A droning buzz hummed throughout the blank, bleached white room, completely empty save a few paperback books and a plexiglass touch screen monitor attached to the wall.

"Tick Tick", I mutter.

A few seconds later, the fluorescent lights flicker twice. Tick tick. Right on cue, as always.

How long has it been now? A few days? A few weeks? Months? Is it daytime? Or perhaps nighttime? My sense of time has dulled during my stay in this dreary room. Perhaps they wish to distort my sense of time to match my sense of reality. Heh. I can't believe they actually believed that stupid lie. That I could no longer separate my sense of reality from the virtual world. I guess being a SAO survivor has its perks. Makes it easy to get away with murder as long as I can pin the blame on the "trauma" I received from the SAO incident. Well, perhaps going to jail wouldn't have been so bad. At least compared to being stuck in a psych ward. I'm sure this place violates all sorts of human rights. No windows. No social interaction. No control over when I can eat or sleep. Haha. Look at that. Me, talking about human rights. Aren't I just full of shit?

Sometimes, a physician will come visit my room. Click. The door would open. Clack. He would restrain me so I don't bite his face off or something. The physician only asks me questions relating to my health.

"Did you take any drugs in the past?" he asked.

"Only my prescribed pills," I would respond.

"Does your family have a record of mental health?"

"Not that I know of."

"Any records of physical health?"

"No, I'm the only one in my family with a weak constitution."

Those sort of questions. Quite boring, really.

He scribbles down some notes on his clipboard and finishes taking my vitals- leaving as quickly as he came. Click. The door closes.

If you had to ask, I much prefer the psychologist. At least he tries to have a conversation with me. Despite all the probing, he'd seem like an all right kind of guy, but then again, that's his job.

Click. The door opens again. The psychologist positions a chair, sitting himself next to me-who is still restrained, mind you.

"Shinkawa-kun, how are you feeling today?"

"About the same, Doctor."

"Have you've been doing the activities I recommended?"

I shrugged. I wrote a little bit, but most of my efforts were half-assed and incomplete.

"Shinkawa-kun," he looked at me as sternly as a middle-aged man could. He looked a little bit like my father, if you squint a little. "We've talked about this. We can't let you out until you get better. This treatment isn't supposed to cure you, but it is suppose to act as a stepping stone. I can't force you to do it, but I do want to see you progress so we can get you out of here quicker. You're still very young."

I sneer at the back of my mind. What kind of life could I live out there? Nineteen and still haven't finished high school. A body so fragile, that I would lose a one-on-one fight with my little brother. The three friends I actually have are either in hiding, didn't really care about my predicament, or is off to college in another country. With my luck, I'll probably croak before I reach thirty.

"Well, I see that you have wrote a bit," he says as he turns on the screen the computer mounted on the wall, gliding his finger across the screen.

The wall-mounted computer was designed to have as little functions as possible. No internet, no games, no media outlets of any sort. The only thing I could do was use a word processor to write out my thoughts and feelings, since the facility was afraid that I would try to kill somebody or commit suicide with a pen. To be fair, I probably would. It's incredibly boring here. I already read the two books in this sparse room countless of times. I've been bored to tears these past few months and eventually began that stupid project. I only really finish a paragraph or so before I get frustrated or bored and quit.

The psychologist pulls up one of my "letters" I was supposed to write to somebody I knew. It could have been somebody I trusted, somebody I loved. Hell, it could have been somebody I hated if that's what'll give me the most catharsis.

"This one is addressed to your parents," he began to read my little essay,

"Dear Mother and Father,

Did you ever expect your oldest, frail son to be a murderer? Congratulations for raising a psychopath, I hope you're proud of yourself. Abandoning me must have been the smartest decision of your life. I'm glad they took Kyouji away from you two as well. You two won't be able to mess him up like you did to me."

Ugh. Hearing him read it out loud makes it sound so lame. But as lame as it sounds, they are my true feelings. Resentment, anger, blame. Growing up, I felt like I was only valued as an heir to the hospital. Once they figured out that I couldn't cut it, they dumped me aside and focused on Kyouji instead. Honestly though, I don't really care anymore. I had a lot of time to think these past few months. To reflect, I suppose.

If I were in their situation, I probably wouldn't have known what to do. Casting me off to my own apartment and giving me a generous allowance was the best thing they could do to support me. Thinking back on it, I suppose they cared in their own way, even if they thought of me as a lost cause.

