The Seventh of January, Two-Thousand and Eleven.
Feeling hurts. That's what they told me. That's why I am here.
"Name?"
The walls are white. I think they're supposed to be calming but, in reality, they're only making the migraine throbbing in the left side of my head infinitely worse. These thoughts concerning it and the man across from me's extremely nasally voice aren't helping.
"Did you hear me, son? I asked what your name was."
The chair that they've made me sit in is made of a cheap plastic. It's like the ones in school that I've always hated, the ones that are so uncomfortably that they are the reason I have slight back problems in the first place. At least this one doesn't have a desk attached... Then again, I could probably use it to rest my head on, if I had one. I have a feeling that this, like the worst of secondary school lectures, could go on forever. And likely, knowing this guy's reputation, it will.
I hear a sigh from the man. It's just as emotionless as his voice, though I can detect a hint of frustration and impatience. It's like he doesn't really enjoy the job that he claims he does. "What is your name?
Somebody in another room is listening to and watching this session with my parents through a window of tinted, one-way glass, and they buzz in over the intercom for the first time since the meeting began. My eyes are momentarily drawn towards the speaker in the upper-left hand corner of the room, but they don't remain focused there for long. Or anywhere in particular at all, really.
"Doctor Carver, you know the boy's name." I'm almost positive that my resolve shatters for a mere moment, and I wince as she calls him 'Doctor'. Something in me hopes that no one saw, but there are too many eyes on me for it to go unnoticed. Everyone knows the story, anyway. It's no unfortunate secret. "It's in your notes. Just move onto the next question."
The thin-haired man sitting before me looks embarrassed, and he adjusts how he is sitting in his seat, eyeing the official clipboard in his hands. It is clear that he is not normally subjected to this sort of criticism, as the people that usually come here are surely more moody and compliant than I am. For some reason, I find a sliver of satisfaction in that. God... What have I become?
My dad tells me that I am nothing more than a brick wall these days when anyone tries to talk to me; or, in his words, "For God's sake, Rory, look a little alive!" He shouldn't be so upset, and neither should my mother. They act like they understand what's happened to me, but they could never begin to. They pretend to believe in the travelling blue box that they never saw and the pain that it caused me. For my sake, they try, and I should appreciate it, but in all honesty they're nothing but liars. After all, if they are so empathetic and understanding, then what am I doing in a highly-secured therapist's office right now? I know that they think I am crazy and that what I told them could 'never be the truth.' I'm just surprised that they haven't sent me to the loony bin yet. Though, after this meeting, I suppose that it's only a matter of time before they decide to take drastic measures. I probably wouldn't mind that place, anyway. I could just sit in the corner of a cushy room and stare off into space, unfeeling.
Because feeling hurts. That's what they told me.
"So, Mr. Williams. When did this all begin?" His questions seemed to fade from my hearing, blending in with the blinding white of the walls.
That's why I am here.