Prologue

Waiting rooms are much more tolerable as a small child. When you're six you can tear up magazines, wander around whining about being bored and sit swinging your legs while "accidentally" kicking people who get too close. Most folks think that's cute, even if a little annoying. Sometimes someone will even give you candy to shut you up. They might find you a rubber band and a paper clip with which you can amuse yourself. People like little kids in waiting rooms.

I dare you to pull the same stunts at seventeen. Wanna know what'll happen? You'll get kicked out. There's also a high probability of getting shoved around in an alley for a while, too, if there's anyone of your age group in the vicinity of the waiting room you just got kicked out of. Trust me, I know these things.

Those unpleasant side effects are why I sat still. Well, I kept most of my body still, which is close enough. I couldn't stop my right knee from jerking up and down. It was a nervous tic. What the hell am I nervous about?

The chain from my shorts clanked against the buckles on my boots. People were starting to glower in my general direction. Great. I should have left the bottoms of these pants zipped on. I leered back, baring my teeth once in a while for dramatic effect. What did they expect to see in here anyway? Kids whose lives were all puppies and kitties and rainbow cupcakes? News flash, Numbskulls, the real world ain't like that.

The off-yellow color of the walls was starting to make me nauseas. It looked like vomit. The chair I sat on was padded with cardboard. No lie. Under the thin, fraying upholstery I could feel it. It must be a new method of torture designed to get people to talk more freely.

"Uh… Dib Membrane?"

I held a brief battle with the urge to roll my eyes and lost. Invariably they turned upward at the secretary's confused tone. It happened every time I saw a new doctor. She wasn't expecting to see that name pop up on her list. Nope, not at all.

Why?

Well, you must not be from around here. Possibly not even from this planet. My father is the great, world-famous Professor Membrane. He's the best scientist and inventor Amerika ever produced. That wouldn't be saying much if he weren't single handedly responsibly for curing the common cold and a lovely arsenal of devices for killing Santa Claus. (The man has issues with the fat guy in the red suit. Personally I think he was molested by him but Dad insists that it's because he didn't receive U-238 for Christmas as a child. Whatever. I still say Sandy Claws felt him up.) We'd almost lost everything in the legal battles with the cold medicine companies that resulted from the whole cold cure incident. Currently the cure is only available at ungodly prices. My sister and I can't even have it without paying. How messed up is that?

The receptionist continued to stare up at me, her face now holding fear.

Christ, don't they teach these people manners? I made a shooing motion with my hands. "Lead the way. I don't bite unless I have to."

The blonde lady swallowed hard and turned stiffly, leading me into the maze of offices behind the check-in desk door. The whole "fear" thing was one I just didn't get. Sure, I'd managed to grow to about six feet tall, but considering the fact that the body hanging on that skeleton was borderline anorexic I didn't think I cut a very intimidating image. Just a lanky one.

It must be the black. People tend to be wary of it unless you're a ninja or Halloween is coming up. …Or both. Freaks. Once I was safely in the office the receptionist left me to my own devices. I'm pretty sure I heard her lock me in. Bitch. I hope you get gang banged by mothman and the Chupacabra.

Glaring at the closed door didn't make me feel any better so I sat on the couch. This was stuffed with flat cotton balls instead of cardboard. A slight improvement was better than none at all. The wallpaper used to be a floral print of poppies or something similar. Now it just looked like blood spatter. The only clock in the room was distended and flowy like it was melting. Was that supposed to be ironic?

The door clicked open and a man of about fifty walked in. He was wearing tweed and he locked the door behind him. That wasn't creepy at all. "Hello, Dib, I'm Dr. Morrison. How are you today?" He sat on the chair across from me. He didn't seem too odd, though I wasn't much of a judge for normalcy.

"Your waiting room chairs suck ass and your couch isn't much better."

"I'm sorry you don't like them. I'll have the receptionist see what can be done about that. You're not the first to comment on their poor quality."

Bull shit. You won't do a damn thing to that receptionist except maybe grab her ass. Though I can't blame you for that one.