"How does hearing that out loud make you feel?" he asks me.

"Embarrassed." I bluntly responded, "I didn't think it'd sound so whiny."

"Do you still feel that way?"

"What? Being angry at my parents?" I chuckled, "No. Not anymore. I still hold some resentment, but I understand their reasons."

"I see. That's good to hear. Here's a letter addressed to your brother. Might I read this aloud?"

"It's not like I can physically stop you."

"Very well then. But if you want me to stop at any time, please tell me so," he smiles and nods at me.

...Shouldn't you have asked that in the beginning? Whatever.

"Kyouji-

It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself for my mistakes. Sorry I got you involved in this. I knew you were mad at XeXeeD. I knew you were being pressured by dad to take over the family hospital. I manipulated you into doing this with me. It was never your fault. It was mine."

I remember writing this because I knew it would eventually be read by somebody else. If I could do one good thing, I would like my little brother to go free. I might be a piece of shit, but he still has a future. Kyouji was one of the two people to stand by me during the SAO incident. He never gave up that I would wake up one day. He thought I was a hero for surviving. After all, I framed the stories I've told him to make me look like the hero-despite the fact that I was killing for fun. Since his false worship of me was based on lies, I might as well do something good and tell the truth about the Death Gun incident. Haha. Death Gun. It's such a stupid name now that I think about it.

"You seem to really care about your little brother."

"I do."

"But you got him involved in this, despite that?"

"I regret it."

"Fair enough answer," the man raises an eyebrow, looking at the last letter I wrote. Huh. I don't even remember writing this one.

"This one is labeled, 'To: Rin-chan'. Is she a friend?"

My mouth gets dry. I began to remember. It was an incredibly sappy and stupid letter that ended up five pages long-compared to the few sentences wrote to my family members. I remember writing it on a particularly hard and lonely day during the first few months, when the feeling of isolation reached its peak.

"Y-yeah." I stuttered a bit, but quickly regained my composure.

"Girlfriend?"

"Heh, I wish," I mumbled.

We were childhood friends. Well, it was more like she was my only friend until I met the guys in Laughing Coffin. Her mother was a single parent and worked as a nurse at my family's hospital. Rin would often spend her days after school in the waiting room, waiting for the end of her mother's shift. We met under convenient circumstances, as I was hospitalized for months when I was ten years old. My parents didn't want me to end up socially inept. Using their position as her boss, they specifically requested that Rin Yukimura would be my playmate. The rest was history.

I think I began to grow a crush on her at the end of middle school. It was mostly because she started to 'develop' into a woman. By which I mean she had a nice body. T and A, the works. Hell, I'm a teenager. It's not like this situation is abnormal for a guy my age.

I eventually fell in love with her for real, once we began to get closer. We were each other's best friends, as far as I know. Hmph. I never had the nerve to ask her out, so I never knew if she had felt the same way. Heh. Not that I have much redeeming qualities-aside from being incredibly well off. Rin isn't a gold-digging kind of girl anyway. She's actually nice. Unlike me. It makes me wonder if she hates me now that the incident has probably become public. The anti-social, misanthrope me. I wouldn't blame her or anybody else. After all, who wouldn't hate a serial killer? We're the scums of society.

"May I read the letter?" he asks me.

"I'd prefer if you didn't."

I think I would turn red from a live reading. Half the letter is asking if she could forgive me for killing people and how I could make it up for disappointing her. The other half is me devolving into a blubbering, sentimental mess. Telling her how I always felt about her. That if she forgave me, I would try to become a better person. That we could start a family and live a good life together. All of that crap. It's as embarrassingly honest and awkward as a nineteen year old with no social skills can get. So no, I don't want anybody to read that letter.

"Alright. We can do this another day," the psychologist closes the file and shuts down the computer, "I felt like we made a lot of progress today, Shinkawa-kun."

"You think?" I ask halfheartedly. I guess some part of me wanted to get better. I do miss eating good food and being able to do other things aside from sleeping. I miss my little brother and my Rin. I want to spend more time with them if I could. But I know I also did something pretty fucked up. It'll probably be years before I can get out. I wouldn't hold my breath.

"Of course. Every single step we make counts. One step, or one thousand steps. Every bit of progress matters," he smiles and releases the restraints on my arms and legs. He extends his hand out. I reach out and give him a firm handshake, "I'll see you next week, Shinkawa-kun."

"Yeah. See you next week."

Click. The door slams shut.