3. Jennifer

John studied his tired reflection in the mirror, his black-bag rimmed blue eyes looking up and down hypocritically. He looked a mess. True, it had been officially confirmed by a quiet call from his father a few moments earlier that he was a mess, a nutcase, a liar, however you chose to perceive it. No wellshaft, no Japanese girl, imagination running riot, psychiatrist on her way to see you.

Anger bubbled beneath his pale skin. Psychiatrist. The word eachoed nastily through his blonde head. I think you need to speak to Jennifer, John. She can help.

Yes, Jennifer Pulles probably could help, in a very big way. She could go and kill herself for a start. Hang herself, get hit by a bus, whatever. He smiled weakly at himself. Maybe he was cracking up - he had never really wished death upon anyone before... well, not recently anyway.

He scratched his fingernails down the side of the sink, relishing the loud schreeching noise they produced. Any noise was good really. One of his nails snapped and he faultered. What was he doing? And why? He pulled his hand away sharply, held it to himself. The slashes on his arm had started to throb longingly again, and he closed his eyes, trying to block the little voice in his head that was telling him there were a little pair of scissors in the sewing box Grandma had given him for Chrismas last year ("What happens if you're alone in space and something needs mending?")

I need mending. He thought glumly, avoiding his reflection. And a sewing basket can't fix my hole, so fathers bringing me a psychiatrist.

The anger subsided and was replaced with a morbid dread. So long alone.... how would he react to another human being? Especially a female one? He blushed crimson and stared at the floor. Easy. He couldn't deal with her. She'd understand, she was a psychiatrist after all.

He punched the wall in frustration. There was no anger in the movement, just boredom and tiredness. He'd gone days and nights without sleep, or contact, or anything normal - one day, he had spent the morning staring at a blank wall and the afternoon tapping a pen against the computer panel.

"This is Thunderbird three to Thunderbird five. Request permission to dock." Scott's voice seemed faint and far away. John struck the wall again, and again, his teeth clenched tightly shut to stop the sounds his throat was trying to make. He didn't know how long he went on for. "John! John! John, are you there?" His brother's voice became even more urgent. He stopped, leant on his streaked red wet fists, breathing hard and glaring at the floor.

"John?"

"What?" He screamed at the open frequency transmitter. "What the Hell do you want?"

There was a gentle murmuring, then, "John? What's up?"

"Leave me alone! Why can't you leave me alone?" He sobbed, sinking down the wall and balling on the floor. "Please just leave me alone! You were going to all along, so just start it now!" John was aware it was not actually him speaking these words...it was someone or something else, something dark and cold and scary...

"Let me speak to him." Said another voice, a quieter nicer one. "John, this is Jennifer Pulles. Can you hear me?"

John screamed back a fiery expletive, then hid his head against the wall and started to howl, not exactly knowing why.

"Listen to me, sweetheart. Calm down and listen to me. I know how you're feeling - believe me, I do. You're feeling trapped, alone, abadoned. I know you are. Open the boarding ramps and I can make it all go away. Please let me help you."

"No!" He shouted back, grizzling against the now-warm metal. "No, go away! I'm fine alone! I like being alone...I..."

Suddenly, whoever had a hold of his vocal cords let go, and he quickly smacked his hand on the 'dock button' before he could change his mind.

Everything weny black.