This is just something I had to make for a class. I'm thinking of continueing it but I'm not sure if it's very good and my friends would of course tell me it's good because, well, they're my friends so I can't really trust their judgement.

I looked up as the door opened. No one had bothered to come visit me for over a month and the thought of seeing my father again excited me. A broad smile creased my face until I saw who hesitantly slinked into my room. A boy stood half in the room and was looking back into the hallway. Standing at about five foot seven he was a bit taller than I. The frightened look on his face was just so obvious that it could have been laughable had not the fear have been real. The way he kept looking back at the hallway made the fact that he didn’t want to be anywhere near here evident. With a large sigh, I snuggled back into my window seat and looked out onto the courtyard filled with yellow falling leaves and the sweet smell of fresh rain drifted past the open window into the room.
“You’re trying to get into the group too, aren’t you?” I asked; an edge of anger in my voice. I had seen boys like him before. There was a school near the place I lived and one group of guys decided it would be cool if they sent people here to see if they were ‘worthy’ of being in the group. I guess it was some sort of test.
You have to realize the fact that I lived in a mental institute. A nice little place called Green Gables. When seeing the place from the outside; one wouldn’t think it held a flock of crazies. Four stories tall, it just looked like an old Victorian. Most people chose not to notice the bars on the windows and the ten feet high fence that surrounded the perimeter. All anyone saw was the nice grove of trees and the stone gargoyles that stood guard on the roof of the building. The flaking white pain made the house seem old and nearly rundown and no one ever bothered to repaint it. On bad days people might hear the screams of the insane. For over two city blocks there wasn’t a single other building, for who wanted to live or work where you can hear the sound of agony?
When the school-kids sent one of their own to this place, the people that work the front desk nearly always took pity on them and just sent them to me. Compared to the rest of the people living here, I was a perfectly normal person. The only thing that’s said to be wrong with me is that people say I have Charles Bonnet syndrome. It’s where a person sees delusions of good things that don’t seem to come from a mess up in the brain. They say I have it. But, well, I disagree. I know that what I am seeing is real. It’s just that no one else can see what I do. I’m special like that.
My father is the only person that ever comes to visit me because before I was sent here I was always his favorite child. I feel bad for putting that into words but it was obviously true. And still is as far as I know. He just doesn’t get the chance to see me very often, only about once a month or so. That’s what made the door opening so exciting.
The boy’s eyes had been drifting across my room until I spoke, taking in the drawings covering the walls and the slight scattering of things on the floor. My small bed with crumpled sheets was pushed up into the corner, out of the way while the blanket that was supposed to cover it was thrown across half of the floor. Large stacks of notebooks and drawing supplies littered the floor and covered the single desk that took up nearly a quarter of my room. With a sheepish look, the boy shrugged and seemed to shrink into himself a little bit. The way he stood made him seem amazingly fragile, as if I could go up to him and break one of his little bones with just a touch. The clothes he wore hung loose on his frame, his long black shirt swaying a little in the slight breeze that drifted through my small room. Slightly baggy, dark blue jeans covered his long legs, legs that kept making little movements towards the door. Black hair that looked as if it hadn’t been cut in to long of a time fell across his eyes and obscured part of his face. With high cheekbones and a slight hooked nose, he very easily could have been very handsome if he didn’t look so amazingly scared.
“Yeah…” the boy said a bit breathlessly. “How did you know?” He asked, a spark of curiosity lighting his eyes.
“They always send guys like you to me. They take pity on your pathetic group. Don’t worry, I’m not going to eat you, you’re to skinny.” I whispered, just barely loud enough for him to hear me; quiet enough that he unconsciously leaned forward a bit to hear. Turning my head back towards him, I gave him a sad look and sighed again.
“Why? What’s so much better about you compared to everyone else?” The boy asked indignantly. He seemed almost offended by the fact that he had been sent to someone that wasn’t overly crazy.
A low growl erupted from between my lips and I looked back out the window. “Just go away, you’ve passed the test. I don’t need to have you here bothering me.” Inside, a quiet ache started. Every time one of the group decided to pay a visit I had to think about the fact that I would never be a normal teenager. The only think I wanted was to hang out with friends, have fun, and maybe have a nice boyfriend. But I would never get any of that. How could I? I could see things that others couldn’t. My future was as bleak as an oncoming storm.
I’ve had some of the people that work here ask why I don’t just pretend I don’t see anything anymore. They all know that I could be just like any other teenager if I could just lie to people. But I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t just act like what I see isn’t there. Plus, my mother would never let me out. She’d keep me here as long as she possibly could.
My mother was the one that sent me here to begin with. She didn’t want me to ruin her perfect reputation. Her status in the community was a lot more important than her eldest daughter. I kept insisting that what I was seeing was real and it made all the goody-goody people frown upon me, and, through me, the family, and, through the family, her. So, instead of not caring about what other people though, she sent me here. But, well, what good mother wouldn’t?
The thought of what my mother had done to me made my eyes wet but I blinked away the tears, they wouldn’t do me any good here. Taking a shaking breath, I let my hand drift across my scared wrist. An unconscious twitch I had gotten at about the age of twelve. Every scar that marred the otherwise perfect flesh I placed on my skin every year. Every scar was a reminder of a birthday I spent alone. When I was with my family before I had been put here my birthday had been a very special day, all of the family came and nearly every single one of my friends. I always had a big party. But when my mother put me in here no one even bothered to come and say happy birthday to me. I know in my heart that my father wants to but he can’t. I have to believe that he wants to. How could I live with the knowledge that not a single person in this world cared for me?


I know it just kinda ends but whatever, I'll do more if I ever feel the need to.

I think its great, you should continue it. 9/10

Hmmm very interesting. Great use of description. What happened to the guy though? Did he leave, or was he still there?
I hope you write more, id love to know what happens to this girl.