel says, beaming. "I liked the kosher meal that was served in the cafeteria today. I didn't like my roommate calling me a condescending bitch. It was rude."

"I only called you a condescending bitch because you are one, you bitch," A Latino girl pipes up.

"Santana, no interrupting," Dr. Kale says. So this is Santana, the chair-thrower. "Why don't you go next?" she asks Santana.

"Fine," Santana says, pursing her lips. "I like how hot Puck's muscles looked today," she says, glancing at the mohawk boy. That earns some wolf-whistles from the group. Dr. Kale shushes them again.

"Santana, we don't approve of any sexual remarks in this area," Dr. Kale scolds.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Anyways, I _dislike _any words that comes from Rachel's mouth."

"Funny coming from you, Santana!" Rachel says. "There's isn't anything that hasn't been _in _your mouth." That pulls up a round of 'oooo's from everyone. Including Matt. For therapy, this is becoming extremely entertaining.

"Damn, things are getting rough!" a black girl says. A fellow black person. Maybe he could high-five her.

"Girls, girls!" Dr. Kale says. "Calm down!" Both girls scoffed and looked away. Dr. Kale takes a heaving breath. "Who's next!"

"I like that there's another black person up in here," the black girl pipes up. "I dislike that he's depressed, though." Matt smiles for a second, before Blaine elbows him. Hard.

"What was that for?" Matt asks in a low whisper.

"I'll tell you later," Blaine mouths.

"I like Mercedes's outfit today," a boy says, pointing at the black girl's outfit. He's wearing a scarf and some fancy shoes. His hair is so perfectly combed it might be fake. "I dislike the new kid's shoes, though."

Matt looks down at his shoes. He doesn't see anything wrong with them, just dirty sneakers.

"I like that there's another dancer here," the Asian kid says. "I disliked getting up early this morning."

"Mike, that's your dislike every day," a boy with Bieber blonde hair says.

Mike shrugs. "It's a viable complaint. Getting up at 6am is a school thing. Not a mental hospital thing."

Matt wonders if Dr. Kale is going to say something about these insults and complaints. But she just writes stuff down. Wonder what she's writing.

"I like the sky today," a blonde girl says, twirling her ponytail. "I dislike the voices telling me to burn things." Matt raises an eyebrow at Blaine, but he just shakes his head. _Later _he mouths. This is going to be one hell of an explanation later.

"I like the grub at lunch," a wheelchair boy says. "I disliked running into a wall this morning."

"I like Jesus," another blonde says. "I dislike cursing."

"I find that offending, Quinn," Rachel says.

"God is not offending!" The girl, Quinn, protests.

"I like Artie's glasses today!" an Asian girl interrupts, trying to keep everything on track. "I dislike the sweater vest, though." She smiles at the wheelchair kid.

"Thank you, Tina?" Artie says.

"Points for saying thank you, Artie," Dr. Kale says. "Okay, let's get into partnerships! Pick someone, and not your roommate!"

Matt looks over to Blaine anxiously, who shrugs apologetically. His eyes sweep over the potential partners. Luckily (or unluckily, however you see it) the girl Santana swings her chair around in front of him, and sits cross-legged.

"Hey, New Kid," she says, smirking. Crap on a kebab, this girl is scary; she crosses her arms and purses her lips, eyes glaring in tight line.

"Hi. It's Matt, actually." Matt stares at his hands, suddenly fascinated at every little detail. "So, what do we do?"

"Well, since it's your first time, we talk about how we got here in the Asylum."

"Uh...you first," Matt says.

"Fine." Santana studies her nails and starts to sound bored as she talks. "I was a prostitute ever since I dropped out of high school. My ma had no idea, she just thought I was going to school then sleeping over at friend's houses. I wasn't one of those fishnet girls on street corners, though."

"Then what were you?" Matt asks. Did he even want to know?

"I was a club 'escort'. I got fake I.D, and scoped out on the bars. My boss would refer people to wherever I was if they needed my services." she grins like the Cheshire Cat when she says "services" it sends shivers crawling down his spine, and he licks his lips nervously. "Apparently, my job skills got so famous that I was wanted more and more. I would do anything, and people liked that. I even got a few chicks in there. Chicks pay double, and I eventually got enough saved up to buy more expensive shit. It was fucking great, until an undercover cop caught me, and I was arrested for underage prostitution. The judge decided that I was doing this because daddy was an abuser, and I had serious emotional scars. Not true, I just liked the sex." She gives me a huge wink, and Matt clutches the chair a bit tighter. "So they sent me here."

"Uh..." What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

"Five minutes up! Switch partners!" Dr. Kale says, breaking the conversation. Bless her. Matt sighs a breath of relief, and Santana blows a kiss to him before walking away. Oh, shit.

"Kurt Hummel," one boy says, and sits in Santana's previous chair. "What did Santana say to you to scar you for life?"

"She told me about being a prostitute," Matt says. Kurt bursts out laughing, slapping his knee and holding his chest. After a few seconds, he wipes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"That's an original one!" Kurt says. "She told me she was a thief who became rich until her mom found all of the money."

Matt stares at him blankly, completely lost.

"She's a compulsive liar," Kurt explains. "That story she told you was completely false. She just likes to mess with the new kids."

"So when she told that girl Rachel all of that mean stuff, she didn't mean it?" Matt asks.

"No, that's all true. Rachel is a real pain in the ass."

"Oh."

"Here, want me to give you the run-down on all of the kids here?" he asks.

"Sure, I guess."

"Well, here's what I know." he points at the wheelchair kid Artie. "That guy is from Arizona. He got in a car accident a few years ago, mom died, and he freaked out. Started screaming. All of the time. His dad got worried, and sent him here.

"The kid with the Bieber kid is Sam Evans. He used to be really insecure because kids made fun of him in elementary school. He tried to be really cool, and go with all of the trends. He went from girl to girl, trying to feel good about himself, but they all cheated on him. I'm convinced he's gay." Kurt points over to Mike. "That's Mike Chang. He's one of the best dancers here, along with the girl Brittany. I don't know much about him, only that his Dad was not cool with his dancing. I think he tried to kill someone." Matt gapes at the seemingly goofy looking kid, then his eyes shift back to Kurt.

"And you?"

Kurt waves the question away. "Boring, really. I was bullied severely, and eventually got seriously injured. Was in rehab for several weeks, then was sent here."

"Why were you bullied?" he asks.

Kurt visibly flinches at the question, and inhales sharply. "Oh, nothing. Just Neanderthal idiocy, and the fear of non conformity, that's all."

"Oh." There's a feeling that Kurt's not telling Matt everything, but he quickly disregards it. It's none of his business, after all.

"Okay, that's all the time we have today!" Dr. Kale says. "Dismissed to the free room."

Everyone stacks the chairs, and Matt follows. Blaine approaches him, a friendly smile on his face.

"How was it?" he asks.

"Well, let's just say you have a lot of explaining to do."

**A/N: Anyone have a vote on who they would want Matt's love interest to be in the Asylum? It could be a boy or girl, tell me your preference!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I've gotten votes for Matty here to be with pretty much everyone. Okay, let's see...well, I'll tell you the two people I won't pair him up with: Rachel, Tina, Artie. There, does that limit things? Or, not...Just tell me who you WOULDN'T want him to be with...okay? **

The "free room" was a large carpeted room, with the walls painted beige as well (are all therapy related places beige? Is this a thing?) and contains the following:

A television (Quality: shitty)

A radio (signal: staticy)

Playing Cards (Usage: well worn, and with scribbled words on the back*)

Board Games (Fun Quality: the ones you find in grandmother's closet)

And a bookshelf with, well, books. (Upon closer look: all of them are about self esteem)

Fun.

Santana immediately marches to the radio and flicks it on. Murder Taxi For Pretty blares on. Or maybe it's Death Cab for Cutie. Does it matter? Sam turns on the TV to find George Lopez reruns, and pretty much all of the guys gather 'round, except for Kurt, who goes off with the other girls to, gossip, or something. Blaine leads Matt to the beanbag chairs in the corner, and he sinks into one. He never liked beanbag chairs, he could never lean back without lying down. This truly is prison, isn't it? Where the crazy come to sit all the time and amuse themselves with the other bat shit crazy patients. Blaine ruffles his gelled hair, causing it to stick up in odd places. He must use like, a bottle of gel a day in his hair.

"So, here's the down low," Blaine starts. The down low? Who says that anymore? "No smiling here. Absolutely none."

"Why not?" he asks.

"Because apparently murderers smile when their planning to kill." Blaine shrugs. "This place is weird, trust me, I know."

"Okay..." Matt says, already knowing that the second he stepped inside.

"Any specific questions?" Blaine asks.

"Uhhh..." Matt searches the room, and sees if there's anyone who stood out to him. "That girl. The blonde one, with the ponytail."

"Brittany?" Blaine offers.

"Yeah, her. She said something about voices."

"Oh. Britt's a schizophrenic."

"A skitzo fern whatsit?"

"Schizophrenic. Basically, she hears voices, named Thursday and 42, and they tell her to burn things and such."

"Uh...is there anyone slightly normal?"

Blaine hums, looking around. "Uh...well. Not really. Artie screams in his sleep, Kurt has mental breakdowns, Santana throws things, Mercedes storms off, Rachel pulls her hair out, Brittany starts to rock back and forth, and no one knows about Mike. He...just...twitches, and they take him into the detention room." Matt looks over to Mike, who is popping and locking to the song on the radio, laughing and smiling.

"What's the detention room?" Matt ask, turning back around.

Blaine rubs his neck. "It's a padded room."

"Is it all white and you have to wear a straight jacket?"

Blaine laughs. "No, it's beige-"

"I knew it!"

"-and no jacket. You're allowed to scream, punch the walls, stomp, whatever. As long as you do not physically harm yourself. It's a stress releaser."

Huh. "Have you had to go in there?"

"Me?" He puts a hand on his chest. "I, was pretty much a resident there for my first two weeks."

""B-b-b-but you seem alright," Matt asks, pulling his knees up to his chest.

"My dear roommate, there's more than meets the eye," he says.

Some random doctor, with a stubble beard and sharp eyes, peeks in. "Dinner time. Line up."

Matt watches in confusement as boys and girls broke off and went into separate lines at the door. Blaine without touching him, leads him to the boy's line.

"What's going on?" Matt whispers.

"Boys and girls take separate stairs to the cafeteria, prevents touching."

"Dude, what is up with this no-touching thing?" Matt asks.

"Well, let's just say we didn't have anyone breaking the rule until Puck and Santana were found passionately playing tongue twisters in a staff bathroom."

"Uh..."

"And by tongue twisters I mean-"

"I know what you mean!" Matt cuts him off. "Are we still allowed to sit next to girls in the cafeteria?"

"Sure. But the seats are separated, and the cafeteria is monitored."

"Prisoners," Matt mumbles.

The squeaky clean hallway is short, with paintings of happy flowers on the walls. Matt wishes he had his school binder to hold tight to, because he might just have a panic attack. Why does this place need to be so clean? Are the janitors millionaires? Should Matt get in the business of janitorial work in asylums? Does it have insurance for health? Mental health? Questions, questions. They distract Matt from over thinking other things. Like how long he might be stuck in this place.

If Matt thought the hallways were clean, the cafeteria is completely sterile. And Blinding. White. Everything is white except for the food and the people.

"I know, it's hideous," Kurt, who somehow appeared next to him, whispered. He probably saw Matt's horrified face. White is Matt's least favorite color. And that isn't racist, because he's not talking about skin.

Blaine leads him to the wide window with the food tray thingy. People shuffled along it, getting clean, healthy food dumped on their plates. One little girl was crying in the corner, sitting on the ground, and there was a 10 year old sticking french fries up his nose.

"So, just like the school cafeteria, huh?" Matt jokes. Blaine laughs, and gets them both a tray.

This was getting a little surreal.

The dinner is a skinless chicken breast and goldfish crackers. There are no knives, just plastic sporks. Sporks are evil, since they are neither spoon nor fork, and don't function like either. Matt already knows he's going to hate meal time.

The girls arrive as well, and they all crowd at one table. Matt's sitting between Blaine and Santana. Actually, Kurt was about to sit next to him so he could sit next to Mercedes, but Santana slid down.

"Hey, Newbie," she coos.

"It's. Matt..." Matt whispers. Blaine gives him a sympathetic look, but then gets into a heated discussion with Mike Chang.

"Want me to show you how I worked as an 'escort'?" she asks. Matt's eyes widen, and he quickly picks up his tray and moves next to Mike.

"Hello I'm Matt can I sit here please say yes," he says. Mike raises an eyebrow, but glances over at Matt's previous seat.

"Yeah, dude. Them bitches be crazy," he says.

"What?"

"Sorry," he says. "I heard it from a TV show. Can't remember for the life of me what it was though."

Blaine cleared his throat. "We were all just talking about whether or not video games are art."

"They totally are!" Mike buts in. "For example, the game Portal was totally a groundbreaking graphic design, and blew the perspective world."

"Video games are just for blasting stuff," Sam says. "Movies are art. Video games, no."

"I don't even think movies are. Only artwork is art, case closed," Blaine says.

"Super Mario Bros. is better than any DaVinci work," Puck jumps in.

"Halo is a valid argument for video games as art argument!" Artie says.

All of the girls simultaneously rolled their eyes at their argument, if that was even possible, except for Brittany, who mumbled something like "the nintendogs bit me..."

"Matt, what do you think of this?" Blaine asks. Matt freezes mid goldfish cracker. All male eyes are on him. Excluding Kurt.

Crap.

On a kebab.

"Uh..." Matt swallows the food in his mouth. "Well, looking back in history, people really didn't like any new introductions to art. Impressionist art was considered filth, but now it's widely popular and respected. Same with pop and modern art. But people still only consider the 'old fashioned' art valid, and they do have a point. Whether people like it or not, new art forms are presented constantly, and after much argument, accepted. That doesn't mean you yourself has to like it, or categorize it as such. So...yeah." He quickly looks down at his tray.

Everyone blinked, even the girls. Then they shrugged, nodded, and went back to eating.

"Finn would've agreed with me..." Puck mumbles.

"Impressive, newbie," Mike says to me in a low voice. "Never seen a new kid have a valid argument, they usually mumble something and/or have a freak out."  
"Thanks," Matt says.

**

* * *

**

After the horrifyingly average meal, Matt and Blaine are back in their room, brushing their teeth.

"So...who's this Finn guy Puck mentioned?" Matt asked casually.

"Technically, we're not allowed to talk about him..." Blaine says.

"Oh..." Matt mumbles.

Blaine takes a step closer, and leans into his ear.

"But, I will tell you this: apparently, there is a way to commit suicide here. No one knows how it's done, but a certain someone, maybe mentioned earlier, maybe not, achieved it. As far as anyone is concerned, you have no idea that this person existed. Ever," Blaine whispers.

"Why are you whispering?" Matt whispers.

"I have no way to prove this, but this room may be tapped. Or I'm paranoid. Either way, I don't want to risk getting too many points taken away."

"What are points?" Matt asks, going to normal level sound.

"To put it simply, get points. Do well. Get enough points, and you get out of here. Don't get taken away points. Have your points lowered enough, and you're sent to the psycho ward."

"How many points is enough to get out?"

"No clue." Blaine shrugs.

_**SLAM.**_

Matt spins towards the door. "What was that? Santana?"

"No." Blaine sighs. "You're about to see what Kurt does in his psycho state."

Yells and shouts come from the hallways. Blaine opens the door and goes out there.

Matt shrugs, and starts to follow.

This place is just getting weirder and weirder.

There are papers scattered everywhere, and there's some broken glass.

"Why is this happening to me?" A voice asks. Kurt is in the fetal position on the middle of the floor. Security guards are ready to pounce at any moment. People are poking their heads out of their rooms, curious about the scene. Some regard this as a normal happening, but people like Mercedes and Tina are worried. Blaine bites his lip, waiting to see what happens. Dr. Douche comes from a doorway, having a sympathetic mask on.

"Kurt, what's wrong?" Dr. Douche asks him.

"No, I don't want to talk to you, you ass!" Kurt shouts, burying his face in his lap. At least Matt's not the only one with a distaste for Dr. Douche.

"Kurt. What happened?" Blaine asks.

"Not you either, Blaine! Butt out!" Kurt calls. Blaine flinches, obviously hurt. Kurt's face is going red, but not with embarrassment. Matt recognizes it.

"Uh..." Matt says tentatively. "Kurt, I know it's hard. But you need to breathe."

"Why should I listen to you? You barely even know me!" Kurt says.

"True," he says. "But I do know what you're going through. You're forgetting to breathe."

"Fuck off!" Kurt shouts.

Matt doesn't flinch. "Kurt. Listen to me." He keeps his voice calm and cool.

Tears are streaming down Kurt's face. "It's so hard..." he chokes.

Dr. Douche is doing nothing except frantically writing notes on a pad. The security guards no longer see Kurt as a threat, so their shoulders are relaxed. Matt takes advantage of this, and takes steps towards Kurt, and places a hand on his shoulder.

