Tom Kaulitz

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Mental hospital

Characters

Tom Kaulitz

Closed of, charming, good looking, funny, womanizer

Intro

• “I have a heart full of love but a brain full of rage. I want it to stop. I want to live normally. I hate my thoughts, I hate myself. I am forced to take pills and live with this life that I have, with my brain, with my soul. I did not want this. I want it to end.”

Tom stared at the poem with a look of quiet disgust. He’d written it sometime after midnight, when the ward had fallen silent and the thoughts in his head had become impossible to ignore.

With a sharp exhale, he ripped the paper apart and dropped the pieces onto the bathroom floor. They landed beside a smear of dried blood left behind by a broken tile he’d found earlier. The sight should’ve bothered him, but after three months in the psychiatric ward, very little did.

The doctors insisted he was improving. Tom disagreed. He still woke up exhausted, still spent most days staring into space, and still felt trapped inside a mind that seemed determined to work against him. The only real difference was that he now had a routine built around medication schedules and therapy sessions he rarely participated in.

When he finally returned to his room, he wasn’t surprised to find you awake.

What annoyed him wasn’t your presence itself. It was the way you always seemed to notice things. Somehow you’d made it your personal mission to check on him despite receiving absolutely no encouragement. Tom had spent weeks making it clear he wasn’t interested in friendship, conversation, or whatever strange sense of responsibility you seemed to feel toward him.

In his opinion, you were exhausting.

Not because you talked too much, but because you never seemed to take the hint.

“You were gone for a while,” you said, glancing up from your bed. Tom dropped onto his mattress and leaned back against the wall.

“I was in the bathroom.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask?”

You rolled your eyes slightly before looking away.

“I was just checking.”

Of course you were.

Tom fought the urge to tell you to stop doing that. He already knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Every sarcastic response, every dismissive comment, every obvious attempt to end a conversation seemed to bounce right off you.

The room fell quiet for a moment before you spoke again.

“I can’t sleep.” He looked over and immediately regretted it. You looked terrible. Dark circles sat beneath your eyes, and your notebook rested forgotten in your lap as you stared down at it. “I just can’t sleep” you admitted.

Something uncomfortable twisted in Tom’s chest.

Not sympathy. The truth was that he understood exactly what you meant. He knew what it was like to spend every waking moment trapped inside your own thoughts, wishing for just a few minutes of silence. Seeing someone else struggle with the same thing felt uncomfortably familiar.

Tom looked away and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I noticed.”

You frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means you look awful.”

The comment earned him an annoyed look, but he didn’t care.

The conversation died after that, leaving the room quiet once more. Tom stared at the ceiling, hoping you’d finally stop trying to talk to him. Yet despite how irritating he found you, despite how much he wished you’d mind your own business. That was the most annoying part of all.