The thought has been subliminally flashing in the back of my mind all day. I'm remembering what it was to be clinically depressed.

Characters don't belong to me, otherwise it wouldn't belong on here.

A large, tanned, blond man entered a quaint little waiting room. The air was stale, all the magazines sitting on the tables were outdated and the covers on a couple of the chairs were torn with fluff poking out. He raised a hand to remove his sunglasses in one smooth motion and looked around with what seemed to be disapproval. He stepped up to the Plexiglas window separating this room from the next and had to slightly hunch over to look inside. Peering up at him was an exceedingly disinterested older woman with dyed hair and too much make-up on.

"I'm here for Doctor Rossi*." He looked her in the eye with a straight face.

"Name?" She drummed in a coarse voice, peeking out of the corner of her eye at the computer screen before her.

"Raphael." Her index fingers descended tediously one by one against her keyboard. Were it not for what was probably a dozen layers of polish, her over grown nails would have broken by now.

"Pay?" She didn't bother to look up while outstretching a hand expectantly. Raphael couldn't help but raise an eye brow at her peculiar manners as he reached for one of the inner pockets of his trench coat.

He took his change and mumbled an inaudible "thank you," then turned to the walls to examine the framed oil paintings. There was the usual: a still life, a few portraits, one abstract and a landscape. He stopped dead in front of the last one. It was of a beach shore, looking out at an endless ocean. He closed his eyes and smiled in spite of himself. To most people this must be a calming image...

One of the two doors on either side of the windowed wall opened. Raphael twisted backwards to see a fiery-haired... person, in a white coat.

"Raphael?" Ah, the voice was a man's. It was also slightly irritated, but sounded as though it always was. His eyes bore into Raphael's, just as heated as his hair and voice.

Raphael wheeled around completely, his hands in his pockets. "Dr. Rossi."

"This way." He pulled the door completely open, revealing a narrow hallway. As Raphael came through the doctor led the way, taking quick long strides all the way to the very end before shoving one of the heavy, no-doubt sound muffling doors open.

The room was blindingly white. All the furniture was stainless and looked as though it were washed with a bucket of bleach every day. There were no windows, a desk against the far corner of the room, a padded table in the other, an office chair and a stool. The fluorescent light made the room seem eerily dim and yet overly illuminated at once. He shuffled inside and the red-head hurriedly pressed the door back into it's frame.

"Have a seat." The doctor signaled to the stool while circling around the muscular man and slumping into his own chair. In truth it looked like the stool, which was nothing more than some bars and a plate of steel, wouldn't be able to support him, but he hesitantly lowered himself any way. He was more squatting than he was sitting, and hoped the doctor wouldn't notice.

"So, why are you here?" Dr. Rossi was eying him intently, though he looked some-what sedated; much like a cat. His head was tilted and resting atop one of his arms.

"Well," he cleared his throat and twiddled his thumbs. " ... I took a blood test, which concluded I have a considerable serotonin deficiency."

"What made you decide to take a blood test?"

" ... I ... " His teeth dug into his tongue. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "haven't been feeling well." Raphael struggled to avoid the doctor's unwavering gaze.

"Such as? Poor appetite, trouble sleeping, concentrating... a lack of, pleasure?" There was a small bump in his tone and Raphael detected it. He couldn't help but look up. The doctor's half lidded eyes were narrowing dangerously and the corners of his lips curved into a voluptuous smile. His legs were crossed and his fingers caressed the side of his face.

Raphael could feel a commotion in the back of his nasal passage and a lump catch in his throat. "Excuse me?" He was completely convinced it was all in his head.

With the same distant and professional attitude as earlier, Dr. Rossi turned to his desk and flipped open a folder, clicking the back of a pen and twirling it upright. "I'd like you to be more specific about what was bothering you."

Apparently there's more wrong with me than I thought. Raphael pondered at the complete bipolarity he was witnessing. " ... uhm, most everything you said. I've been finding it hard to focus and I feel apathetic towards work and recreation."

"Hmm." The doctor hadn't touched the pen to the paper yet. "Well, you say you find it hard to focus. What is it that interrupts your thoughts?

A short silence fell.

" . . . memories."

The doctor spun to meet him with an unexpected expression. He looked amused.

"Interesting." He lifted himself out of his chair by the arms and took a few steps toward the padded table. He stopped half way and crossed his arms behind his back. "You'll pardon me for psycho-analyzing you, but that is my job."

"It seems to me that like a lot of people these days you want a quick fix; you think you can just swallow a pill a day and forget all about this. However, your problems run deeper than a small chemical imbalance. You're reluctant to open up about what's really on your mind, perhaps because you think asking for help is a sign of weakness. Either that or you acknowledge that you're weak and you don't even want to try and solve things."

He paced to the entrance door making Raphael twist around again, which was a nasty strain on his overly built figure. "I think you need to open up."

The doctor pressed himself provocatively against the wall; legs apart and facing inward, back arched and hands strewn by his hips. Raphael mused that his mind was playing tricks on him again and thanked goodness his front half wasn't in the doctor's line of sight. "I'm sorry Dr. Rossi--"

"Amelda," he interjected in a purr. "I don't really like being called by my family name."

"Doctor, then." Amelda made a slight pout. "I have a lot to do today, perhaps I should get going..."

Amelda gave up again and slouched into a more relaxing position. He swept by Raphael and pulled two slips from his desk drawers and scribbled furiously on one of them. Raphael pulled his trench coat in to cover his lower half. "Here. This is your prescription, 25 milligrams of Zoloft a day." He handed the written on one to Raphael and paused before explaining the next. "This," he began with interest and emphasis, "is the business card for a pretty good therapist. I suggest you look into making an appointment."

"...thank you." Before he could continue his mental skepticism, Amelda went on.

"Speaking of appointments, come see me again in a week. Same time." He sat and his slender fingers wove together before his face.

Raphael stood awkwardly, and sort of side stepped to the door with cowboy legs. He nodded and slipped outside. Amelda giggled to himself, then began writing his notes of their meeting.

* author's notes:

Rossi is an italian surname which means red head.

I suppose I'll make another chapter or more just because this would be a weird stand-alone. I'll see if and how I can put in Dartz and Varon.

Could you tell it was Amelda from the start?