"Inhale, dude," he says.

"Don't call me dude..." Kurt whispers, but he inhales deeply.

"Exhale."

He obeys, and shudders out a breath.

"I have no idea what really happened to you, Kurt," Matt says. "But that's your decision to tell me. Whether you do or not, know that it's never going to get truly better. It isn't. You'll still have the pain." Matt sits on the floor next to him. "But whenever the pain is so strong you can't take it, you really just have to breathe."

Kurt swallows, and breathes more. "Okay...okay. I feel a little better." He looks up at me, eyes wet with tears. "H-how did you know that I needed to breathe?"

"Past experience," Matt says, shrugging.

People are starting to go back into their room. Blaine lingers, not knowing what to do.

"What happened to you? How did you get here?" Kurt asks.

Matt pushes himself up, brushing off invisible germs.

"Let's just say...I forgot to breathe," he says, then walks back to the room. Blaine raises an eyebrow, but follows him eventually. Leaving Kurt sitting on the floor, gawking.

"You're a natural at that," Blaine says, closing the door behind them.

"Yeah...natural," Matt says, gulping hard, clenching his fists.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Some things are better left in the mind.

**Next Time: The youth Asylum is getting more and more curious with each passing second. Everyone has secrets, especially Matt. Why is Mike here, and what's with the twitches? What's the truth for Santana? Is Blaine hiding something? What is this mysterious Song Therapy, and the curly haired man running it? What's with all the questions? **

**Find out when you subscribe/review/read!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I should really be updating my other stories, but this one is pretty much the only one I haven't had TOTAL MIND NUMBING WRITER'S BLOCK WITH. **

**As for who Matt is going to end up with, PEOPLE ARE TOO DAMN INDECISIVE. So I'll keep hinting towards multiple partners, and you'll have to see who tickles your fancy(that sounds really wrong) and decide. **

_**Something you should know about me: **_**Some of you may already know this, but here's the thing: I don't usually do couples that have appeared in the show. Crack couples are usually my thing, because I like making them work. So all of you Puckleberry/Brittana/Klaine/Finchel fans will probably be disappointed. Sorry, folks. **

Matt wakes up in the middle of the night to complete silence. That's why he woke up, he guesses. At home, it's always noisy. His mother snoring, his little sister shifting in her squeaky bed every five seconds, and the trains that come late. He was used to it, and could sleep to it. But in this silence, Matt wakes up.

He searches for the glass of water on the nightstand next to him. Well, not a glass of water. The paper cup of water, because "glass is not permitted in the rooms". He takes a sip, and rubs his eyes. He wants to know what time it is, but he's not allowed a watch either, because it has glass in it. Matt rummages through the drawers of the nightstand, seeing if there might be a clock or something.

His fingers instead brush against a notebook. A notebook? Maybe it's Blaine's...

He pulls it out, and sees it's a regular school notebook. Matt gets closer to the window for some light, and squints to see the name on the front.

**FINN HUDSON.**

The same Finn that Blaine talked about earlier? The one that...is currently pushing up daisies? Matt liked to say 'pushing up daisies' better than 'dead', because daisies were always more comforting. Even though he no idea what it meant. Why are they pushing up flowers? How do you push up a flower? Matt shook his head, and opened it cautiously. The scrawled handwriting blended together in his exhausted state, but he bent his head closer and read the first paragraph.

_**Day 1**_

_**I'm not being lame for having a "journal", right? It's definitely not weird. I just need to have some sort of place to write what the hell is going on here. This place is insane. Which is, what's the word, ironic, because this is supposed to make me un-crazy. Make me forget. Like I could forget. Never. Anyways, I came here, and this asshole of a doctor reminded me how messed up my life is. Then I went into my room, and a guy with curly hair, who calls himself Blaine, said hello. He seems okay. I went for breakfast in the pure white cafeteria, and the grub sucks. This guy named Puck flipped me off. I'm not sure if I'm going to like it here, but it's sure better than out there.**_

Matt yawned, out of tired-ness, not boredom. He would have to read more tomorrow. He placed it gently back in the drawer, and resolved not to tell anyone that he had found it. They'd probably take it away, and he wanted to know if it talks about what made him decide to push daisies. He yawned again, and shut his eyes.

* * *

Six. Freaking. AM. That's ridiculous. Matt doesn't even get up that early at home. He usually rolls out of bed fifteen minutes before school starts. Now, a nurse comes in and shakes the blankets off of us, exposing him to the freezing cold of the morning. It's like a boot camp. For the psychos. Blaine and him are ushered into the showers, remembrance of locker rooms. There are no walls or glass separating the shower necks sticking out of the walls. But everyone gets issued their own soap, the joys! Other guys shuffle in, turning the nozzles on. Matt follows, and is hit with a blast of arctic cold water. He squeals (yes, squeals) and stumbles back. Blaine chuckles, eyes still on the tile wall in front of him.

"You get used to it. Kind of," he says.

Matt groans, goes back to the shower, and shivers through a quick wash. He doesn't need to shampoo yet, but his hair is starting to grow. Wonder if they give buzz cuts, or if the hair razor could be deemed 'hazardous'. Everyone squeezes their eyes shut, not attempting to make conversation. Which is understandable, because trying to make idle chit chat while naked and freezing is a little awkward. Some guys hum quietly to themselves, though. Kurt has fifty billion shampoos to go through, and takes the longest out of all of us. Oh, yeah. Never told you the best part. There's a guard watching us. WATCHING US. Well, not staring at us. He really just stares ahead. How the hell would any of them figure out to self harm in this place? Stuff their throats with soap?

Speaking of soap, Matt is careful not to drop his. He's heard the rumors about dropping the soap in prison, and he doesn't want to find out if a mental hospital's showers still apply to this.

The (male) nurses give them nice plush towels to dry off with. At least they go all out of the toweling here. Is the girls shower just as monitored? Do they have girl guards? Can they drop the soap worry-free? Even more questions. Matt has a lot of those.

They're back in their rooms to get dressed for breakfast. Matt is slightly more awake after the shower, and pulls on some simple jeans and a bulky sweatshirt. Blaine has some get up with a snazzy jacket and classy jeans. He gels his hair back, and it reminds Matt of Link Larkin from the Hairspray musical's hair. Uh, he means, it would remind him of Hairspray if he actually saw that musical. Ha. Ha...

Breakfast is cheerios or frosted mini wheats. Most of the guys go for the frosted, but him and Kurt get the cheerios.

"Good for my figure," Kurt says as he gets a bowl.

"I just like the bee that tells everyone what to do," Matt replies. Kurt gives him a faint smile, no teeth and very subtle, and Matt takes that as a win. He secretly makes it a goal to make everyone a little happier, because Matt's just that kind of person. Too bad he can't make anyone smile bigger. Stupid rules.

People aren't talking much, just shoving sporkfuls of whatsit into their mouths.

It's disturbingly close to eating with a bunch of retired old people.

Scary.

* * *

More unfortunate news: Matt has school. Well, not actual school. It's just where you're in a classroom, and you get your assignments from your real school. You have "study buddies" that help you ("But not give you the answers!" Dr. Douche says) but they have to be of the same sex. Haha. Sex. ...Anyways! Matt gets paired up with that Asian guy Mike. Is it okay to identify by race? Is that racist?

"Hey, new kid!" Mike says, giving me a high five as we sit. By fist pound, Matt means high fiving the air next to the other person's high five, as per the no touch rule.

"I call myself Matt, actually," Matt says.

"Okay, no more new kid, then!" Mike says, holding his hands up in a joking fashion. "Good to have a study buddy again."

"Who was your old study buddy?" he asks.

"Oh, this guy named Finn,"

"What happened to him?" he asks. Mike chuckles nervously.

"All of these questions, young skywalker!" Mike squats on the desk/chair combo, and pulls out a pre. calc book, and Matt follows, getting the history textbook his social studies teacher sent him.

"You a math geek?" Matt asks.

"Hey, I'm Asian. It's in my blood," Mike starts scribbling out complex equations with ease. "What about you? History buff?"

"Kind've. I find it interesting. Except for all of the African history." Matt points at Mike. "Just for clarification, only I can say that African history is boring."

"Isn't that like a reverse racism?" Mike asks.

Matt shrugs. "Who cares?"

Mike's eyes smile (creepy image there, sorry) and slaps the desk lightly. "We're going to be friends here, dude. I just know it."

Matt nodded, and went back to his history book.

At least he's making friends, which is more than he can say at home.

He was really getting into the details on WWI (Francis Ferdinand was murdered! People are outraged! A band named Franz Ferdinand forms 100 years later! It all ties together!) when another nurse person comes in.

"Song Therapy, guys," she says. People silently cheer, and all shove the books back into the shelves they have. Matt slowly stands up, unsure what to do.

"Come on, it's fun," Mike says, and leads him with the rest of the group.

They bring us to a room with colorful plastic chairs in a circle. There's a man with curly gelled hair in one of them strumming an acoustic guitar. People like Puck and Artie pick up electric guitars. The drums are unused, and Rachel bites her lip like she's going to cry when she looks at them. Curious. The girl Quinn comes up to me and gives a secret closed lipped smile.

"Hey, you're Matthew, right?" she asks.

"Yeah, but Matt is just fine."

"Welcome, then. Song Therapy is fun, trust me. You'll like it." She looks around. "Hm. I would advise you to introduce yourself to everyone you haven't officially met before we begin. People are best when they're around others they know."

Matt nods, and she walks away just as Blaine comes up.

"She's bulimic, and has post-postpartum depression," Blaine whispers in his ear. Matt nods. It's nice to have information. That means Quinn must have been pregnant. He looks after the kind girl talking quietly with some people. Guess there's more than one side to everyone.

Rachel hops up to them, and nods her head feverishly at Matt, the equivalence of a hand shake. "Hi, I'm Rachel Berry, future star."

"Hi," Matt says, kind of intimidated.

"If you're off pitch, then I suggest you just lip synch and sway. That's best, okay? Okay!" then she hops off again.

"She's a perfectionist and has narcissistic personality."

"Those aren't disorders, they're really just flaws."

"Not with Rachel. Hers are extreme. She's not happy if things are perfect, and starts to pull her hair out if it's not, then bursts into tears. It takes her two hours to clean her room in the morning, so she gets up really early."

"Oh." Two hours? That's crazy. Matt barely even picks up his clothes. He continues to look around to see what others might have. "What about Puck?"

"Hm." Blaine watches the mohawk guy tune the guitar. "He's actually really interesting. He has Impulse Control disorder, which gives him a whole set of stuff. Pyromania, pathological gambling, kleptomania, and a whole other batch. Actually, those usually only last until 15, so that's what makes it so fascinating."

Matt studies this Impulse guy. Maybe he's stuck in a phase? Immaturity? For a reason, probably. If only he could take notes. Unfortunately, he couldn't find out anyone elses's disorders, because the man with the curly hair called them together.

"Okay, welcome back guys." He claps his hands. "Now, we have a new person to our therapy sessions. Matt, want to say what you're strengths are?"

He gulps. "Uh, I dance?"

"Awesome. We need a lot more dancers. I'm Mr. Schuester, but you can call me Will." He slings his guitar into place. "Let's start off with some alternative rock, okay guys?"

Everyone nods, happy.

Tina starts on the keyboard, with Puck and Artie following. Santana is shaking some maracas.

_Don't get mad if I'm laughing  
__Blame the caffeine for all the 5 am phone calls  
I haven't slept a single night in over a month  
And not even once did you start to make sense to me  
Well maybe I'm a little bit slow, or just consistently inconsistent  
She said, "Unpredictability's my responsibility, baby."_

All of the guys are singing, with the girls echoing. Matt hesitantly joins in, and sees Mike pop and locking. He asks with his eyebrows if he can join, and then jumps in whole heartedly.

_But you're waiting at the door where everybody's hanging out just like they hung out before  
You didn't have to do it but you did it to say  
That you didn't have to do it but you would anyway _

It launches into the chorus, and everyone's singing now, all together.

_To give you something to go on when I go off back to the middle of nowhere  
To give you something to go on when I go off back to the middle of nowhere_  
Puck starts in on a solo, totally rocking it. This is really cool. I'm...having fun.

_They chewed me up and then they spit me out  
And I'm not supposed to let it bother me  
But maybe I'm a little bit weak - I let my frailty take the wheel  
She said, "Maybe there's a bit of me waiting for a bit of you. baby." _

_To give you something to go on when I go off back to the middle of nowhere  
To give you something to go on when I go off back to the middle of nowhere  
To give you something to go on - to go on back to the middle of nowhere ._

"That was awesome!" Mr. S says, laughing. Then he quickly stops. "Sorry, forgot about the no smiling rule. Now, how did that make you feel?"

Matt raised his hand. "Really good."

"That's good! Letting out your emotions." He turns to Tina on the keyboard. "I heard you had a song for us. Care to share?"

Tina nods, and Mr. Schuester gives Puck his acoustic. She takes a deep breath, and sings.

_The mighty continents divided  
For a second time in all history  
They found themselves just floating  
Free from all responsibility  
Without the weight of being whole  
Some flew seaward all on their own _

It's really pretty. Blaine backs her up, echoing her words. Mercedes squeezes Tina's pinky.

_But if you want something back  
All the things that got cracked  
When i felt like you lied to me  
And all the million mistakes  
And the kicks in the face..._

Tina starts to choke up, and the song stops. She collapses to her knees, wiping her eyes. "Sorry," she whispers.

"It's okay, Tina. What did that song start to represent?"

"M-m-my dad. I started to remember all of the abuse." She bursts into the water works.

"What's going on?" Matt asks Mike.

"Oh. Tina's an abuse survivor. Her dad beat her and her mom didn't have a backbone. After her brother killed himself, she went off the edge, metaphorically."

"How sad..." he mumbles.

"She's getting better, though. Song Therapy helps. Mr. Schuester even says that we might be able to go into competition against actual schools."

Matt scoffs. "Can we be called the Cookoo SongBirds?"

"We're called the New Directions, because Will says that with this hospital, we're going into a brighter direction of being healthy."

Looking at the broken frailness of the kids here, Matt is doubtful of this apparent "direction" this is going into.

It's like glass. Sometimes, it looks pretty and functions normally. But when it gets a crack, it's suddenly fragile, threatening to fall apart.

When is Matt going to fall apart?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, guys. I want you all to raise your hand and say, "Whoever Matt ends up with, I will not let it upset me." Did you do it? Good. Because his romance will not be a HUGE part of the story. The main story is the therapy, and some other things.. ;)**

_Matt swung his legs back and forth on the porch, clutching his bottle of root beer. He always tore off the label on the root beer, so then it looked like he was drinking beer like his dad. Like a man. Although Matthew was only 9, he could enjoy the evening. He gazed at the sky and stared at the cotton candy clouds, and adjusted the cap on his head. _

"_Son, can we talk?" his dad said, sitting next to him, an actual beer in hand. _

"_Sure," he said, taking a sip._

"_Have your teachers told you about the war going on?"_

"_Uh..." he licked his sticky fingers. "I guess. I don't know. It's boring. Why?"_

"_I'm going to be a soldier," he said, and took a sip of his beer._

_Matt looked up, eyes locking with his dad's. "Like, going away to shoot people?"_

"_Yes, son. Going away and shooting people."_

"_Cool! Finn's daddy is doing that too."_

"_Yes, Mr. Hudson and I are signing up. Are you good friends with Finn?"_

"_Not really. He's just in my class. I think he looks like a potato."_

_His dad gives his booming laugh, and claps Matt on the back. "Don't be mean, son. But this means that you're going to have to help out your mom and big sis take care of the house."_

"_Okay, Dad." _

_His dad rumples his cap, and goes back inside, leaving Matt to enjoy the sunset._

_His dad's gonna be a hero, and everything's gonna be awesome._

* * *

Matt rubs his eyes. Waking up in the middle of the night again.

Although...

Finn. He HAD known him. He was in his third grade class. For like, two quarters. Who would blame him for forgetting? Speaking of that...

He digs around the drawers until he finds that journal, and flips it open to the next page.

_**Day 3**_

_**They had parent calls today. My mom called. She was crying and stuff. I talked to her for a little bit, about the food and my roommate, until she asks,**_

"_**Are you feeling a little better about, about what's happened?"**_

_**I hung up. How dare she? She can't even say what happened! How the hell am I supposed to feel better about it after only three days? This place sucks. No Xbox, no cell phone, no friends. **_

_**Nobody gets me here. The doctors treat me like I'm an idiot and the other patients act like I'm just a goofy carefree person. I hate this. I want to go home-no, not even that. If I don't want to be home, and not anywhere else, then what do I want?**_

_**Anything but this.**_

Wow. Angsty. But Matt can understand. Nobody can truly get what anyone is going through. But what was Finn talking about? What did happen to him?

"Hey, what the hell?" Blaine asks, just waking up. Matt quickly shut the notebook and shoved it back in the drawer.

