I’m loving these prompts…this one got a little dark tho- 
Confused
I have regretted many things in my life. I regret asking my crush what his tux would look like. I regret trying to fly from the second story window. Certainly, I regretted “drawing” on my arm with a knife. However, I regretted setting my chemistry teacher’s chair on fire the most. His face contorted into rage and microscopic drops of saliva joined together until it was big enough to be on an eyechart. I suppose it wasn’t the smell of burnt rubber that really pissed him off: it was most likely my lack of interest. I had been through far stranger and less enjoyable situations before.
I had problems defining what was real and what wasn’t. The odd sensation of a story flowing freely from ones subconscious, often mingled with the real world. Even Mr. Thetherman’s spit was reduced to light rain falling on me. He screamed at me to go to the principal’s office, I could tell it was far more urgent than his previous rant as I was drenched in the smell of coffee and morning breath.
I blinked and found myself standing in front of the principal’s office. This happened more than I’d like to admit. A stream, cutting to the most vital parts. The door let out a deafening creak. The principal was encased in the darkness if the room, whether to be intimidating or he likes the dark was unknown. The shadows moved and I was ushered to my seat.
My name came out distorted, botched information sent directly to my head. It wasn’t him speaking. His mouth remained closed, but the sound was like his voice. I was a bit unnerved: it wasn’t often that I had a nightmare reality. The voices mixed into one that had many. I could hear the deep voice of a man, yet also breathy whispers of a female. Dozens of voices spoke.
The men in white coats. The men in white coats. The men in white coats.
The phrase repeated itself hundreds of times burning images into my mind. Me, screaming my head off in a cold room, the walls had been bleached white yet pink stained the edges. Me, laying underneath a scalpel: tears glinted along with streams of crimson. A hollow wail reminding me of my own voice but too broken to be mine. I couldn’t get the air in fast enough: a strange tiredness came in a strong wave and black spots formed in my vision.
The men in white coats are coming.
A girl no older than 17 sat in the corner. Her eyes fluttered wildly but remained shut. Her classmate looked undisturbed, his eyebrows furrowed over some equation.
Then panic started.
A piercing scream made students scamper and stare at the girl. She clutched the temples of her forehead, yelling. “THE MEN IN WHITE COATS!” The teacher rushed towards her in an effort to calm her, but he was too slow.
Soon enough crimson liquid leaked from the deep scratches: blood fervently trying to escape her nails.