Hello! I'm foxworth, and if you know my work, you'll know that I've done a lot with adventure/sci-fi stories, with great success. If not, then hopefully you'll forgive any sort of vanity I may have just displayed. :) Either way, this is my attempt at delving into the horror genre. Please review! I don't know if I'll continue this or not, but I defintely will if someone shows interest.

"Vladimir? Do you think that you're ready to talk today?"

The good Doctor sat down in his well padded chair, easing into the session with the textbook-casual opener. He checked his notepad for his previous sessions' notes, purely out of habit, and wasn't the least surprised to find that they covered everything that he and the patient had discussed. That is to say, nothing; they were completely blank. He began a sigh, wishing vehemently that this patient had gone to someone else so he could have the evening off early for once…then stopped himself. To show discouragement would be a sign of defeat, and in this ward such a confession more often sent the patient's recovery two steps backward than forward. And based on what little the Doctor actually knew about this boy, setbacks were not an option.

Vladimir was a new patient here, one that had garnered many suspicions from the staff in his short stay so far. It was rumored that the boy was the son of a senator, or maybe some great business tycoon, and that he'd been sent here to avoid the…embarrassment of his condition being tied to his family. The Doctor knew only one thing for certain: the boy had been perfectly normal, healthy…until the incident that brought him here.

"It's been three weeks, Vladimir. I've been here every day, I know. Maybe you'd like to tell me a little more about yourself." He couldn't be sure, but the boy might have muttered something—it was hard to tell. Frankly, the Doctor wasn't a large fan of their current environment: padded yellow walls, extra locks on both the boy's door and his…the doctor had to roll his chair right up to the widow on the room divider just to see the patient. Ridiculous: how could a living space like this possibly be conducive to mental health? It wasn't as if the patient was a clear and present danger—the hospital-issued strait-jacket was more than enough to restrain him. Besides, he wasn't resisting the thing at all; he was lying on the white padded floor of his cell, head facing the corner farthest from his side's door, legs bent towards his chest as far as the stiff fabric would allow. According to the orderlies, he'd been there almost since he'd gotten there. These conditions were unreasonable: couldn't the hospital at least afford to give the boy a room with a window? Maybe then, he'd see something out there, and become more responsive…

Either way, the Doctor had his work cut out for him. First things first: he had to coax the boy into a dialogue with him. Only then could the work begin. "…Alright, Mr. Vladimir, have it your way. However, I would like you to know, that I brought you something of a present." Finally, a reaction: a slight shift of the head, a sign of recognition. He had his attention. "Yes, it seems that even without my notes, the hospital has taken it upon themselves to start a file for you, young man. In fact…" He reached over to the desk in the middle of his room's side, picking up a thin manila folder and casually flipping it open. "…I have it right here. I must say, you haven't given us much to write about here. Would you like to hear what it says?"

No response. "Alright then, I think I'll just tell you. Ahem…

"'First Name: Vladimir. Last Name: Unknown. Patient arrived at the hospital at 23:31, April 6, 2011, following the arrival of victims of a mass trauma via car crash. Attending doctors on shift assumed he was one of the victims and sent him to triage: latter investigations found that he was not part of the crash, and none of the other victims recognized him. Patient sat in waiting room calmly, without any disruptions, until 00:17, April 7, 2011, when he allegedly attacked a passing attending and had to be sedated before security could contain him. Preliminary psychiatric evaluations found him to be incredibly aggressive, almost feral, and it is believed that the aforementioned attack was the result of a psychotic break. Charges have not been filed, however courts ruled the patient to be a danger to himself and others, placing him under his current doctor's care until further analysis can be obtained. Further measures will be taken if the patient proves to uncooperative in his current position.'"

The doctor, having finished the entire file, placed the single paper back into its folder and looked up at his patient. The boy was as still as ever—in fact, if it weren't for the file, the doctor wouldn't have even suspected him to be anymore than a moody teenager. He was still curled up, almost like a swaddled baby, and only his spiked black hair on the back of his head stood out through all the white straps. "Well? Don't you have any thoughts about your file? Feelings? Concerns?"

Still, the boy did nothing! It was becoming irritating for the doctor, watching how he would just sit there while the rest of the world moved around him. Didn't the boy understand that he was trying to help him? To guide him out of the madness, to making him a productive member of society? "Really? You have nothing to say?" Nothing! Alright then…time for Plan B. Although, technically…was it Plan D? E? Three weeks had been far too long to be doing this. "I don't think you quite realize, young man, that we know absolutely nothing about you: nothing whatsoever. We know nothing of your personal background, of your friends, your family…there is no one to call if something happens to you. You are, completely and totally our responsibility.

"As such…you are alone. You have no one here for you, to rely on you. You are a completely blank slate—except for your file. Do you know, we wouldn't have even learned your name except for the fact that the doctor you attacked heard you mention it as the guards took you away? That's the legacy you leave, that's all that will be remembered: a misguided child, something people will mention in passing before moving on to other topics. No one will remember anything about who you are, who the real Vladimir truly is. Don't you want more than that for yourself?"

The Doctor took a moment to pause, let the information sink into the boy's mind, and he smiled very slightly. He had always been one for extemporaneous speaking, and it always pleased him to no end when he could use his skills to the fullest. Granted, he hadn't expected himself to come up with something quite so…passionate, but then again, it had been three weeks. He'd poured a lot of time and energy into this boy, he expected to see some change sooner or later. "Vladimir? Did you hear me?"

Right then, in a movement seeming far too fluid to be natural, the boy flipped himself over to face the Doctor, sending the man's heart racing as he flew back in his rolling chair. It took only a moment for the Doctor to return to the window, but by the time he had the boy was already on his knees, inching his way to the mirror. His bonds turned the movements into a sort of jerky hop, but once he was far enough the boy pressed his right side up against the wall for support, putting his face right up against the mirror. His dark hair obscured most of his face, but he was still visible panting from the effort. He stayed that way until the Doctor, curious as to what his patient's miraculous breakthrough would bring, bent over from his chair to get a closer look. Then, the boy opened his mouth, and said with a disconcerting sort of forcefulness:

"No. Not Vladimir."

Direct, to the point, to be expected after such a silence, thought the Doctor; the professional in him was in control. He refused to let fear or panic have their way with him—that would not serve the patient well by any standard—and he instead let his curiosity take control. "Oh? Then who?"

The boy raised his head higher, letting the hair fall away and reveal his face. His skin was pale, paler than the Doctor had thought was possible, and between the room's bad lighting and yellow walls, his eyes…glowed an eerie yellow.

"Vanitas."

Again, please review!