"Sorry for waking you," he says.

"Nah, it's cool." Blaine rubs his eyes and sits up. "Bad dreams or something?"

"One of those memory dreams."

"I get those all of the time." he yawns, and stretches. "Okay, I'm awake. Wanna have some fun?"

"In a mental hospital?"

"Sure." He stands up and takes out a retainer. It gloops onto the case. Gross. "Come on." He tiptoes to his dresser, and pulls out two objects that Matt can't make out in the dark. He tosses one to Matt, and he realizes it's one of those blowhorn things, where you press the button and this loud noise comes out. He also tosses Matt a roll of duct tape.

"Okay, on three, you put the tape over the button, and we toss them out in the hall. Got it?" Matt nods. "Great. 1...2...3!"

Matt hurriedly tapes over the button, and the sound emits like a mother-. Blaine follows, and they both open the door and throw it blindly into the halls.

The sound blares on, along with the sounds of people whining and complaining, emerging from their rooms. Matt and Blaine follow, pretending to be annoyed and confused with everyone else.

"What the hell is up with this racket?" Mercedes asks.

"I need my beauty sleep, people!" Kurt whines.

"I was having an amazing dream..." Puck mumbles.

"A wet dream, Puckerman?" Santana asks.

"Ewwwww!" Rachel squeals.

The nurse on night duty comes out, face hard and angry.

"What the hell is going on here?" she yells over the noise. "Whoever did this will-...Mike?" Everyone turns to the asian boy in the corner. He's twitching uncontrollably.

"Make it stop..." he whispers. The nurse quickly takes off the duct tape from the noise maker things, and rushes over to him.

"Come on, let's go to the detention room," she coos.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," he whimpers, and soon him and the nurse are gone. People linger, staring at the spot where they last were.

"Is that...?" the question is left open ended, Matt asking it.

"Mike's...oddity? Supposedly. Nobody has seen what goes on in there, though."

"Makes me feel kind of guilty..."

"Yeah."

People awkwardly shuffle back into their beds, all in their own private conversations.

Matt crawls back into bed. Except for that last part, that whole thing was kinda fun. He hasn't done silly pranks in a while...by which he means never.

He turns on his back, arms cross behind his head, sighing. This is all so confusing. Everyone's this puzzle piece, with their own oddity to go with it, and when you put them together, you get the asylum. Not a very pretty picture.

"Hey, Blaine?" Matt asks, the words echoing through the room?

"Yeah?" a grumbled voice asks.

"What...what happened to you? Why are you here?"

There was a very long pressured silence.

…

..

.

"Goodnight, Matt," Blaine finally muttered, question never answered.

There's only one word that could describe this place.

Curious.

_Fifth grade Matt is very uninterested with his surroundings. All he cares about is lasting through the day then bolting to dance class. His mom wants him to quit; it costs extra money and he needs to be home to take care of the new baby. It's days like this that Matt wishes his dad was back. Karofsky was going to try to fight him after school today, well, that's what everyone's been saying. He calls Matt __things like "Mama's boy" and "Dancing faggot". He doesn't know what "faggot" means, but it sounds spiteful and mean whenever Karofsky says it._

_He kicks a stone on the pavement, watching the kids laughing while they play on the playground. Matt stares with empty eyes, uninterested in the world around him. _

_He just wants himself to be okay._

* * *

Matt wakes up again, at 6am, head pounding. Stupid memories.

No showers today. Just straight to breakfast, then Partner Talk, whatever that is. Mike Chang doesn't speak during breakfast, just stares at the spoon he's holding. Matt tries to jump into one or two conversations, but eventually giving up. Mornings are just not good for him.

Dr. Kale clasps her hands together as everyone hops in, perky as parrots. Or poodles. Whatever. Matt's still exhausted. "Welcome to group therapy! As you know, it's Wednesday, so what does that mean?"

Rachel raises her hand, and before even being called on, says, "It's Partner Talk day, where we spend the whole period talking with a partner about our feelings, dreams, wishes-"

"Shut it, Berry," Santana says. "We get it."

"Santana, enough. Yes, Rachel, that's exactly it. So, I'm going to list the partners for today..."

She starts to say random names, and Matt tunes her our. Must...sleep...so...tired...

..

…

….

…

..

.

"Matt?" A voice asks. He snaps awake like a rubber band, eyes looking blindly around.

"Wha-" he sputters.

"You looked like you were falling asleep there," Sam says, amused. "Still tired from the sounds last night?"

"That, and other things. Are you my partner?"

"Yeah, didn't you hear?"

"No. Kinda zoned out there."

"S'okay." Sam turns a seat around to face Matt, and sits in it. He extends his hand. "I'm Sam. We've never been formally introduced."

Matt takes the hand, shaking it. "Matt. I'm the new guy."

"I was, but then you came along." He flips his hair out of his eyes, and places his hands on his lap. "'Kay, so what do you want to know about me? Ask away."

Matt thinks about this. There's a lot, he could ask why he's here, what he thinks of life, other crap, but he decides to ask, "What makes you different from everyone else here?"

"Oooh. Nice question." He rubs his chin. "Uh, well, I have dyslexia, so school is tough for me. I think I'm the only one here who thinks the 6am wake up time isn't so unreasonable."

"Yeah, you probably are." Well, there's some more info. But Matt can't help but feel this nagging tug that Sam isn't telling him everything. No matter. He's bound not to tell a stranger that on the first day. "Any questions for me?" Matt asks.

"Yes. Why are you here?"

"I already told everyone. I got depressed and bummed out eventually, and I just came here, I guess."

Sam hums, locking his eyes with mine. "You're a dirty liar. A bad one at that Dude, get a backstory. I don't care if it's true or not, but at least make it better than 'I was just bummed out'.

"Interesting observations, Sam." Matt bites his thumb nail. "What do you suggest for my backstory?"

Sam leans forward, studying me. "Well, you look like a victim of some sorts. What if you were kidnapped along with your nine year old sister, and was tortured endlessly. You came home, and was traumatized. Parents mistook it as depression, and shipped you off here."

"That sounds like a lie Santana would say."

Sam chuckles, cracking his knuckles harmlessly. "I guess. But I prefer to call my lies 'stories'. And my stories have more class than hers."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sam," Matt says.

"Speaking of sleeping, you look like you haven't had any in days, Rutherford." Matt subconsciously rubs his eyes, trying to get the tired out of them. "Sleep troubles?"

"Is is that weird that I'm restless lying in a foreign bed in a mental hospital?"

"Not for the first days. But usually people develop tricks to help them sleep."

"Like what?"

Sam looks across the room, at one of the barred windows. The sky outside is a foggy grey, and the sun is no where to be seen. It's the first time Matt's seen the outside in days. Sam snaps back to me. "I recite the names of the planets and the gods that rule them in my head. If that doesn't work, I make up stories about the greek gods watching me, deciding if I'm worthy of anything great."

"What's the answer they give?" Matt asks, leaning forward.

"They always seem to say,'No more chances.'" Sam's voice is in a low whisper.

"But doesn't everyone get, like, three?"

"Yeah...they do." He stares at his folded hands in his lap. "But for me, no more chances."

There's so much more underneath the surface in these people.

"Partner Talk over, everyone!" Dr. Kale says. "Go to the schoolroom for your work!"

* * *

Matt and Mike sit at their linked desks, not speaking. Mike's furiously scribbling out math equations, and Matt is trying to give a fuck about history today. Today...is just not a day for learning.

So Matt takes out a notebook that the asylum's provided for them, and he decides to write out a cast list for the Asylum. Sort of like a guide to the people here.

**The Asylum's People Index**

**by Matt Rutherford**

**Dr. Douche – hideous jerk therapist who's terrible at faking sympathy. Gives crap advice. Do not listen to. At all costs.**

**Dr. Kale- kind of nice therapist who runs Group Therapy and sometimes supervises the schoolroom. Is obsessed with putting people together in partners. **

**Blaine Anderson-roommate with curly restless hair and a foot phobia. Doesn't answer questions about past. Likes pranks. **

**Kurt Hummel -patient with a former bully problem and a tendency to forget to breath. Has mental freak outs.**

**Rachel Berry – self obsessed overachiever. Seems to miss something. Narcissistic and perfectionist. **

**Santana Lopez- compulsive liar. Never tells the truth about why she's here. **

**Brittany Pierce – schizophrenic dancer. Has voices in her head that tell her to burn things. **

**Mike Chang- Asian dancer. Math whiz and friendly guy. Twitches.**

**Mercedes Jones- fellow black person. That's all.**

**Quinn Fabray -friendly girl. Was once pregnant, now depressed. Has good advice.**

**Noah Puckerman -Impulsive, and overall bad boy. Or maybe not. **

**Sam Evans -Observant story teller. Falls asleep to his own greek god worries. **

**Tina Cohen-Chang -Abuse survivor. Brother committed suicide. Breaks down crying a lot, apparently. Hates Artie's outfits.**

**Artie Abrams -Cool glasses guy in a wheelchair. Screams in sleep.**

**Will Schuester -Song Therapy teacher. Likes people to call him by his first name. Seems a little confused on how to help the patients.**

**Emma Pillsbury -Therapist, not from the Asylum. Hope to see her again, she's actually one of the nicer therapists.**

**Finn Hudson -former asylum member and Blaine's former roommate before committed suicide. Keeps journal in notebook.**

After a few minutes, Matt hastily puts in:

**Matt Rutherford -New kid who doesn't know any sleep tricks yet and just wants to go home before he can learn any. Bad liar, with a bad lie as a back-story. Needs new one. **

There, that pretty much sums everyone up.

Mattt looks up from his notebook, watching the minute hand on the clock tick by. Only half an hour left...

Well, maybe he could just lay his head on the desk and sleep, just for a few minutes...

...

...

...

..

.

..

...

...

...

"FIRE!" A shrill voice screams. Mike shakes him awake, and Matt opens his eyes. The first thing he notices is the taste of smoke in his mouth and the overpowering smell of it in the air. People are panicking and running around like madmen. Dr. Kale is trying desperately to calm everyone.

"All of my stuff will burn!" Mercedes shouts.

"How will I get out?" Artie calls.

"Wait, where's Puck?" Santana asks. Everyone freezes like Popsicles in a fridge, frantically looking around the room.

_Puck's actually really interesting. He has Impulse Control disorder, which gives him a whole set of stuff. Pyromania, pathological gambling, kleptomania, and a whole other batch. ..._

Pyromania.

"Did he start the fire?" Matt asks.

...

"THAT MOTHER FUCKER!" Santana shouts.

"Santana!" Dr. Kale scolds. Not really the time for a lecture on cussing. "We don't know that for sure. Now, everyone calmly line up, and we'll exit to the safety room."

Matt lines up behind Brittany and Kurt, and in front of Blaine. Kurt's biting his lip and almost crying, and Brittany looks like she's in deep thought. Which is weird.

What is the safety room?

And how the hell did Puck manage to start a fire in an asylum?

_**In a mad world, only the mad are sane**_

_ -**Akira Kurosawa **_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: He's not annoying in this, right? Matt? He's alright? RIGHT? I'm not really a comedian, I just sort of have odd thoughts. So...that's where a large amount of my humor comes from. I'm fishing for compliments here, people. LOVE. ME. I love you guys!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except the laptop I'm typing on. And me. So Me is © me. And glee is © Fox and Ryan and Ian and Brad.**

The safe room is very small, has two benches, facing opposite each-other and conjoined to the walls. The walls are beige.

Beige.

Must he say more?

Dr. Kale ushers them into the benches, and double triple quadruple locks the door. Matt sits uncomfortably between Blaine and Brittany. Puck has somehow managed to join up with them, and sits cautiously on the floor.

"Puck, did you start the fire?" Dr. Kale asks calmly.

"Why does it have to be me?" Puck shouts. "Just because I have some issues, doesn't-"

"Just inquiring. You were away from the room when it happened," she points out.

"I was in the bathroom, cheesus," he says. His throat catches on the 'cheesus', and he suddenly looks into his lap, hands tight.

Brittany bursts into tears, sniffling.

"Brittany?" Matt asks. He was about to squeeze her shoulder, but he remembers the no touch rule. Is crying incessantly a symptom of schizophrenia?*

_"Oh. Britt's a schizophrenic."_

_"A skitzo fern whatsit?"_

_"Schizophrenic. Basically, she hears voices, named Thursday and 42, and they tell her to burn things and such."_

He had gotten it wrong.

Puck had never started the fire.

"Brittany did," he says aloud. All eyes are on the blubbering blonde.

"...Brittany? Did you start the fire?" Dr. Kale asks.

"They told me too! Thursday said you all deserved it!" she cries.

"What have I told you about listening to the voices, Brittany?" Dr. Kale asks.

"42 said you would say that! 42 says that you're all lying to me!" her voice is becoming shriek, and she covers her hands with her ears, humming loudly.

"I'm just wondering how she managed to burn the place down under supervision..." Matt muttered to Blaine.

"I'm guessing she kept a lighter out of sight from inspection," Blaine whispered back. "Or something."

There's a bang-or knock-at the door. "Fire's out, you can come out," a gruff voice tells them.

Once all of the teenagers are outside in the hallway, the firefighters asses the situation professionally. Matt hears snippets and bits of their conversations with the therapists.

"Some of the rooms aren't badly burned, but still toxic with smoke. Might need to keep them out for the night..."

"We could keep them in the main therapy room..."

"...extra sleeping bags..."

"Pair them up..." that was from Dr. Kale.

Matt rolls his eyes, annoyed at the already familiar and expected responses. He focuses his attention half on the plastic plants around him and half on the small groups already forming in the corridor. Is that right? Corridor. Oh, whatever.

Occasionally, someone glances over at Brittany, crouching in a corner, and glares. Brittany is alone, tracing something invisible in the tiles. Matt sighs, and gets up, walking over to the blonde girl and sitting next to her.

"Hi," he says. She doesn't react, and keeps doing...whatever the hell she's doing. Matt notices how shaken up she is. Her hair is wild, eyes darting and uncertain, hands constantly shaking-

"You're the one who knew," she mutters.

"Knew what?"

"That Thursday told me to burn this place," she whispers. She shifts her weight, from her feet to her butt, and fully sits. She stares up at the ceiling. Her eyes seem to be following something, but when Matt looks up, there's nothing.

"I guess." he clears his throat. "Why did Thursday tell you to burn it?"

Her sight breaks from the ceiling, and they meet with Matt's. "Thursday says that you and everyone else is trying to kill Thursday and 42." Her voice is so sincere and un-wavering that in sends weird chills down Matt's arms. Brittany looks back up at the ceiling. Matt looks too, still not seeing anything.

"Why do they think that?" he asks. Brittany sees him looking at the ceiling, and her eyes widen with hope, mouth opening slightly in a smile. She quickly wipes it away, though, glancing at the therapists still talking.

"Do you see them?" she whisper asks excitedly. "Nobody has been able to see them!"

Matt's heart pangs with sympathy. This poor girl has had people calling her crazy all her life. It would mean the world to her if someone shared her insanity. Even if that someone was lying.

No. He can't lie to her; that can't be good for her mind. "No, I can't," he says apologetically. Her eyes cast downward, and her mouth forms a grim line.

"Oh," she whispers, about to choke into tears again.

Matt bites his lip. "I'm sorry. But maybe you could describe them to me?"

Her eyes sparkle a bit again. "Okay!"

"Brittany!" Santana snaps. They both stared up, gazing at the tall Latina girl glaring down at us with a tight scowl on her face. "Don't talk to him!"

"B-b-but...Thursday and 42 say that I can trust him..." she murmurs. Both Santana and Matt have an equal expression of shock on their faces. Santana's quickly fades.

"Come on, and forget about those two!" she says, mentioning Thursday and 42, and ushers Britt away, leaving Matt sitting in a corner alone.

* * *

They rolled out sleeping bags in the main therapy room, and paired us up. Matt has no idea why they're paired up. Don't ask him. He has no answer.

"We're pairing you only with the members of the same sex, people!" Dr. Douche announces.

"Lame!" Santana groans. Matt shivers.

Why can't they just pair them up with their roommates? Blaine's alright, although a bit hobbit-ish. Sometimes Matt just wants to shake someone by their shoulders, and say, "IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE! NONE OF IT! SHOOT ME!"

But then they'd label him as suicidal. And he'd have to go into complete lock-down. Matt may hate it here, but he'd rather put up with everyone else 's insanity than his own.

Anyways.

Dr. Douche drones off names. God, he can't even bother listening to this guy's voice. It's so awful, it's like sticking several toothpicks in your ears then-

This place really is causing him to be one of them.

"...and Matt and Artie are in the left corner..." Dr. Douche continues.

Artie momentarily sticks out his tongue in disgust.

Is Matt that unappealing? Seeing how he just compared listening to a man's voice as brutally hurting yourself, it's not that hard to imagine.

He shuffles himself into a scratchy barf blue sleeping bag, flinching at the loud sounds it makes with every shift. Artie gets assistance to lie in his. The doctors tell them all to shush, and turn off the lights, leaving the room.

