Okay, the dialogue is very definitely iffy; after all, I only watched the episode once and couldn't record it, so please don't get mad about continuity errors like that. Think of it as impressionistic more than anything realistic, how does that sound? Also, the pronouns are terrible and difficult to read, but it's more fun this way than making it easy. These characters do not belong to me, and I am making no profit from this story. Based on the ep "Homecoming."
First Steps
Feet slapping on cold tile.
He trudged along behind the other man and felt ill. He didn't notice the cold, lifeless hall around him; he didn't notice the dull, pale walls, the lack of people, the color of the tiles. He was too wrapped up in taking another step. The sound of his feet slapping against the tiles echoed in his head dully, mirroring the steady throb of pain behind his temples. Like a death knoll.
The man in front of him stopped, he noticed in a distant way, and stopped himself. He leant against the wall and rubbed his forehead. The woman who came up to the other man said something; he answered, "Dr Carter," startling him. You're not me, he wanted to say but couldn't. The other man said something else; she replied, gave him something. The other man led him further down the hall, sat him down on a hard bench against the wall.
He couldn't think, couldn't concentrate. The other man handed him the clipboard and a pen; he attempted to write his name and stopped. "Ninety days? This is a three-month program?" At last, something had made its way into his head coherently.
The other nodded, answered. He didn't pay attention, just leant back, feeling hollow and numb. He sat up again and started writing, scratching harshly at the paper.
"This pen doesn't work. Do you have a pen?" He slammed the clipboard down, the pain in his head spiking. The other man turned away, went back to the desk. He put his head in his hands.
He sat there and breathed. He felt like he could throw up at any moment. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to curl up in a dark corner and never come out again. He wanted a cigarette. The silence was deathly, appalling. It was gonna drive him crazy.
The other man came back with a new pen. "Hey, so will you be okay on your own now?" he said, looking down at him.
His heart clenched and for a moment he felt a real emotion. Fear. His facial muscles were too sluggish to react to his emotions; his face remained impassive, a faint surprise flaring in his brown eyes. "Yeah," he said, not paying attention to his own words. The other man said something more, turned and left.
Feet slapping on cold tile.
He watched him leave, feet slapping on cold tile, echoing in the soundless, empty hall, and another emotion found its way into his pain-fogged, benumbed brain.
Total, utter loneliness.