/I don't own anything you recognize in this story. /

Chapter Three

The room was white, too white for Samara's liking. There wasn't anything in the room that wasn't white. Except for maybe Samara's shoes and the doctor's clothes under his white jacket. The room didn't even show it's dirt, it was so clean—somebody must have had a lot of time on their hands to be able to keep it this white.

The doctor was sitting at a white table with a bunch of papers and a pen and pencil. Samara didn't know what they were all for, she never knew. All she knew was that they had something to do with her or she wouldn't be sitting here on this chair in front of him.

"How are you today, Samara?" the doctor asked.

"I don't know," Samara answered.

"You don't know? Now I know that you know that 'I don't know' isn't an answer, Samara," the doctor said. "You've got to know whether you're feeling alright or not."

"I don't know if I'm alright or not."

The doctor seemed to be getting frustrated. The doctors here were always getting frustrated and Samara didn't know why. She also didn't know why they had to get frustrated when she didn't know the answer to a question. They all expected her to know all of the answers, but she didn't.

"Let's look at these pictures again. I know you made them, Samara, because you told me the last time you were hear. Can you tell me this time how you made these pictures? How did you make them?" the doctor questioned further.

"I don't know."

"Come Samara, you must have known how to make them since obviously they are created here. What did you use to make them?"

Samara thought this was getting stupid. She didn't know how she made them, she thought them and they just became. They were all created from her mind, that's how she made them.

"I don't know. I think them and—they just are. I don't know how I made them," Samara stated.

The doctor fell silent for a few minutes, making notes on his papers. He always did that after he tried to argue with Samara about the pictures. The look on the doctor's face showed frustration and a little anger. Samara knew that the doctors didn't like her here, but they always said that they were here for her. They always said they were trying to help her, but they were always tired of trying to figure out what was wrong with her. But Samara could say the same for them. She was tired of coming here and trying to tell them that what she was telling them was true.

"When can I see Mommy?" Samara asked.

"As soon as you answer all my questions truthfully, Samara. Your parents love you, child," the doctor said.

"Daddy doesn't love me. He doesn't see," Samara stated.

"Your daddy doesn't see what, Samara?" the doctor asked.

"He just doesn't see. He never sees."

"His vision is perfect, child," the doctor exclaimed.

"Not that kind of see. He just doesn't see. I don't like him," Samara said.

They didn't get it, they never did. Her parents and the doctors always wanted to be right and they always wanted her to be wrong. Why couldn't she be right for once?

"Not like that. He doesn't see. He doesn't understand."

"What doesn't he understand, Samara?"

"Everything."

Silence filled the room again as the doctor scribbled down words as fast as he could. Samara never knew what he was writing, but whatever it was, it was about her. Probably that she was something crazy and needed more treatment. But Samara wasn't crazy, she never was. She knew this and her mother backed it up, reminding her every day that she was crazy and wasn't any different than any of the others. But if she wasn't crazy or different, then why was she here, forced to sit upon a white chair in the middle of a bare, white room being asked questions, then locked up in solitude for hours before coming out again and have the same routine with the chair?

"I think that will be all today, Samara. I think you're doing extremely well right now. You'll be back home in no time at all," the doctor said with a smile, standing up and giving his hand to her to take a hold of.

Samara took the hand warily and followed the doctor out of the room. The doctor's hand felt clammy, cold, and uninviting. It wasn't like Mommy's, whose hands were warm and comforting.

Samara followed the doctor down the cold, bare hallway. She didn't want to go to the bare room with nothing in there but a bed and a chair. The doctor paused at the door that was Samara's room and pulled out the keys, fumbling for the one that fit the lock. He finally found the right key and slipped into the lock, opening the door into the uninviting room.

"In you go, Samara. Don't worry, there's nothing in there. You'll be all right, trust me," the doctor stated.

Samara stared blankly up at the doctor blankly and the man shifted uncomfortably. The girl always had that antagonizing stare and it made anybody have the creeps. It was as if she could see right through you and know your worst fears.

"Are you going in, Samara?" the doctor asked.

Samara slipped into the room without a word and the doctor shut the door silently behind the girl. He locked the door and left with a sigh. He didn't have to look at her for a long while yet. He'll let the others take care of her until then.

Samara walked over to the bed and sat on the edge of it, staring blankly at the wall opposite of her. She was going to be in here a long time and there was no escaping it. She wished Mommy were here; she always protected her little girl and made her feel safe. Samara flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. She soon fell asleep thinking about going back home to more misery and the comforts of her mother.

A/n: Thanks to those who've reviewed my story. Keep reading and I'll keep writing.