Of course, everyone immediately starts talking.

"Hey," Matt says. Artie lays his head on his arms, facing Matt.

"Hello. Artie Abrams. My middle name is awesome, so my initials are AAA. Triple A." He smiles to let Matt know he's joking.

"Why is Dr. Kale so obsessed with pairs?" Matt asks, trying to start a topic.

"I don't know," Artie says. He closes his eyes and mouths something.

"What are you doing?" Matt asks.

"My sleep trick," he says.

"Which is," Matt prods.

One of Artie's eyes snaps open. "Never you mind."

Matt flinches, and shifts his position so he's facing the wall. Does everyone have a sleep trick in here?

What could help him fall asleep? Surveying his surroundings, it seemed like everyone else had lulled themselves under. Matt sighs, and lays his head on his pillow.

Sirens are heard off in the distance on the outside of the walls, probably in the streets below. Matt's heart catches in his throat, aching for the sounds of the real world. He squirms out of the sleeping bag, stands up, and walks quietly towards the back wall, pressing an ear against it. Shouts, car engines, even laughter could be heard if Matt listened really delicately.

"Eerily beautiful, huh?" a voice asks, an octave above a whisper.

"How so?" Matt wonders, not bothering to see who it is.

"The urban life. It lives on, even when we can't see it."

Matt turns to the speaker. Tina's steady eyes stare back up at him. "Hello," she adds. "Still up? It's understandable." her voice is breathy and light, unquestioning.

"I don' have a sleep trick," Matt explains.

She plays with a loose thread on her sleeping bag. "Neither do it. It's hard to close your eyes when every time you do, your mind replays every bruise, cut, punch, and scream."

"Do you need to...talk about it?"

Tina chuckles. It sounds hollow and raw in this room. "Talking is for those who have an emotional problem. I just want to sleep."

"S-s-should I leave?"

"The problem isn't you, it's me. I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in three years."

"What happened three years ago?"

"My father came back from rehab."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Matt was never good with parental problems. Not when he was only around one for a huge chunk of his life.

Tina clears her throat, and starts singing so softly that at first Matt doesn't even know she's speaking.

Then he hears it.

"_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, _

_never let it fade away..."_

People stir from their sleep, some already awake. Most join in, humming along.

"_Catch a falling star an' put it in your pocket,  
Save it for a rainy day."  
_Matt silently slipped back into his sleeping bag.

_For love may come an' tap you on the shoulder,  
Some star-less night!  
Just in case you feel you wanna' hold her,  
You'll have a pocketful of starlight! _

Matt starts to blink, edges of his sight fading.

…

_Never let it fade away..._

* * *

"_HEY FAGGOT!"_

_Matt tenses, turning around slowly. Since fifth grade, he's learned exactly what that word means. That insult. _

_The Dancing Faggot._

"_Yes?" Matt asks, becoming face to face with Karofsky. _

"_It's the last day of school," Karofsky says lightly. _

"_Congratulations on consulting the calender," Matt responds. He's terrified on the inside._

"_That means we've graduated from stupid grade school."_

"_It also means that I won't be seeing you again, Karofsky," Matt adds._

"_It ALSO means, that we no longer go to this school. So I can kick your ass, right now in the streets, and that asshole of a principal can't suspend me or nothing."_

"_Go ahead," Matt sighs. "I really don't care. Let me feel something."_

"_Goddamn, you're such a faggot."_

"_I guess I am, since everything you say is true. Hit me."_

"_What the hell is wrong with you?"_

"_HIT ME!" Matt shouts, giving Karofsky's chest a shove. "You're a coward. You can hit me all you want but you're accomplishing is hurting yourself."_

"_Don't dump your all-knowing wisdom on me, Rutherford!"_

"_Fine, Dave." He marches face to face to the snot nosed brat's. "Hit me."_

"_Wish granted."_ _And fist meets mouth._

* * *

Matt clutches the scratchy fabric of the sleeping bag, sweating profusely.

"Fuck," he breathes.

The morning light is making everything a light grey, and the only noises are the occasional shuffling of positions of the other people, plus the mouth breathers.

"Rooms clean! Everyone can go back inside!"

People groan their way from sleep, then bounce up. Unlimited energy, these ones. Matt works his way through the mass of packing people back into the hallway.

He walks down the hallway like an undead zombie, which is pretty redundant. Undead zombie. Hm.

He's so tired that he doesn't even notice a small ginger haired woman talking with a receptionist and wiping her hands with wet naps.

He doesn't notice her spotting Matt, and nearly breaking into a wide smile.

"Happy birthday, Matt!" she whispers as he walks by.

Matt freezes, facing her. "Ms. Emma?" His eyes light up, and he resists the urge to embrace her, remembering her phobia.

"Hey, kiddo. I've come to visit you," she says.

Matt grins, then ruefully wipes it off. "It's my birthday?" He hasn't been keeping track of dates, even before he came here.

"Happy seventeenth, Matt. We have a lot to talk about."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I know you're all going _insane _not knowing anybody's history, but I'd like to ask: Out of everyone in the asylum, who's are you most curious about? Tell me, and I might develop more on it sooner. Except Matt. It'll be a slow, painful wait for Matt's backstory. Though, I do want some suggestions on how to bring Sue into this. I really want to, but I have no idea how. **

**Reviews are drugs, and I have a prescription.**

Emma points her finger in a direction of a connecting hallway. "Come on, we need to get to the office."

Matt blindly follows her down twisting stairs and corridors. "Office? Do you work here?"

"Oh, Matt. You know I'm very attached to you, having known you for three years, and when I signed you up for this institute, I kindly, and curtly, more or less demanded that I was allowed to see you and talk to you whenever I wanted. It took some convincing, but they came along." She continues to wipe her hands with hand sanitizer, thoroughly pleased with herself. "You're the only one here who is able to connect with anyone from the outside world directly, in person. I know I'm not much, but..."

"Miss Emma, it's perfect." Just like Miss Emma has, Matt has surprisingly very attached to his therapist of three years, impressed that one woman can put up with so much bullshit from one kid. She pushes on some glass doors, and they enter a tiny office, with a dark wooden desk and two maroon chairs at the opposite ends. "How did you get your own office inside the building?"

"This is usually where therapists and the people working here meet to sign paperwork and release any information, but I got them to let me use it when it's empty. It usually is."

"This place looked smaller on the inside."

"It certainly has its nooks and crannies." She quickly wipes down the table top, twice, and places crossed hands on it. "So, Matt, update me. How's the Youth Mental Hospital?"

"It's..." Matt bites his lips, wondering how to word it without seeming unappreciative of what Miss Emma had done for him. It obviously took a lot of string pulling to get him in here, especially on the Rutherford household budget. He certainly was grateful of what she had done for him, but not really what she had done _to_ him. "interesting," he finishes, satisfied.

"Lemme guess," she starts, a smile tugging at her lips. "you find the other people interesting, not the therapy or anything else that might even help you a smidgen."

Matt scoffs. "Can you blame me? Crazies are fascinating. Normals are boring."

"Technically I'm not allowed to get any details on any other patients, but I do know that none of them have the same condition as you." she gives him a quick once over. "Also, I have another guess. You are completely engrossed in their conditions and are becoming border line obsessed with finding out their histories."

Matt groans. "Am I really that OBVIOUS?"

"Again, Matthew, I've none you since you were fourteen. You're still the same person, except a bit cleaner."

"Don't blame me, I think your obsessive cleaning is rubbing off on me." Those last words gave Matt a really bad mental image, and bleached it away. Hey, he is a male. His thoughts have a summer home in the gutters.

"From all of the reports, you're reacting well in your song therapy classes, just like I thought you would. But generally unresponsive in other sessions. Is this place working out for you?"

Matt gulps. "Actually, I think this place is kind of making me more crazy. Like second hand insane."

"W-w-well, I'm glad you mentioned being worse." Oh shit. She's getting that doe eyed innocent look, combined with nervous hand wringing. "You're being put on medication."

Medication? "Like, cold medicine?"

What an idiot he is.

It hits him just as she says it, "Like anti-depressants, Matt."

Matt jolts out of his seat, the walls suddenly closing in and constraining him. "Fuck, no fucking way!"

Miss Emma flinches at the curse words, but holds her palms out in a calming manner. "Matt, no need to get upset, they're to help you-"

"FUCK THAT!" he shouts. "I'm not becoming one of them! I'm the steady one, the one who doesn't need to be drugged up like a barbaric lunatic!"

"You're not any less of a person-"

"I am, Emma. I can study them, I can help them, but I can't _be _them."

"That's very intolerable of you!" Emma scolds. Matt growls, literally _growls, _and his fists tightened.

"I don't care." He breathes in and out, in and out. "I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, _I'm not crazy!"_

A security guard, they call them 'Safeties' here, bursts in. "Is there a problem, ma'am?"

Miss Emma gawks, horrified at the bulking sweaty man at the door. "No, he's just have trouble accepting some things."

"NO SHIT I'M HAVING TROUBLE!" _What the fuck are you doing? _He thinks. _Certainly not convincing anyone that you're sane, that's for sure. _Somehow, he can't even hear the sensible side of him. For some reason, he just snaps, and throwing stuff sounds really good.

He settles for a chair.

It gives a satisfying snap against the wall. Emma's eyes widen in horror. "Matt, what's gotten over you?"

The security guards restrain his arms against his back, ushering him back up to the regular floor.

"Where are you taking me?" he demands as they pass by the bedrooms. Everyone's eyes bore into his own as they peek out from the doors. Blaine gives a condescending look of recognition. But for some reason, Kurt's expression stands out among the rest. Empathy, and yet, worry.

"Detention room," Kurt calls, answering his question. "You'll be fine."

_Yeah, I'll be just freakin' paradisaical. _His thoughts are strangely bitter.

What is he becoming?

The safeties lead him to a door with a sign proclaiming the room. Detention room. Makes Matt feel like a kid who got in trouble with the principal. They shove him, quite forcefully, and the boy lands on the cushioned floor with a muted thud.

"One hour," one of them gruffs, then walks away.

What the hell does that mean?

He intakes a deep breath of recycled air, face still planted in the ground. He's back to himself. Regular ol' Matt. The one who's reliable, steady, and knows where his head is. Definitely not the kind that throws chairs and curses at adults. That's not even like him. That Matt _isn't _Matt. He's a NotMatt.

Shit, this is all so confusing. He strokes the floor, taking in the egg white walls surrounding him like a giant marshmellow. Taking in another shuddering breath, he pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting to block the pounding headache threatening to brutally shatter him.

Maybe he should think of other things besides of how crazy his it.

Like what?

Like...

Like the fact that he's seventeen years old today, which he forgot. Ever since...ever since That Day, dates blend together, fading into the next.

Seventeen spent in a nut house.

That strikes Matt as pathetically depressing. He remembers when his mother used to bake him a cream cake, that had white frosting flowers. Matt would eat the flower first, declaring, "They tasted like Spring!" His face had smears of white on it afterwards, and he would taste it on his cheeks for days afterwards. It was like his birthday lasted for as long as the cake taste remained, so he would never wash his face.

Oh, shit. Matt's crying now, tears spilling out and onto the plush carpeting. He misses his mom's comforting attitude, braving the face of adversity, his older sister's charming arrogance and self assurance, and his younger sister's innocent and helpful demeanor. They were so much braver than him. And, Matt, supposed man of the house, was locked away in an asylum quietly ticking away.

Throat closing, he choked out a song.

"_Happy birthday to me,_

_happy birthday to me,_

_happy birthday, oh pleaaase,_

_let everything be okay,_

_and don't make me stay."_

He could've sworn he heard someone sniffling from the other side of the wall.

* * *

A nurse with blonde highlights and a sympathetic shine her eyes slowly opens the door. "Matt? The hour is up."

Matt stirs from his crouching position from the wall. He hurridly wipes his sleeve across his face, erasing any sign of his previous emotional breakdown. He shambled down the halls back to his rooms, head bent down in shame. All he wanted to do was collapse on his bed and get in a few extra minutes of sleep before they had any more therapy sessions.

He lie (lay? Laid? Laying?) down on his bed, sinking into the tan covers, breathing in the cotton scent. It is all very peaceful.

"Matt?" a voice asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, tipping the weight of it. One of Matt's eyes snaps open.

Well, it _was _all very peaceful. "Yes, Blaine?"

"How was it?"

"Detention? Wonderful. The teacher made me write a 500 word essay on why I shouldn't call Billy a poopy-pants."

"Sarcasm from Mr. Cool as a Cucumber?" Blaine asks. "I'm guessing you didn't like the Detention room. I don't really either. I always feel really self conscious because others can hear you."

"You mean like the cameras? Yeah, I know."

Matt felt Blaine's weight shift. "No, I mean that there are two dorm rooms right next to the detention room. The walls are sort of thin, so the people in those rooms can probably hear."

Oh, shit.

They probably heard his self pity birthday song.

"So..." he began casually. "Who exactly are in those rooms?"

"Uh, I think Quinn and Tina share a room there. And Kurt's single room is next door."

Matt squirms, thinking of all of them laughing and mocking him. "Was there any sessions while I was in there?"

Blaine scoffs. "Well, the girls had their Girl Time sessions, which from I hear are just bringing pillows and listening to Celine Dion while talking about feelings."

"Agh!" Matt gasps.

"I know," Blaine agrees somberly. "So all of the men were staying behind in their dorms."

Kurt. Kurt was listening. He must think Matt was a complete wuss.

"PARTNER TALK THERAPY!" Dr Kale animatedly shouts from the hallways. She pokes her head in their room. "Hey, just a heads up, we'll be staying in our own dorms today, since the normal smaller therapy room is still under assessment after the fire. Blaine, you'll be going with Rachel-" Blaine stiffens, and twitches- "and Matt, Kurt will be coming to your room."

Shit.

ON A KABAB.

As his mom used to say, "Coincidences? Honey, it's something called Fate, and it liked to rear it's hideous head at the worst moments."

He needs to stop remembering his family back home. It just gets him really sad.

"Knock knock," Kurt's voice soft voice rings out. Matt sits up, rubbing his head. Blaine had gone, and Kurt was there in a white trench coat and black pants. His eyes were red, like he had been crying.

"Come on in," Matt says. Kurt glances around, and settles around for sitting on Blaine's bed, smoothing the blankets out before he rests. "So..." the word hangs in the air for a while, and then Kurt smashes it.

"Why are you here?" he blurts.

Matt sighs, falling back on the bed. "I'm depressed, okay! Goddamn."

Kurt flinches, twiddling his thumbs. "Yeah, you're depressed. But no one who's depressed can be this cool under the gunfire of this place, then flip out when you're offered numbing from the bullets."

"Poetically put," Matt comments. "Maybe I don't want to be 'numbed'."

"No offense, but aren't depressed people already pretty numb?" his eyes widen. "Is that why you're so calm? You can't feel anything?"

Matt tightens his hands into a fist. "I feel plenty."

"Like..." Kurt prompts, leaning forward. "Lust? Love? Anger? Angst? Apathy?"

"No more questions, please," Matt whispers. "What about you, Mr. Bullied? I doubt that they bullied you just for your keen sense of fashion?"

Kurt chuckles, a sort of forced laugh. "Matthew, why do you think I have a keen sense of fashion?" He bites his lip. "Wait, don't answer that."

Matt sits straight back up, eyes meeting with Kurt's. "What, because you're gay?" he asks, throwing up his hands. "That's what you think. Gay doesn't mean that you have a great sense of fashion, that you have nice hair and want to be a girl."

"Not all gays want to be a girl," Kurt argues. "Don't be ignorant!"

"Is that a confirmation of who you are?" Matt queries. "You seem to be comfortable with who you are, but you can't really say it, can you? I don't give a crap who you want to have sex with, Kurt. I just don't want you preaching and asking about my life, when you can't even come to terms with what really happened in yours." He stands up, and Kurt follows, placing his hands on his hips. "Hey, Kurt. Why are _ you _here?"

"Because I'm gay and no one could handle it!" Kurt burst. He gasps, and covers his mouth with his hands. "Shit," he mutters, and flops back on the bed. Matt joins him by his side.

"Is that really the first time you've admitted it aloud?"

Kurt nods meekly.

"Well," the darker boy says, giving him a clap on the back. "step 1. Admitting." he clears his throat. "_Now _can you tell me what happened to you, not just bullied?"

Kurt opens his mouth to speak, but Dr. Kale pokes her head in again. "Partner Talk over, sorry kiddos!" she pipes. "We're going to have a meeting, with a new patient coming in, so go to the big room!" She disappears back into the hallway. Kurt clears his throat, and gets up to leave.

"See you there." Matt waves. Kurt nods, and goes to the door.

He pauses, turns around again, one hand on the doorframe. "Oh, Matt?"

Matt's head jerks up, brown eyes meeting blue.

"Happy birthday."

He turns around again, and leaves.

Matt curses, and collapses back on his soft, warm bed.