"Would you like to talk about why you're here?"

"What planet are you from? They took my journals. You should have read them by now. You know why I'm here." I could hear my sister sneering in my head. Little Dib keeps a secret diary! Ha. I wonder what he's whining about now.

Dr. Morrison made an amused sound. "Yes, that is true. I was just hoping to hear it from you. You seem to have a very… fluid writing style. Your prose is rounded in a…" He tried to choose his next word carefully and failed, "feminine way. Why is that?"

I narrowed my eyes at him and fought the urge to pout. That's all that this guy had to say? That I write like a girl? Big deal! At least I write in a comprehensible manner and I can form a proper thesis statement! Try asking any of the other guys in my school to do that- most of them will think its some type of innuendo. This was sorely disappointing. I'd had expectations about my first appointment with a psychologist and none of them were being met.

I countered him with easy condescension. "What are you going to say next? That I have an Oedipus complex?"

I'd done enough self-psychoanalysis to know that I did. (For those of you swine who don't know what an Oedipus Complex is, here's the definition from the Almighty Wikipedia, give or take a few words: "unconscious ideas and feelings which concentrate on the desire to possess the parent of the opposite sex and eliminate the parent of the same sex." In the terms of the classical tragedy, feelings of wanting to kill one's father and marry the mother.) I didn't take things quite as far as the fictional Oedipus- I had no mother around to marry- but I most certainly wanted Dad dead. The strange balance of hero-worship and hatred I'd kept in regards to him was tipping in recent months and not towards the positive end of the scale.

"Oh, yes, that's quite clear. What is it about your father that causes you so much ire?"

At least he's got a good vocabulary. "He thinks I'm insane. He encourages others to think I'm insane. He's never around. He's famous and I'm both envious and jealous. I want his fame and I can't stand that his fame has deprived me of a father figure. He makes me feel inadequate." I delivered this speech in a monotone.

It wasn't like this would be news to someone who had read every single one of my journals. There were about two dozen of the ratty, marbled composition books in all. Every inch of every line on every page in each book was covered in my tiny handwriting in whatever color of ink had been available that day. I didn't waste space. I'd been keeping them since greyd skool.

"Ask me something else. I don't like talking about Dad."

He didn't miss a beat. "Why are you wearing a straight jacket?"

It wasn't really a straight jacket- it was just a coat designed to look like one that I'd dyed black. However, I could see the implications that the therapist had been mulling over since he'd set eyes on me. I took a moment to formulate what I was going to say, hoping I could continue to keep this pseudo-mind-reading act up to pass the hour as quickly as possible. (Not that it entirely mattered- I'd be back tomorrow and the day after and the next day, etc. until Dr. Morrison decided I was fit to see him less frequently.)

"It's an outward expression of the restraint I feel I must maintain at all times in our unfeeling, apathetic society." I threw in an allusion to my unsmiling smiley-face-shirt jsust for good measure.

His eyebrows quirked up a little. It was a sign that I'd managed to get really close to his assumptions. He smirked. "We both know that's not really how you feel about that jacket."

"You're right. Its just a jacket. I bought it because the buckles and straps were entertaining. Any other connotations are what your'e reading into my choice of clothing, not actualy reasons for it."

We had a good stare-down then. I was pissed off about being there and he found me an irritating and fascinating subject. No surprise about that one. Most shrinks think that for a while then they give up.

Oh? Did you think this was my very first psychotherapy appointment? Then I must have misspoken. No, it was just my first one with Dr. Morrison. My last therapist had given up about a month earlier.

"So, Dib, let's get down to the meat of the matter, no more playing games. You're about as good at them as any psychologist I've ever met." I smirked at his compliment. "Why did you try to kill yourself?"

That was a touchy subject. I'd rather talk about my Dad-was-raped-by-Santa theory. My heart rate picked up a bit and the bullet wound that- fuck my life, wouldn't you know it?- was an inch too low below it ached.

"I got bored."

"Liar."

"Of course I am."