* * *

"MATTHEW!" Dr. Kale scolds, stomping into his room with the glare of death beaming through her eyeballs. "Get your behind to therapy, no sleeping!"

Matt sat up, limbs tangled in various sheets and pillow cases. He grumbles something incoherent, and drags himself through a daze, into the beige room of one of the bigger therapy rooms. Everyone's sitting "criss cross applesauce" in a circle, waiting for the newest student to arrive.

Blaine pats an empty space next to him, and Matt plops himself down. "Hey, sleepyhead," Blaine greets, punching Matt lightly in the arm.

Dr. Kale claps her hands excitedly. "Everyone welcome our new student!"

Matt watches in horror as his grade school nightmare strides in with a hard set jaw and emotion drained from his eyes.

"Hey, psychos. The name's Karofsky. I'm new here to the Asylum."

"NO!" Matt, and surprisingly, Kurt, shout, jumping to their feet. Matt blinks at Kurt, who blinks back.

Karofsky just grins. "Well well well, if it isn't my elementary faggot and my middle school/high school faggot, just waiting to greet me!"

"I am not dealing with that asshole again!" Kurt says, pointing a finger at Karofsky's chest.

"Hey, I don't want to deal with fairies here either, but look what happened!" Karofsky defended.

"You should be in prison, not a hospital!"

"You should be dead, not alive!" Karofsky yells right back. "Just like God wanted!"

As the entire room flinches at the insult, and Dr. Kale quickly makes a move to scold him, Matt closes his eyes, realizing how much his life is far different from reality. Insanity and reality are two sides of a mirror. The reflection you see looks exactly the same, except flipped. A train in his mind roars, clicking everything together. He doesn't want to go through the endless bullying, the torture, the utter humility of just breathing. He doesn't want to feel that again. Not here. Not now. Especially after all of the shit he's been through. Especially not after That Day.

"Fuck this," he announces, and marches out of the therapy room, past the group of psychos, out the door, and right into Dr. Douche's office.

Dr. Douche looks up from his Sudoku puzzle, twitching his mustache and lips tugging at a smug smirk. "Matt! How nice of you to drop in."

"Numb me," Matt whispers, reaching a hand out. Dr. Douche nods, rummaging in his desk.

"I kept your new medication here just for this moment," he announces, and takes out the orange bottle with his name printed right on the label. He taps out two white oval pills onto Matt's palm.

The newest lunatic shoves his medication down his throat, dry-swallowing as it slides down his throat.

The medication couldn't have already worked, but already Matt feels all of the emotion edging away, sense leaving the tips of his fingers.

Numb.

How it should be.


	7. Chapter 7

**READ ME READ ME: This chapter is not from Matt's POV for the first half. You'll found out why.**

**The second half is the dreams of the other patients, including their sleep tricks, from their perspective. The last part is from Matt's POV. **

**Question: 1)What should Mercedes be in for, and 2) will you still watch the show after season 3 when all of the characters are gone?**

**Dinner. 6:08PM**

"Oh no," Quinn whispers, gazing into Matt's eyes, which don't meet her own. They're glazed over, focused on putting the fork with rice on it into his mouth, and back down to his plate. Quinn groans, grip tightening on her fork. "Blaine, tell me it isn't so."

"What isn't so?" Sam asks, moving his attention to what most of the cafeteria table was staring at, shoving a spoonful of low fat pudding in his huge mouth.

"Sorry, but it's true," Blaine says with a sigh. "He's on Natraine."

The entire table, excluding Matt and Sam, drop their eating utensils, that clatter to the floor with the only sound that could be heard at the table. They all sit in silence, staring at Matt, who was oblivious to the scene.

"Shit, they zombiefied him," Santana says, breathless. "Those bastards."

Kurt bit his lip, waving a hand in front of Matt's face, who didn't react. "He's out cold. Damn."

Sam threw up his hands in frustration. "What's going on? What's Nateraininanfliggermajigger?"

"Natraine. Not that hard to remember," Rachel corrects. "It's a medication, that basically numbs you to the bones. You can still function like an average being, but you are not...you." Rachel looks helplessly around, unsure how to explain it further. Artie clears his throat, pushing his glasses up.

"Nerd talk to the rescue." he pointed to Matt. "He can hear us right now, I'm certain of it. His body has ears, and they can hear. But he's not listening. Think of it as a window. We're on the outside, talking loudly and occasionally banging on the walls. Matt's now on the other side of the window. He can hear bits and pieces of what we're saying, but can't really understand. His mind is off on that other side, drifting farther and farther away. His body is technically still with us, but it doesn't have a mind or soul anymore, so it just does basic functions, hoping for it to return. Understand?"

Sam tilts his head. "Kind...of? So, he's drifting away because of the medicine. Where is he, exactly, on the other side of the window?"

Artie shrugs. "I don't know, dude. Anywhere his mind deems safe."

"Safe?" Sam rubs his head. "Why does he need to be safe?"

Kurt hums. "I think I know why. People only are on Natraine if what happened to them finally unhinges their grasp on reality. Matt must have had something really bad happen to him. Like, really bad." his eyes darted around quickly, and he leaned forward. "You guys, I think he wasn't even put on Natraine on the first place. I overheard them just talking about 'antidepressants' for them before he freaked out in that office. So the question is; what made them change their minds?"

Everyone fell into a silence again, watching Matt again.

"I feel some de ja vu," Puck adds, holding his weary head in his hands, tracing his finger over the long scar up from his ear to his eyebrow.

"It's not deja vu if you know what you're remembering..." Rachel reminds him softly.

"Let's not talk about him, okay?" Blaine snaps.

The table resumes quietly chewing over their current situation, and the food.

**NIGHTIME. 11:05PM**

**SAM'S PERSPECTIVE**

"Goodnight, dude," Artie says, folding his glasses shut and crawling into his low bed.

"Goodnight," Sam said, getting into his Star Trek pajamas and flipping his hair out of his eyes. His mind whirred with visions of the planets, and he whispered to himself "no more chances" repeatedly until his thoughts were at ease, and he went into his subconscious.

_He was on a hill. _

_Well, on The Hill. The Hill is multiple raised land of hills rolling together with lush green grass and sprouting dandelions sprinkling across the bottom. But Sam is never on The Hill to look at It, because the Sky is much more important. _

_Sky is the most beautiful sky in Sam's dreams. Inky black with twinkles shining to him. He lounged on The Hill, gazing up at the Sky in wonder, long lips parted in wonder. Every teacher he's ever had might have told him he'll never succeed, but damn, he's doesn't care. As long as he can see this Sky every night. The moon was huge tonight, with light blue splashed across it in holes. _

_But then She came, and everything seems less bright. Her name is Dimmer, and it fits. He hates Dimmer, because she's a bitch and acts like she knows everything. _

_Her hair is a light grey and her dress barely covers her bathing suit area, if you know what he means. She furrowed her eyebrows in a frown, and glared down at him from her standing point._

"_Are you STILL in that stupid mental hospital?" she asked, in her are-you-dumb voice that Sam hates to death. _

"_Maybe," Sam mumbled, because he really doesn't want her to start on her lecture._

"_Dammit, Sam," she growled, plopping her body next to his, crossing her arms. "I told you over and over again, you can get over this...sickness you have if you just forget!"_

"_Shut up," Sam said, meaning it. "What I have isn't a sickness. I don't want to forget, okay? If I forget, then I forget the fucking victims."_

"_But then you forget about this stupid place! You're lost in the Sky, Sam. I'd hate to have to find you here for the rest of your life."_

"_Who said I needed you here?" Sam asked._

_Dimmer does her arrogant hair flip thing, staring at me in the eyes. "Because I'm your reality, and I keep you here," she thumps the grass underneath our feet, "and not up in the Sky."_

"_Fuck you," Sam grumbled again. _

"_You know, the victims have moved on," Dimmer said quietly. "Except for-"_

"_FUCK YOU!" Sam repeated, shouting. He pushed Dimmer away, and-_

Sam's eyes opened, blinking to adjust to the harsh window light. It was still night, not even 1am yet.

His fists tighten, and he breathes heavily.

Sometimes he can't take it.

SANTANA'S PERSPECTIVE

Rachel gazes at her reflection in the mirror, sighing softly. Santana throws a pillow at her, snapping, "Can you get out of the damn bathroom? I need to brush my teeth."

"I need to make sure I look good, Santana!" Rachel reprimands. Santana rolls her eyes.

"You're in a fucking hospital, and you look like shit, just like the rest of us." It's true, everyone at this hospital has the signature purple circles under the eyes, and hollow pupils, with skinny wrists.

"I care about my appearance," Rachel whispers, fingering locks of hair. Santana sighs, getting up and walking to the bathroom.

"Rachel, you're in a mental ward. Everyone here is shit crazy, and the last thing that you should care about is your appearance. There's something more important, that thing being that I have to brush my teeth. Now get out."

Rachel turned out the light, leaving Santana to stare up at the ceiling again. To herself, she listed all of the lies she ever told under her breath. Over and over and over and over...

_She's tied up again. _

_Not in a kinky way, because the ropes bite at her wrists, and droplets of blood are pooling out. She bites down hard on the rope in her mouth, but that's there, pretty solid. She squirms, which makes the binds even worse. She's lying face down on a bed of some sorts. She screams, but the rope cuts off her sound, making it muffled. She tugs at the ropes some more, tears streaming down her face._

_Why is she tied to a bed?_

"_Shshshshshshsshsh," a voice above her whispers. Santana struggles some more, desperate to get away from the voice._

"_You're not going to tell anyone about this, right?" the voice continues. "Because you know what I'll do to you if you tell anyone."_

_Santana nods mutely, still crying._

_Santana nods again, shaking vigorously._

"_I love you," the voice says._

_Santana closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath._

_The voice begins._

_Santana is fourteen, and she becomes a liar._

Santana, seventeen years old, sits up straight, a solid layer of sweat on her face. She shivers, turning on her side, and starts crying.

"Santana?" a voice asks in the darkness, soft and questioning. "are you crying?"

"Shut up, Berry," Santana whispers back.

"Okay," Rachel says.

"Leave me alone."

"Okay."

"I hate you."

"I know."

KURT'S PERSPECTIVE

Being in an empty room is terrifying sometimes.

The shadows dance, and Kurt watches them, clutching at his blanket. He thinks of Matt, and how he doesn't want to end up in the same situation as him.

What a terrible thing to think.

But it's true.

He wants his soul to be stuck to his body; glue stuck to paper.

He closes his eyes, and chants his mantra.

"I was born this way, and this way I was born. I was born this way, and this way I was boring. I was-"

he was asleep in no time

_They're shouting at him_

_He backs away, trying to find a wall to back into. _

_The schoolyard at night is scary, especially in high school._

"_FAG!"_

"_HOMO!"_

"_GO KILL YOURSELF!"_

_Kurt makes a choking sound, holding back tears._

_Someone grabs him from behind, and he expects to be brutally beaten._

_But they're steady hands._

"_Kurt?" _

_The scenery melts away, and he's staring into the eyes of Matt Rutherford._

"_Help me," he whispers. _

"_What about me?" Kurt asks._

"_I'll help you if you help me, I promise," he says, eyes desperate and pleading._

"_Why me?"_

_Matt shrugs. "You seem to know things, Kurt. I can't explain it."_

_Kurt gulps. "Promise you'll help?"_

"_Promise."_

_Then Matt fades away again, and Kurt's left to fight the screaming crowd._

_But the request is still there._

_Help Matt._

Kurt's eyes flutter open.

"How?" he asks the empty room.

No answer.

MIKE'S PERSPECTIVE

"Hey, dude, can you turn off the light?" Puck asks him.

Mike nods, finishing the rest of the choreography in his head. Step pivot...then...

He flicks the switch, and lays on the top covers, feeling too hot to get under the covers. He blinks, reviewing the dance steps over and over again. It helps.

_It's so white. It's crunching under his feet as he runs. _

_He's still running._

_His name echoes through the whiteness, being shouted over and over again._

_He ignores it, listening to his heart pumping in his ears. The memory of blood streaks his vision every second._

_Along with the noise._

_The sound._

_It's so loud._

_Too loud._

_Oh, god._

_No._

_Have to keep running._

_From the red._

_From the sound._

_Please._

_He twitches, collapsing to his knees._

_Too loud._

Mike clutches his pillow, whimpering. He picks it up, and tosses the pillow underneath the bed. He crawls underneath the bed as well, resting his head on the pillow again.

It's darker underneath the bed.

"Hey, dude, you okay?" Puck asks, peering into Mike's current location.

"Yeah, of course!" Mike says, feigning cheeriness.

"Then why are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding."

"Then why were you mumbling in your sleep?"

"I wasn't mumbling."

Puck gives him a dubious look. "Do you need...to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about."

"Okay." Pause. "I'm...I'm here if you need to talk. But deny that I said that. But I'm here. In a macho friend way."

"I know, Puck."

Puck grunts, and makes his way back to his bed.

Mike turns on his side, staring at the wall.

He'll hide forever.

PUCK'S PERSPECTIVE

Puck's a heavy sleeper. As soon as he hits the foam mattress, he's out.

_The flames rise higher and higher, reflecting in Puck's eyes._

"_What have you done?" Quinn asks him, clutching her stomach._

_The heat from the fire radiates onto his face, and he ignores the cries from people in the background, just focusing on the flames._

_It's all he's ever wanted._

_To be one with the fire._

_He reaches out, just to touch it..._

_Quinn screams, grabbing for his arm._

_The fire licks up his arm, burning._

_Feeling something._

QUINN'S PERSPECTIVE

"Brittany, stop shouting," Quinn hushes her. Brittany squirms in her bed, talking to imaginary beings.

Quinn sighs, lying on her side.

She pictures her future. Being happy. Having a trophy husband, with a good successful job, with money, and beauty. The picture of a good life. It helps her sleep.

"_You're so beautiful..." he whispers in her ear._

"_I know," she scoffs._

_He holds her._

"_I'll be gentle..."_

BLAINE'S PERSPECTIVE

Blaine watches at the robotic Matt, just a body, shuffle into the room and into bed, instantly falling asleep.

"I miss you," Blaine says to the sleeping body, lying back into his own bed.

Four days without someone to talk to in his room.

Blaine closes his eyes, no sleep trick to help him, just the sounds of nothing.

"_Please," the voice begs._

_The monster does not respond._

_And Blaine watches in horror as it attacks._

**Matt.**

**MATT.**

Matt breaks away from the drifting, waking up with a start. He looks wildly around, sitting up in his sheets. He stares at his hand, and turns it over, making sure he can still move everything.

What happened to him?

He rubs his chin, trying to think, but quickly snaps his hand away at the feel of rough stubble. He wasn't growing a beard. He shaved just a few hours ago with surveillance of the guards...

Unless that wasn't a few hours ago.

"NO!" Blaine screeches, sitting straight up in his bed, panting wildly.

"Blaine?" Matt whispers, looking at Blaine's dark silhouette, who put his head in his hands.

"I'..." Blaine trails off, collapsing back on his pillow.

"Are you okay?"

Blaine turns to him with blinking eyes. "Are you back in your body?"

"I think so," Matt says calmly, unsure what his roommate's saying. Blaine nods slowly, breathing rapping back to a regular pace.

Heavy wind pangs against the windows, increasing the terror.

"You've been drifting for four days," Blaine says, stretching his arms and yawning. "Hhhuhm...don't let 'em numb you again, okaaaay..." another yawn. "G'night..."

Then Blaine snores loudly, and Matt takes it as a sign that his roommate is asleep.

Matt crawls over to the nightstand drawer again, pulling out the notebook.

**Day Something-**

**I don't know what happened. Wait, I do. Something WEIRD happened. **

**I went into the doc's office, having my therapy session, and he says that I need to get over to my problems, and that there are a lot of people going through the same thing. That I need to man up. I said, "Fuck that!" and walked out, ready to burst into tears. **

**I saw that Puck guy in the hallway, talking quietly with Quinn. **

**Quinn's kinda cute. Just sayin'.**

**Anyways.**

**Puck turned around, and said, "What's wrong, Finn? Did the dick of a doctor pull your shriveled balls and laughed? Do you need your daddy?"**

**I punched him in the face.**

**Everyone freaked out. They came out into the hallways, yelling at me and saying that Puck just found out some terrible news. Puck brushed the hit off, and punched me back. I pushed him, and then he snapped another punch, and we started brawling. It was kind of awesome, even though he clocked me in the face. The security guards took us away to separate detention rooms, to 'think about what we had done'. **

**What fuckers.**

**Then they put me on this medication, and that's where the weird part comes in.**

**I...there...well, I kind of went OUTSIDE of my body. I don't know how to explain it, notebook.**

**I was wandering through a jungle, with a gun in my hands. There were army guys barking at me, and my dad was right there next to me. For some reason, I didn't feel scared. There was the sounds of shooting and bombs, but my dad was there. He was alive.**

**I was safe.**

**But I could still hear things that weren't in the jungle. One thing I remember distinctly (my teacher taught me that word) was this voice.**

"**Finn, please come back..." A crying voice. It was female.**

**It wasn't Quinn, even though I hoped it was.**

**I think it was that one girl's voice.**

**Rachel's.**

**She's pretty, but makes these weird faces. But she's a good singer, I know that from Sing Therapy. **

**I woke up today. They took me off the pills. **

**I want to see my dad again.**

**I want to be safe again.**

Finn. Matt traced over the messy handwriting, that was littered with misspellings and grammar errors. But for some reason, the fact that they seemed to have parallel episodes here was oddly comforting.

"Matthew?" The door was opening. Matt quickly shoved the notebook back into the drawer, sitting up to see a nurse with beached blonde hair and shining fingernails. "Time to take your vitals."

She hooks him up to the pressure machine, and it squeezes his arm.

"120 over 90." she writes in a little pad. "Time to take your meds, we mixed up and forgot to give you them tonight."

Matt leans away. "I don't need them, I'm fine!"

The nurse bites her lip. "Please, take them." She hands him the tiny pills, and a paper cup of water. "I don't want to have to sedate you."

Matt hates needles, so he hurriedly swallows the pills to make the nurse go away.

"You'll get some more in the morning. Goodnight Matt."

Matt can't even hear her. He's already drifting away.

_He's on a boat, fishing. Matt watches the calm waves rock against the boat, and the salty smell catch on his taste buds. _

"_Hey, dude. Who are you?" A guy sitting on the bench opposite of him asks, reeling in an empty catch. _

"_I'm Matt." Matt sets down his pole, continuing to watch the waves as they go higher and higher. _

"_Oh, cool. I'm Finn," the guy introduces, still focused on catching something. Matt's jaw drops, watching the tall bulky guy with the goofy smile plastered on his face. The author of the notebook._

"_You're dead," Matt states. Finn's eyes meet his briefly._

"_Uh, I am? Huh." He casts his line back in the water. _

"_You were in the mental hospital," Matt continues._

"_Yeah. Now I'm here."_

"_Now you're here," Matt echoes. "So am I."_

"_So I guess we're in the same boat."_

"_I guess we are."_

_And Matt goes back to watching the waves as they crash higher and wilder, threatening to spill them overboard._

**Next Time: Matt's still loopy and lost on drugs, and it falls to poor Kurt to save him. What complications will arise, and what does this all mean? Why is Dr. Douche such a...douche? What's up with this mysterious drug? And why won't anyone talk about Finn? What exactly happened before Matt came?**

**It's all unraveling here in the Asylum, and you have front row tickets.**

**Read, Alert, Review, go insane.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This is the last time there will be someone elses's perspective for a while, and by a while I mean FOR A WHILE. **

**Warning: Matt's mouth gets a little dirty with profanity in this chapter. But really, you can't blame him. **

**HEY! IF YOU'RE MY FIFTIETH REVIEWER, THEN YOU GET A CHARACTER OF YOUR OWN CREATION IN HERE! **

"_When she was 7 years old she saw a man get shot, but no one came for a long time because it happened in a remote parking lot in Las Vegas. And she was waiting for her mom to come back from working the blackjack table at the Circus Circus casino. And that night her mom said that the two of them and the now dead guy were the only 3 people who ever really lived in Las Vegas._

_Everybody else just arrived, ate their complimentary shrimp cocktail, and left."_

-Metric, Rock Me Now

KURT'S PERSPECTIVE

The nurse always wakes him up at 5 in the morning to take a blood sample, a needle point right between the knuckles. Kurt always bites his lip and stares out the foggy window, the steady city sleepily shuffling to get up and greet the world. Here Kurt is in a prison of sorts, watching his blood leave his body.

The nurse pats his arm, which is now completely lost of feeling, and leaves to her routine elsewhere. Kurt pulls himself up, and tugs off his pajama shirt, wincing at the pain that jolted through his arms. He examined the bruises that painted his chest, sticking out his tongue in disgust at the sight of them turning an ugly yellow. At least the scars on his face were healing; nobody even knew they were there anymore. When he first came in, he was pretty ugly. His father, bless him, had payed for his own room when one little girl screamed at the sight of his face.

He begins his intricate skin care routine, squirting moisturizer on his palms and rubbing them together. There are murmurings from the room next to him, usually about what the day might bring. Kurt ignores this, and lets the night's dreams reply over and over again in his mind.

What the hell could he do to help Matt? Protest the usage of (possibly) helpful medications? What if Matt needed the meds?

No. He knew Karofsky. Just thinking about that barbarian makes Kurt want to jump off a bridge.

He subconsciously touches the small scar at the nape of his neck, one that was given to him by Karofsky several years ago. His mind floods with the cold memories of that day, and Kurt wants to sink to the floor to hold himself for the rest of the day.

But he has to help Matt.

He straightens himself, splashes water on his face, skin cream dripping off, towels his face down, and heads to the patient room, where they keep medical supplies, patient files, and prescriptions. Kurt isn't on any drugs, so he's never really been in here during medicine time. The patients file up one at a time, shuffling forwards to receive their fodder like cows. Brittany forcibly given pills, and she often attempts to bite the finger that gives it to her. Santana tries to comfort her through this, rubbing the fragile girl's arm and humming soothing songs, but it always goes awry.

The patients head back to their rooms to take their meds and get dressed, to go to their therapy sessions for today. Checking the schedule, the therapies were Pet Therapy, Song Therapy, and Individual.

Kurt dreads Individual.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Hummel?" A doctor asks. Kurt tries to place the name, but after months of hospitalization, physical therapy, and mental wards, they all blend together. "You're not on any meds."

"Uh...I was just seeing if I could get something to help with the pain, sir."

The doctor raises an eyebrow. "Injuries hurting again? I'll check to see if I can give you some normal ibuprofen, but you really do have to live with it after a while."

"Okay, thank you." Kurt nods his head, and the doctor swiftly moves off. At that moment, Matt, the zombie Matt, walks in to his place in line.

Kurt bounces up and down on his legs anxiously, unsure how to help him. The nurse taps the pills into Matt's hand, and pours him water in the plastic cup. Matt goes off again, disappearing into the hallway. Kurt's gaze follows him with knitted eyebrows, wondering how he would stop Matt from ruining himself.

Light on his feet, he scampers on the polished tiles after Matt, keeping a low profile to avoid anymore nosy nurses poking about. Blaine greets Matt somberly on his way to another heavy therapy session, the eighth this week. Kurt's always curious about Blaine's mysterious and frequent sessions, but that was another case for another time.

Matt makes his way into his room, without closing the door. Kurt slips in silently behind him, feeling like a spy, and shutting the door with a whisper of air. Matt doesn't look up, just stares at the pills in his palm.

Kurt panics. "Matt, don't take them! Matt!"

He doesn't hear the boy, just throws the pills in his mouth.

Kurt, riddled with anxiety, rushes over to Matt. "Spit them out," he commands. He tries forcing Matt's jaw open, with no such luck. Matt's much stronger, and is stubborn. His teeth are gritted, and Kurt can't shove his fingers in Matt's mouth either.

Maybe he can relax Matt, or at least shock him, to have him open or loosen his mouth.

But, how?

Then Kurt knows.

"I'm really sorry, Matt!" he whispers.

Then he kisses him.

It's a combination of weird, stiff, and awkward, with trace amounts of desperation. But it causes numb Matt to loosen his mouth in confusion, allowing Kurt to slip his tongue in, slide the pills out, and spit them to the floor.

Kurt gags, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Uh, not my idea of my first kiss with a guy, but at least I saved your mind."

Matt doesn't speak, so Kurt figures he's still loopy from the drugs. "You'll come in a few minutes, hopefully without memory," he murmurs, walking out of the room and down the hallway back to his own room.

The nurses are in a flurry, chattering incessantly.

"Should we go in?" one pipes.

"Maybe we should call a doctor..."

Then all of their pagers simultaneously beep, and they rush off, leaving the hall unattended for the first time in his stay here.

"That was weird," Kurt says to himself.

"Not really, considering," a low rough voice says behind him. Kurt whirls around, staring face to face with Karofsky. "That idiot Brittany girl is seizing."

"Oh," Kurt says warily. What is Karofsky doing talking to him? "What do you want?"

"Nothing, faggot," Karofsky says, expression changing suddenly from impassive to angry. "Get out of my way." He pushes Kurt aside, about to storm off.

"Hey! Stop!" Kurt shouts.

MATT'S PERSPECTIVE.

"_I think someone just saved you," Finn notes, reeling in a huge trout. _

_Matt's gaze snaps away from the water, meeting the taller boy's eyes. "Huh?" he says ever so intelligently. _

"_You'll see what I mean," he explains. He smiles. "In five...four...three...two..."_

He's sitting in his bed.

There's a plastic cup of water in his hand, and two pills scattered on the floor.

Something...something happened.

His lips are slightly swollen, and Matt licks them to take the dryness away. It tasted like chapstick, which Matt doesn't wear.

He tugs at his shirt, vaguely growing use to being in control of his body.

The first thing he does is open Finn's notebook.

Dated a few days after the previous one, it only has one word.

_**HELP. **_

Matt's hands shake, and he drops the notebook. Someone obviously had helped Matt.

But what if Finn never had a guardian angel?

"You are just a coward. I am proud of who I am, finally, for once in my life, and your barbarian arrogance isn't going to stomp all over it!"

Kurt's shrill and very annoyed voice rings outside his door. Matt knows that level of frustration; it's been heard in Matt's own voice for years throughout his grade school life. Karofsky must be on the prowl.

Well, no more. Because Matt is finally going to put a stop to it.

He forgets all about the notebook and the drugs, storming out of his room. He hears Karofsky growl in frustration, the sound he always makes before the first punch, so Matt breaks into a run down the hallway. Turning a sharp corner, he finally made his way to the pair.

And, in all honesty, he is totally not prepared for the sight in front of him.

Kurt, first of all, looks scared shitless. His eyes are widened in horror.

Karofsky, even though Matt can only see his back, has a relaxed stance.

Maybe because Karofsky has his meaty paws on Kurt's face, pulling him into a forced kiss.

And Kurt, eyes open, spots Matt. His expression reads one thing: Help.

Matt nods, because for once in his life, he can be the fucking hero. If that would count as a hero.

"**Hey, asshole**!" Matt shouts, storming his way over to them. Karofsky breaks the kiss in a jolt, realizing that there's someone else there, and turns around abruptly.

"Shit,"Karofsky whispers, with the fear shining brightly in his eyes.

Finally.

_Finally._

Matt straightens, shoulders back, jaw tight. "You fucker. You fucking come in to our lives, storm your way through with bible in your hand and a fist in our faces. You made our lives hell with your assumptions or prejudices. You just presumed I was gay, because your head was stuck in a stereotype. When in reality, I was in fucking elementary school. I didn't know who I wanted to fuck. I still don't know! And with Kurt," he glances at Kurt, still frozen in place. "You tortured this poor boy so far into the closet, he was scared out of his mind to even approach anyone with the truth. And then, hurrah, it turns out you were right there in the closet with him! Wow, that certainly makes up for everything, you asshole." He got up right in Karofsky's face. "Hell. I was picked on, pushed around, ridiculed for who I was and who I wasn't. Just because you couldn't man up and come to terms for who you are."

"**I will kill you if you tell anyone**," Karofsky growls, anger mixed in with the terror. Matt only saw a confused little fifth grader, unsure how to deal, so dealt it out on the faggiest one. It only angered Matt more.

"Just try me."

And that's when Karofsky's fist connected with Matt's jaw, and all hell breaks loose.

Matt stumbles back, and after making sure his jaw isn't broken, jumps on Karofsky, using all of his force to knock him over.

Fists fly, both missing and landing on target.

Blood spills to the floor.

Matt is unsure what exactly is going on, until soft hands are pulling them apart, and he hears Kurt sobbing.

Matt stands up, leaning into Kurt and panting heavily. Karofsky certainly got in more punches than him, Karofsky was twice his size. But Matt did give Karofsky a black eye.

"What the fuck is going on?" a nurse asks, coming back from the Brittany situation.

"This bastard just hit me for no reason!" Karofsky yells, pointing a meaty finger at the darker boy.

"That's not true!" Kurt says, having stopped the crying with the look of determination and gratitude splashed on his face.

Matt doesn't speak, just staying quiet and waiting for the nurse to say something.

The nurse sighs, rubbing her temples. She's the one with bleached blonde hair and shining fingertips. She purses her lips, and points at Karofsky. "You. Detention room." Karofsky glares at her for a few seconds, then saunters off. She then turns to Kurt and him. "You two. Wait in the doctor's office. He'll be there to talk to you."

Matt nods, mouth gone dry. The nurse taps her feet, waiting for them to leave. Kurt takes Matt's hand, pulling him towards the office.

"Thank you," Kurt whispers. Matt just squeezes Kurt's hand in response, then lets go.

They make their way towards Dr. Douche's office. Puck is leaning the door to Matt's room, staring at Matt impassively.

"Noah," Kurt greets as they pass him.

"Hummel,"Puck states, nodding, but his eyes are still fixed on Matt. Kurt doesn't even notice, just charges on to the destination.

There are shouts coming from Dr. Douche's office. The outlines of shadows can be seen from the frosted glass of the door.

"_You are taking him off the meds, right now_!" It sounded like Miss Pilsbury's voice.

"_I think it is a mistake. He could be unstable..._" Dr. Douche's voice.

"_I don't care! You did not get direct permission from me to put him on such strong medication! You take him off of it right now, or you have a lawsuit on your hands!"_

"_Very well, Emma. Right away."_

Kurt and Matt are silent, listening closely the entire time, ears smushed right against the glass. The door opens suddenly, and they scurry back against the wall, out of sight. A very frustrated Miss Pillsbury storms out, not noticing the two boys. They gulp, sharing looks of interest and confusion. Then they get up, and enter the office.

"Hello, boys. Nurse Natalie just informed me of the little situation you got yourselves into." He plops himself down at his desk, greasy hands lacing around each-other, a smug grin on his face. "I guess this also means that the effects of the meds have worn off, Matt."

Oh, how good it is to be back in reality.

"Yeah. Went on a fishing trip, woke up, then kicked the shit out of Karofsky. That's all you need to know," Matt says in a low tone. Kurt raises an eyebrow at him, surreptitiously mouthing '_fishing trip?' _at him. "Don't ask," Matt whispers.

He speaks for them for a while, blabbering about what's important and more pretentious bullshit.

All Matt can think about are three faces: Kurt's, utterly scared and helpless when being kissed, Karofsky, face changing from scared to mad when he realizes Matt is a threat, and Puck's, the steel stare that makes Matt think that he knows something.

And he finds out what that something is after Kurt and Matt are sent back to their rooms, with cafeteria privileges stripped as their punishments. The horror; no more having to listen to Rachel Berry blabber on about her future to them.

Blaine is fast asleep when he gets back. Matt considers waking him up to inform him of his no medication, when he realizes that the notebook isn't where he left it. Matt left it sprawled on the floor when he went to beat up Karofsky, and now it was gone.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

Matt opens the nightstand drawer, and sighs with relief to see that it was put neatly back.

But there was a scrap of paper lying innocently on top of it.

Scrawled in chicken scratch writing, it read: **WE NEED TO TALK. MIDNIGHT. BATHROOM. **

It was from Puck.

**A/N2: Before anyone spouts their annoying mouth off, I just want to say that I in no way was judging Karofsky. Matt was. This is from his POV. He's a victim. I, the author, fully understand both sides, and respect Karofsky's confusion. Just for clarification. **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Remember when Matt had a humorous sense about him? Yeah, that Matt is back. Because scary drugged up Matt is only good for a couple of chapters at a time.**

**Grace does not belong to me, or Glee. It belongs to user mewisbetterthanyou.**

"_The insane, on occasion, are not without their charms"_

_-Kurt Vonnegut, Jr._

Matt stole away Blaine's pocket-watch (seriously? Who has a pocket-watch?) to track the time until midnight.

Is he excited?

No.

Puck is the kind of guy who makes your testosterone shrink back and hide back in utter terror. Sure, Matt just took on a 200 pound Karofsky, but Puck also has the intimidating factor.

11: 51.

He needs to plan this. Nurses will think it's weird that he's going into the hallway bathroom instead of his own. He needs an excuse. Like, it's too dirty or something. But that also seems suspicious, because those bathrooms are as clean as...something that's clean. Give him a break, he's tired and analogies are hard.

What if someone else was in there?

Like...Blaine.

Matt turns over and stares at Blaine's slumbering body. How the hell is he going to keep a man in a bathroom for a good...twenty minutes or so?

"Hey, dude, you have something on your face," Matt whispers, shaking Blaine awake. Blaine groggily snaps open his eyes, frowning at Matt.

"What are you talking..." he trails off, too tired to string together a coherent sentence. Matt points to the bathroom.

"Look in the mirror, dude."

"Don't call me dude," Blaine says absently, shuffling over to the bathroom mirror. He splashes water over his eyes, blinks twice, and finally catches a glimpse of his reflection. "Ahh!"

Matt quickly kicks the sharpie under the bed, watching Blaine freak out over his new...face.

He drew a monocle, fancy mustache, wrinkles, and beard on the other boy's unconscious face. It matched the pocket-watch. He looks like a darker Monopoly guy.

"Now you look even more dapper!" Matt says. Blaine doesn't even hear him, and instead frantically scrubs at his face.

That'll keep him occupied.

* * *

Matt takes his cue to sneak surreptitiously out the door, into the much quieter hallway. He feels a pang of guilt; Blaine was worried sick about Matt during his "fishing trip", and Matt was repaying him with a mean trick. But the feeling quickly passed, it was only a small prank, and Blaine would probably laugh appreciatively about it later. Besides, it provided a perfect excuse to go to the hallway bathroom and meet Noah Puckerman, mohawk and all.

Puck was late.

About five minutes late.

Matt was propped up on the sink counter, waiting [im]patiently for him to arrive. And when he did, it was with a scowl on his face.

"You're late," Matt informs him, although that's probably not the best thing to say in such a situation.

Puck glares at him. "Had to take care of my roommate."

Matt gulps. "Mike? What do you mean by 'take care of'?"

"It's not what you think. I was just helping him get back to sleep so I could leave."

"Oh." _Back _to sleep? "Why am I here?"

"You found the notebook." It wasn't a question.

Matt bit his tongue, unsure what to say. Puck crosses his arms, eyes filled with curiosity, not anger. The light hum of the florescent lighting above reminded Matt that he was in a bathroom, and time was an issue. "Finn's?"

"Yes. How long?"

"Pardon?"

"Pardon what?"

"What do you mean by 'how long'?"

"Oh." Puck shrugs. "How long have you been...aware of it being there, in the nightstand?"

"I don't know. I found it the day after my arrival." How long _has _he been there? Matt loses such track of time in here it's ridiculous.

Puck leans against the paper towel rack, nodding. "Good."

Matt sighs, placing his weary head in his calloused hands. "Can you please explain to me what's going on, and how you knew about the notebook?"

"Not really. I also have no idea what's going on. Well, I have theories." He absentmindedly crumbles up bits of paper towels and tosses them into the trashcan at the opposite wall. "I found the notebook after Finn left."

"You mean after he committed suicide?"

"Yeah, 'committed suicide'," he says, fingering large air quotes. "If you believe what they tell you. Anyways, I managed to sneak in like the awesome Puck ninja I am and rummage through his stuff. I found the notebook. I hid it in my room, reading it as much as I could. I knew I couldn't hide it forever, there were nurses who search my bedroom like every day, and so I had to find a hiding place for it. That's when you came in. I wanted someone else to know his story, someone who wasn't there when it all went down for him in the asylum, an...what's what word? An unbiased person. It was to help him. So during one of your therapy sessions with the Doc, I ninja snuck back in there, slipped it into the nightstand, and waited."

"What took you so long to ask me if I had it?"

"Because I wanted to make sure you did! It would ruin the cool factor of it if I asked and you hadn't. I bet that whole note thing made me seem all mysterious and badass-like." He nods at himself, as if thinking about how amazing he is. "After I saw the notebook sprawled out on the floor, I knew you had read it."

"Okay, I think I get it." Matt furrows his eyebrows, still confused about one thing. "Why doesn't anyone talk about him? What happened before he...you know."

Puck is the one to sigh now. "Look, I can tell you what I know, 'kay? But I don't know much. Have you read the entire thing?"

"No."

"Well, that makes this a whole lot harder. Finn...he's probably the most nicest, innocent, fucked up guy who's ever been here. Bad stuff happened to a good guy. So he was sent here, right? Turns out this place was worse. He fell in love with-" Puck pauses. "You know what, read the damn thing. It explains a lot."

"Thanks, that really helped," Matt deadpans. "But it doesn't make sense, he hates you in the notebook."

"In the beginning, I hated him too. It's all explained." He relaxes a bit, stretching his arms. Then he panics again, grabbing me by the shoulders. "You have to help me though. It's all a conspiracy, man-"-yeah, that doesn't sound like a stoner at all- "something big is going on in this place. Something bigger than all of us have imagined. Don't think it's just a coincidence all of the similarities that are going on with you and Finn. Ask questions. Find out." He pauses a second time, seriously thinking. "I guess since you haven't finished it, you might as well get some research done while you are. You know what? Start with Rachel Effing Berry. She knows some stuff. And your roommate, talk to him about his 'frequent therapy sessions'." His eyes dart quickly around. "You didn't hear it from this Puckzilla, dude. I'm out."

Then Noah, paranoid and possibly a genius, bolts out of the bathroom faster than Steve in Blue's Clues painting. Leaving Matt alone with a few more thoughts, and a lot more suspicions.

* * *

"Hey, asshole, wake up."

Matt blearily opened his eyes to the sight of an annoyed and slightly amused Blaine, with barest hints of sharpie still on his face.

"Morning, sunshine. Go wash yourself," Blaine said, pointing to the mirror in the bathroom, a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

Crap on a kebab.

He trudged to the bathroom, fully expecting to see some horror drawn all over his face. Instead, his face was clear and smooth. "What am I supposed to be washing, again?"

A snort. "Your stomach."

His...

He lifts up his shirt, revealing a (actually well drawn) sharpie drawing of the monopoly man, flipping him off.

"That is awesome. No way am I washing this off," he said, fully appreciating this in the mirror. "This is a masterpiece, and not a very good method of revenge."

"Not really a revenge. More of a welcome back gift." Blaine appeared in the doorway, smiling. "I missed you, Matt."

"I missed me, too."

Blaine rolls his eyes, and checks his pocket-watch. "Time for my therapy session. See you later, man."

"Hey, Blaine," Matt says, looking back to him. Blaine pauses, turning around, tilting his head. "Why...why do you have so many frequent therapy sessions?" he asks, thinking about Puck's frantic words.

Blaine sighs. "Another story for another time. Enjoy being grounded."

Then Matt is alone in the bathroom, admiring his new "tattoo", and feeling kind of hungry. He was suspended from all therapy sessions today, which made absolutely no sense. Really? He would be punished for getting in a fight by getting his therapy taken away?

The people here have no brains.

"Matt? Can I come in?" Kurt's tentative voice asks. Matt shrugged.

"Do you have food?"

"Yes, actually."

He pokes his head out of the bathroom, and sure enough, Kurt if balancing a tray of two bowls of Cheerios, searching for a place to set it down. Matt takes it from his hands, placing it gently on his sidetable. Kurt wipes his hands on his pants, smiling at him before sitting down on Blaine's bed.

"I like how everyone just smiles now," Matt says, sitting on his own and grabbing a bowl. "It makes this place seem a little better." He shoves a spoonful of Cheerios and shoves it in his mouth, chewing loudly. "Won't you get in trouble for being in here?" He regrets speaking with his mouth full when bits of cheerios fly out of his mouth, one landing on Kurt's cheek. Kurt flicks it off with a frown, taking the other bowl and eating too.

"I guess, but the nurses have got their hands full. Brittany's been having more seizures, they're talking about bringing in a specialized doctor. Santana's worried about it. And Karofsky's been going ape-crazy on the place."

"How so?" He swallows his cereal, watching Kurt with steady eyes.

Kurt shrugs, clearly not wanting to talk about. "Who knows, who cares?" he smiles again. Matt really likes it when people smile, especially Kurt, who always seemed gloomy. "Thanks again, by the way."

"Yes, I'm sure you're grateful for me smiting the beast. Though it may reincarnate to bite us in the ass, but we might as well enjoy the freedom now."

"I'm thanking you for that, yes, but more so for standing up for me. No one's really done that for me before, except my dad, but he's supposed to." he sighs, smile fading from his eyes.

"You're welcome." I slurp up the milk left behind from my cereal, missing having breakfast at home. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, looking back up at Kurt. "Do you miss your dad?"

"Of course. He...he always supported me, y'know?" he sniffs, setting his barely touched cereal down. "I think he always knew I was gay, but wanted me to say it on my own. To come with terms with who I am."

"Are you at terms with who you are?" Matt asks.

"Yeah, I think I am." Kurt's smile is back again. He looks back up at me, eyes huge with curiosity. "What about you? What's your real life like?"

"Real life? I'm an alien sent here to take over this planet, one psycho ward at a time." he pretends his hand is a laser gun, blasting up the place. Kurt giggles, throwing a pillow at him.

"I'm serious. You're so mysterious, share something."

Matt taps his chin, deep in thought. "I like to breath oxygen. My older sister is a pain. My favorite song is Moonlight Sonata-"

"The Beethoven one?" Kurt asks, piquing with interest.

"Yeah, him," Matt says, slightly embarrassed.

"I pegged you as a hip hop guy, but that's awesome."

Matt tsks. "Always with the black guy stereotypes. I do like hip hop, sure. But Moonlight Sonata is just so damn relaxing, you can't _not _like it, y'know?"

Kurt nods, actually looking like he cared about what Matt said. Which is weird, because, no one ever cares about that kind of stuff. Matt's as interesting as a sack of rotting potatoes. But rotting potatoes could be interesting under a microscope. A super microscope.

"Why are you here?" Kurt asks, making another attempt. This guy never lets up. "I told you why I was here, and it's bothersome."

"I don't know..." all of the emotions are coming back, once again. The anxiety, the hatred, the depression, just everything. The fear is prominent in his eyes, and it makes Matt uneasy. Kurt is just trying to help, trying to understand. He should start opening up. It could help.

"Matt, please," Kurt says softly, placing a hand on Matt's knee. Well, it's now or never.

"I wanted to kill myself." he gulps. "Actually, I still do."

Time freezes. It's palpable, the way their future friendship all hangs on his next words. The morning sun is peaking up, indicating is barely past 7am. Matt is so tired. He wants to leave, he wants to be healthy again. But it's true, he wants to be gone. All of this shit, he just can't handle.

"That's too bad." Kurt's lip twitches up. "Because I'm really starting to like you, and if you killed yourself, then no one would be there to save me from doing the exact same thing."

Yeah, he picked a good person to tell.

Matt laughs, but it chokes up and sounds more like a sob. "Then I guess I have reason to stay alive a little longer."

Breath in. Breath out.

The door squeals open, and they both flinch at the sound.

"Song Therapy," the nurse with blonde hair drawls. I've grown to like her, because she's always been there like with the fight with Karofksy. Her name tag reads APRIL RHODES, and she rolls her eyes at the two of them. "You know that you two aren't allowed to be in the same room together? You're on probation."

"We are? No idea," Kurt lies, raising an eyebrow, and removing his hand from Matt's knee. The ghost feeling of the touch lingers.

* * *

"You guys, we have another addition to New Directions!" Mr. Schuester says, strapping on an acoustic guitar and nodding at a girl curled up in a corner. "Her name is Grace Thomas."

Grace glares at us, holding her teddy bear tight to her chest. "You all look older than teenagers and I hate you," she announces loudly, sticking out her tongue.

"Are you even a teenager yourself?" Artie asks, pushing his glasses up. Grace scowls, upturning her nose.

"I'm fourteen." Her face is much younger, childish brown eyes and rounder face. Her blonde hair is cut into a bob, only illuminating her small looks. She taps her red converse together, choosing to further ignore everyone.

"Where's Brittany?" Santana asks, face a mix of emotions. Mr. Schuester sighs, idly tuning his guitar.

"She started screaming and had a psychotic episode. She...tried to kill herself, saying that Thursday wouldn't leave her alone."

Santana falls quiet, and everyone else gathers in a circle to practice. People pick up stray instruments, a harmonica, a tambourine, things that people who are musically challenged can play.

Mr. Schuester starts in on a David Bowie song, and everyone croons along, playing very off key. Nobody dances, but it's okay. Matt doesn't feel like dancing much anymore.

The day drags by, with trays brought in to his room and Blaine rarely around. He finally picks up Finn's notebook, turning to the next entry.

_I'm slowly improving, according to the doctors. Screw that. _

_They think I need to make a friend, so they've paired me up with Rachel Berry. She's kind of crazy, but then she starts talking about how ashamed she is at times, and how they never understand, and I got that, y'know? _

_No one ever understands._

_No one-_

"Matt? Your mother is on the phone. You're permitted to talk 15 minutes with her, alright sweetie?" Ms. Rhodes says.

* * *

**A/N: Though a piece of Matt's past has been revealed, THAT IS NOT ALL. What made him want to off himself? What the hell is wrong with Puck? What secrets with Finn's notebook reveal? **

**Something big is going on here, and Matt is going to find out. What about you? Are you going to join us in the fight? **

**Read. Review. Go insane. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Since it's been a while since I've updated(sorry!), here's a recap (you have to read it in the voice of the recapper on the actual Glee show. Because it makes everything funnier.) **

**LAST TIME ON MENTAL QUIRKS: Matt's in a mental hospital because of reasons, recently learned that he tried to kill himself, which he told Kurt. Speaking of Kurt, he's had some trouble with Karofsky kissing him (gross) but Matt saved him. Before which Kurt saved Matt by kissing him. What? Matt was on a drug that made him basically a robot. But then, as said before, Kurt saved him. What's up with that? Anyways, there's a guy named Finn who committed suicide, but left behind a notebook with his thoughts. Puck found it before Matt came and purposefully left it where Matt could find it. Now Puck's telling him to uncover some secrets. Oh, and Brittany keeps having seizures and there's a new girl Grace. Also Matt's mom just called him. And that's what you missed last time on MENTAL QUIRKS. **

* * *

_"Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage."  
-Ray Bradbury_

The cold plastic of the payphone sat still in his hands, and he debates quietly to himself, wondering what he should say. There was so much that was never uttered before he came here. He never even-

"Matt, sweetheart?" a voice croons from the receiver. Matt gulps, holding the phone up to his ear, twisting the cord around his fingers. The hallways are empty; everyone is taking the evening break. In fifteen minutes, it would be partner therapy. But right now, it was just Matt and his mother.

"Hi, mama," he whispers, hand tightening around the phone. As soon as he says this, his mother explodes.

"Baby, how are you? I've been worried sick, you know. Your sisters have been too. Kayleigh has been asking nonstop about you. Anyways. How's life? How's the food? Are you eating? You were starting to look so skinny, it scared me half to death. Are you making friends? Are they mean to you?"

Matt inhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Leave it to mothers to assume everything could go wrong, and treat a mental hospital like a summer camp. "It's fine, Ma. I'm eating, the food's okay. I'm making a few friends."

"Is the therapy working?"

"Yes," he lies, facing the wall and staring at his feet. Artie's in the hallway now, whistling to himself and heading towards the bathrooms. Matt turns away from him, lowering his voice an octave. "Does anyone know where I am?"

"Honey, only the teachers know. You shouldn't be ashamed though, your friends will understand. If not, they're not true friends."

_What friends? _he asks himself, sighing. He puts on a cheery voice, to please his mother. "I know. I was just wondering."

"Have you..." she pauses, and her breath quickens. "have you had anymore suicidal thoughts?"

Matt smirks, and his heart aches to hug his mother, telling her that everything is fine when it's not. "Of course not," he lies, once again. "I've been going to therapy sessions, and meeting new people, and doing a bunch of stuff. Much too busy to be sad."

"Oh, good." His mother sighs a breath of relief.

"How's Nat? Is she still breaking the bell curve?"

An actual laugh emits from his mom. "Oh, you know her. Law school was too boring, medicine wasn't challenging enough, and now she's determined to get into psychology."

"Because of me?"

"Because of you."

He sniffs, rubbing his eyes to erase evidence of sadness. "I...miss everyone." It was true. He tells himself this often, staring at the pictures he packed in the bottom of his suitcase, and while he knows it's ultimately better to be here so he doesn't kill himself in a horrible, horrible death. But still, he hasn't hugged his mother in forever. And sometimes, that's all he wants.

"About your father-" What a mood changer.

"Ma. Please. Don't," he begs, mentally praying to whoever the hell is listening to not continue this conversation.

"But, honey, I've been looking online, and it says it's healthy to talk-"

"I don't care, I'm not ready."

"Sweetheart," Nurse April Rhodes says softly from behind Matt, appearing out of nowhere. Matt jumps, twisting his head to meet her eyes. Where the hell did she come from? "Ya'll fifteen is up. Time for therapy."

Huge sigh of relief. "Ma, I gotta go."

"Oh, that's too bad. We'll talk soon, alright? And I'll record Kayleigh's ballet recital for you. She's becoming quite the dancer, just like you." she sniffs, and whispers, "You're always my baby boy, my brave, strong baby boy. Don't tell yourself otherwise. Love you."

"Love you too, Ma." His voice chokes, sob bubbling in his throat. He gently hangs up the phone, blinking hard and turning back to Nurse Rhodes. "Gimme a sec, 'kay?" he asks.

She smiles, patting his shoulder. "Of course. I'll just tell that doctor gal that you're occupied," she says, winking, walking back down the hall. Matt clutches his stomach, leaning against the wall and sinking to the floor, head in hands. He inhales sharply, forcing the tears back. His mother loves him so much, and he's treated her like shit for the past seventeen years. She never really supported his dancing during their financial troubles, which fed some bitterness in him. Now all he wants to do is hold her and never let go.

"Are you okay?" Artie asks, staring down at him from his wheelchair. What is up with people sneaking up on him? Artie pushes his glasses up further on his nose, unsure what to do.

"I-I'm fine. I just had a talk with my mom. Mothers...mothers are tough to deal with, y'know?" he says with a hollow laugh.

Artie shrugs, twiddling his thumbs. "Wouldn't know. My mom died in the crash that paralyzed me when I was eight."

Shit on a kebab. "I am so sorry," he says, enunciating each syllable. "I'm _sure _she was wonderful." He meant it, even if he never met her.

"Yeah. She was." Now Artie was getting teary eyed, and he quickly wipes away any evidence. "She...she saved my life. Threw her body over my own so I got less of the impact."

"That's amazing," Matt says, standing up. He knew his mother would do the same thing, and the thought made his heart oddly warm. "Do you remember her?"

He gives him a weak smile, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater vest. "Sure do. I dream about that day, every night. Memory dreams are the worse."

Matt agrees whole heartedly, brushing his sweaty palms on his scratchy jeans, clearing his throat. They both fix up their appearance so they don't look so weathered. No matter what counselors and mothers say, it is very unmanly to cry. It's even unmanly for a _woman _to cry, if you could make sense of that. He places his hands on the wheelchair handles, pushing Artie down the hallway to the small therapy room, where there are pillows set up, with people sitting across from their respective partners. The only ones without partners are Rachel and Quinn.

"Which one is the lesser of two evils?" Artie whispers to him, and Matt grimaces at his two options.

"Artie, go with Rachel, Matt, you're with Quinn," Dr. Kale pipes up, sitting in a spinny chair with a notebook open on her lap. She's chewing on her pen, gesturing to the girls when she says their names. Matt gives Artie an apologetic shrug, because Rachel looks like she's holding in a huge tangent about _something. _Though, thinking back to what Puck said, maybe being with Rachel would have be better to further his new investigation. Whatever that is.

"Hi, Quinn," Matt says, sitting on a pillow facing her. Quinn refuses to meet anyone's eyes, staring at her fingernails, which have been bitten down to a numb.

"Hello." The deep purple half moons under her eyes, and lost expression, it was clear the sleep tricks never work for her. "I heard you spiraled into a deep rage and took it out on Karofsky."

He raises an eyebrow, leaning in close. Her breath smells like tobacco, which made him wonder briefly. "Are you sympathizing with that meaty asshole?" He didn't mean to make it sound so threatening when he said it, but for some reason, his words were harsh.

"No," Quinn spat, crossing her arms in defiance, jutting her chin up. "I'm worried, for your information. Nothing good from barbaric violence at this place. Get into a hot heated debate, add in some fists, and suddenly, everything goes haywire."

"For you information, I was helping Kurt from being assaulted by that jerk," he quick to respond, matching Quinn's stance. Dr. Kale threw a glance at us, eyebrows kneaded together in worry. Matt shook his head at her, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh how _cute,_"Quinn hisses, "more ways you're just like Finn. Defending the helpless beautiful victim. Where do you all come from?"

"Just like Finn..." Matt's mouth runs dry, and he blinks. "Helpless beautiful victim?"

Her eyes are steel, he decides. They never betray emotion, and even if she says things in different ways, her tone of voice is always slightly monotone. It's the mouth that gives her away. Those glossed lips that are either pulled into a tight smirk or threatening frown. "You heard me, on both terms. You and Finn Hudson. You know who I am talking about, don't lie."

"Of course I know," Matt says quickly. "I was just wondering on how his time here somehow relates to me." He's been wondering this for more than just now, but that doesn't matter.

"Don't you find it odd?" Quinn asks, hair falling in front of her face as she tips her head back in arrogance.

"Find what odd?"

"Switch partners!"

After partner talk, they have free time, and everyone funnels into the free time room. Matt asks to go to the bathroom, and after going through more passes and double checks than airport security (minus the feeling up) he is splashing water in his face and trying to wake up. His sleep hasn't improved at all since he got here. Bedtime was in a few hours, but he isn't sure he can make it. He stares at the tiny crack in the corner of the glass mirror, wondering how much it will grow by the time he escapes from this hell. How long has he been at the Asylum? He hasn't been tallying on the walls, which might have been useful, and the calenders don't show the months, only days. Which is eerie. Where does one get such a calender? Is there a mental asylum store, where they sell bland applesauce and beige paint?

He splashes himself again, shaking out the train of thought. He wipes his face with a scratchy brown paper towel that belonged in a gas station bathroom, and pushes open the door. The hallway is empty again, as it has been lately. Curious.

The lighting was dim in the hallway. He had to squint to focus on anything, and it felt like it should be brighter. It was only five o'clock, anyways.

"Hey, dude," a voice says. Matt turns around to see Sam, and he rolls his eyes.

"You have to stop scaring me like that."

Sam is leaning casually against a wall, using his left hand to push the hair out of his eyes. His right hand was holding a cigarette, which he put in his mouth and inhaled. Matt had always thought cigarettes seemed disproportional to the human mouth; it was abnormally long and seemed silly, but with Sam, it fit perfectly. The end was lit up with a bright orange, which illuminated Sam's woebegone face. "Are you allowed to have that here?" he asks, standing next to Sam.

"Yeah," Sam says, blowing a long stream of smoke. "Only in this hallway, and only at certain times. I'm not allowed to share with anyone who's not approved, especially not Brittany or Puck, or else they send me off."

"Wouldn't that be a good thing? Being sent off?" Matt asks.

Sam shrugs, tapping out the ashes into the silver trashcan next to him. "I don't mind it here. Keeps me contained. And they wouldn't send me home. They would send me to a more strict facility where drool from the other patients is the main beverage." Matt chuckles, relaxing against the wall and watching the blonde smoke like a natural. Sam notices the staring, and smirks. "Are you going to go off on a tangent about how smoking is so bad for me and my singing voice could be ruined? Rachel already covered that."

Matt shook his head. "Nah. I don't mind. It's kind of hypnotizing, watching you smoke that casually. The tip just glows whenever you inhale, I mean, what a cool thing, y'know?"

Sam laughs, shaking his head. "If I ever had doubts about you before, they are vanquished. You truly deserve my friendship."

"Deserve? You should be the one on your knees begging for me to talk to you." Matt claims, dramatically placing his palm across his chest. The lights flicker slightly, which they both give questioning looks at, but Sam shrugs.

"It's probably a storm outside. It's not like we could tell." Now that he mentioned that, Matt could hear the slight force of wind against the building, which sent an echoing woosh throughout the vents. It must be nearing April. At least that gives him some idea of a date.

Matt nods, and goes back to watching Sam smoke with interested eyes. "You don't seem like a smoker. Don't take that the wrong way."

Sam coughs back a smile, shrugging. "Honestly, I don't see why everyone doesn't smoke. I mean, I might be some huge trouty mouthed geekwad, according to Santana, anyways, but with the psychopath within, it does mean my stress level is through the roof." He sighs, sinking into the wall. "Unhealthy as it is, it's relaxing. I'm not gonna worry about my shit when I smoke."

Matt licks his lips, twiddling his thumbs. "Can I try that? I have to admit, you'd be a damn good tobacco salesman."

Sam chuckles, shrugging his shoulders again. "Hey, go for it. Just don't tell the nurses, alright?"

The cigarette passes from person to person, and Matt hesitantly looks at it. He wasn't lying, he had no problem with smokers. And Miss Emma would kill him right now if she saw what he was about to do, but who cares? Sam wasn't pressuring him, Matt _asked._ He brought the fag up to his lips, inhaling deeply.

He immediately gags, coughing up a lung and choking. He shoves the cigarette back, feeling his cheeks turn bright red from the smoke. He wheezes, laughing a bit while he spits. "That tasted like crap."

Sam chuckles again, booming loud. It reminds Matt of his father's laugh. Sam claps Matt on the back, doubling over. "I-" he inhales back another chortle, clutching his stomach, "should have warned you."

Matt punches him in the arm, glaring. "You. Suck."

"I know," Sam admits, stifling a giggle. Matt rolls his eyes.

"Samuel Evans, were you letting that boy smoke?" Nurse Rhodes asks, placing a hand on her hip and attempting a stern look.

"Yes ma'am," Sam swears, face going pale. Matt sighs, shrugging his shoulders. So much for the rebellious badass Sam he had in his mind, in front of adults, Sam is putty. Nurse Rhodes turns to him, glaring.

"Matthew, what do you have to say for yourself?" Why do adults ask that? It's not like they give a flying fuck what the children think. Nope, they just want to see us squirm, stutter, and eventually lie to their faces. Well, old Matt did that to doctors and psychologists back in the day.

Now new Matt is kind of a bitch.

"I say that I wanted to try it, and I did, and it tasted like shit. Won't do it again, so move along and don't give us any more crap."

It was unnecessarily harsh; Nurse Rhodes had been kind to him so far, and there was no reason to be snippy. But something inside him wanted to be different. His depression wasn't getting any better, in fact, all it made him was angry. Angry about never knowing shit.

"Matthew, I think you need a detention." Nurse Rhodes turns to Sam. "You, too."

"Okay," Sam says, shoulders slumping. Matt's stomach whirls; he didn't mean to get Sam in trouble. They were having a fun time, laughing and talking. Why did he have to be an asshole and screw everything up?

She takes her manicured nails to drag them by the ears. Sam stomps on his cigarette before stammering off with him, and they make disgusting faces at eachother to convey the utterly shit situation they were in.

She finds the key on the long hook she has jangling off her belt. She yanks off a small silver key with a D engraved on it, unlocking it and pointing us inside.

"Shouldn't we be seperated-"

"In." Her sharp words cut off Sam's pathetic input, and a door gets shut in his face. Matt starts laughing. It starts as a small chuckle, then builds into a full riot of gut busting chortles. Sam joins in, and soon they're rolling on the ground. He was sure anyone monitoring the detention room would start seriously questioning their drug prescriptions, but who gave a shit? Who honestly gave a horse's shit at their situation right now?

"You're kind of a bitch, Rutherford," Sam notes.

"I know." They both lie there on the plush beige foam carpet, staring at the ceiling.

Sam starts to sing.

"_Do__ you want to go to the seaside?_" It's so soft that Matt barely even hears it at first. Then it grows louder. "_I'm not trying to say that everybody wants to go,"_

Matt knows the words.

"_But I fell in love at the seaside…" _Matt croons along. Sam's large mouth breaks into a grin.

"_And I handled my charm with time and slight of hand_…" Sam continues.

They starts singing together, standing up and pointing at each other.

"_But I'm just trying to love you__  
In any kind of way__  
But I find it hard to love you girl__  
When you're far away__  
Away__…"_

"That was pure amazing, man," Sam says, lying back on the floor. Matt does the same. "Hey…have you ever been in love?"

"Nah," Matt says. "Have you?"

"Yeah," he says, sitting up. You see a tear glistening in those blue eyes of his. "Goddamn, I really wish I could smoke right now."

"I know the feeling," Matt says. Sam gives a questioning sideways glance. "Not the smoking part. I mean, I've had the feeling where a thought is just in your mind, gives you a sickening feeling, and just destroys your insides."

"Right?" Sam says, sighing and smoothing his hair down. "Like, fuck that." A few beats of silence.

"What did she look like?" Matt asks. "The person you fell in love with."

Sam smirks. "Brunette. Peace lips, hair that tumbled past her waste like waves in the sea. Green glistening eyes that reflected a past of abuse and tyranny. Damn, what a babe."

"And then?"

"And then what?" Sam asks. "Nothing. Fucking nothing." He makes a face of unfinished words, but Matt decides not to push it.

Miss Rhodes opens the detention door, peering in with no expression. "Come on guys, time to go back to your rooms."

A few shoves and glares from nurses later, Matt is sitting on his bed, reading an awful book for his English class at his real school. Blaine comes back from another intense therapy session, bags under his eyes and looking like he's going to fall apart.

All he does is collapse on the bed, crying.

"Holy shit Blaine, what happened?" Matt asks, abandoning the book and going over to his friend.

Blaine quickly pulls himself together, straightening his tie and wiping away and moisture from his face. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Come on, Blaine," Matt says, his gut wrenched with betrayal. "I thought we were friends. Buddies. Compadres. Allies. Don't you trust me?"

"That's not it at all," Blaine quickly says. "If I could tell you, trust me, I would be spilling my gut out. It would be a cheesy chick flick up in here."

"Okay," Matt says dubiously. "Just, I'm here for you man."

Blaine smiles through his sadness. "I know. And someday, I will tell you. Everything." There's a pause, before he clears his throat. "So, I heard you got in detention with Sam."

"News travels fast here."

"It does. What's Sam like? Is he nice?" Blaine asks, attention all on you.

"Yeah. A little broken, but he's a cool dude."

"Really?" Blaine bites his thumbnail. "That's something."

"Wait." Matt holds up a hand. "You interested in trouty mouth? Because dude, that's fucking adorable."

Blaine scoffs, leaning back. "What? No, of course not! No!"

"Admit it!"

"Never!"

"Blaine!"

Matt wraps Blaine in a headlock, rubbing his head with his fist. Blaine laughs, attempting to wrestle out of it with no luck. "Say uncle, man!"

"Uncle, you insufferable asshole!" Blaine says lightly, and Matt lets go. "Fine! Sam's kinda cute, okay? But he's after Quinn."

"I see." Matt smirks, offering a hand to help Blaine up. "But Quinn's a bitch, so you have a shot."

"Shut up," Blaine says. "Have you seen the looks Artie and Quinn have been giving each other? I think there's something there."

"Really? Haven't noticed."

"You don't notice much."

Matt rolls his eyes, just when a random nurse peeks her head into the room. "Time for bed, boys!"

With minor protest, both boys are in their beds, and their lights are off.

Matt shifts to one side, staring into the darkness. He doesn't feel like going to sleep, not yet. After only fifteen minutes without the mercy of sleep, there's a note that slips under the doorway. Matt gets out of bed, dropping the covers on the floor. Blaine sits up, rubbing his eyes and looking up at Matt, who then puts his finger to his lips to indicate silence. He hesitantly picks up the note, and squints to read it in the darkness. It's in Puck's handwriting.

**Blaine and Matt—**

**There's a meeting, with all of us, in the small unused therapy room down the hall, to the right in about ten minutes. Don't be late! I had to use some fucking skill ninja sneaking to get this note here, so appreciate it. It's important. Oh, and don't worry about the nurses about. Puckasaurus has a few tricks up his sleeve. **

**Eat this note after you read it. **

Blaine came over, and read it over Matt's shoulder. "Eat it?"

"Destroy it, I think he means," Matt says. "So no one else finds it."

"I don't want to eat it," Blaine says, smoothing his shirt. "I'm too much of a gentlemen to do that."

"Oh, what a baby," Matt says, and shoves the note, chewing it thoughtfully. "Tastes like paper."

"We have a modern day Sherlock Holmes right here."

Waiting the allotted amount of time, Matt puts on a pair of jeans and red hoodie, with his favorite pair of Chuck Taylor's, green with black laces. Blaine just wears skinny jeans and a bowtie. Both of them nod at eachother, like in a super cool spy movie, then they head out. The halls are eerily silent, and they half expect a guard dog to come and attack. Blaine's in front, Matt's behind, and they creak against the tiles, the darkness shielding them from view. At one point Blaine does a duck and roll maneuver, and Matt smacks him in the head.

"The hell was that for?" he whisper shouts.

"I wanted to be cool," Blaine whispers back, blushing. Matt rolls his eyes, and pushes him along.

Soon, they make it to the coveted door, with the meeting place behind it. Blaine puts his finger against his lips, kneels down, and motions Matt to do the same. They press their ears against the door, trying to listen in.

"What are they saying?" Blaine mouths. Matt shrugs.

Suddenly the door swings open, and the two tumble into the room. Everyone stares at them. Puck glares down at them, hand on the doorknob. "What are you guys doing?" he asks.

"Being spies," Matt admits.

Puck shakes his head, like he should be talking with all of the ninja crap, and shuts the door softly. "Nice of you guys to show up. You're late."

Matt guesses that sneaking around cost them some time.

Everyone else is sitting on various chairs, and there's a chalkboard set up.

On it, is one word: **RIOT.**

"Riot?" Blaine questions. "Why?"

"Because," Santana spits out, her cheek soaked with tears. "They're killing Brittany."

* * *

**A/N: I AM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY. There is just no excuse for my horrible-ness right now. I'm sorry if any of you have lost attention or have gotten bored, but it won't happen again! Does long chapter make up for it?**


End file.

Glee, Drama, Humor