Chapter 3:
I looked on the on-screen clock on the television to see it was ten minutes till two. My appointment with the doctor is soon. I have about forty-three seconds before the guards (sorry 'protective wardens') realise that and prepare for me to be transported to the Room. I stretch a little on my crowded bunk, and stand up. I mastered walking three weeks ago and running about four days after that. Then there was Cartwheels, handstands, front flips, back flips, rolls, handsprings, somersaults, splits and last but not least walking on my hands to be learned. I must of been a circus acrobat or something, since I learned these far quicker then what the doctors say is 'normal'. Strange.
"Opening up! Inmate 2013, face the wall and do not resist. Force may be used to retrain you if you try and resist. Keep your eyes on her boys and keep those guns primed!" A voice rings through the stone cold walls of my fortress home. I faced the slimy wall like clockwork and heard the squeak of the door as the rusty joints were forced open. I don't struggle like before. Struggling only allows for them an excuse to hurt me even though they're not allowed to. They clawed at my hands like wild beasts and roughly tie them together. Then one of them shoves me around like a rag doll to face the door. One of them has the cheek to pinch my arms in sadistic delight as he drags me up. I keep my head down and try to ignore them. They manhandle me forward and transport me, with the aid of few crude kicks, through several corridors. Then I see the Room. They release my hands that ache from the abuse of being restrained and pulled around like a marionette. One of the men release me and force me, with some force I might add, to sit down on the chair inside. I've been here a lot of times and it hasn't really changed in either looks or smell.. It smells like ... armpits! Inside the Room are two chairs, a desk and a wilting plant in a dingy pot encrusted with mold, all of which I note are nailed down just in case a patient throws a fit. A almost corny looking picture about self happiness is hammered into the wall, and securely caged so I can't pick it up like the furniture. I compose myself a little and look up slightly as the doctor closes a slim file and puts it in front of her.
"Are we going to talk today about what happened?" she asks me with a friendly yet completely generic tone. Her name is Molly, I think, and she is very plain. With mousy brown hair that was perfectly fixed into a small bun centred exactly in the middle of the back of her head. Her eyes were a murky blue and generally unnoticeable while her figure was slim and petite. Petite is a funny word. I think she must look a lot better then me right now as I'm not exactly pedigree in looks at the moment. The only water that has touched me during my stay here is either damp that leaks in sometimes or the sudden bursts from a hose when I arrived to clean me of the blood and various effects that adorned my wreaked body. I was a mess back in that first week, only able to shuffle a few meters, and even that was difficult. I had wasted away to a point where every time I breathed it felt like hot knives were carving into me. I've begun to regain a lot of weight that I had lost before that, but I still remember the feelings of weakness and dependency. I guess I'm still like that at times. It's a sobering thought.
My silence makes her polite smile dip a little. "You know I would be a lot more happier if you tell me your name. These sessions wouldn't have to be so formal then!" Silence, yet again. She sighs and relinquished her strict posture as if she was actually disappointed. "Ok, since I don't know your name I'll have to use your number. So, inmate 2013, how is your day today?" Well I've remembered seven, no eight, things today and I've pondered why society progresses. I've also solved the important question of whether a tomato is a vegetable or a fruit so that's a plus. I don't dare say any of this to this stranger though. She's a Questioner and Questioners are not to be talked to at all according to ... to that woman ... Damn it! What is that woman's name? Molly? No! Polly? No! Dolly? No! Holly? No ... wait a minute. Yes! That's that woman's name! Holly! But who is this Holly? And how do I know her? Just when I think one questions answered, then a billion other ones spring up! Just my luck.
We go like this for around about an hour. She asks a question. I am silent. She asks again. I am silent. She gets angry. She asks another question. And the cycle repeats again until the whole conversation seems dull and contrived just like that first smile of hers. I find myself daydreaming about things in the room. The picture is of a misty track with autumn coloured ... leaves ... lying at the sides. The whole scene is not very notable except for the almost laughable quote printed in little cursive words on it. 'If you were happy before you know someone, you can still be happy after they're gone ...' is almost as futile as these sessions. You can't be happy after someone leaves! That's the whole point of leaving, being sad. If you're not sad about someone important to you leaving then you're viewed as psychotic by society and kicked into this place for treatment. It's completely hypocritical and irrational, so why is it here? Maybe it's a sign saying how hypocritical and irrational it is to be sane? After all the only true escapes from the unhappiness of life is to either die, go into a deep coma or go mad. I puzzled this a little before realising that the doctor was releasing me so I could go back to my cell. "There's no point of me even being here if she's like this! Take her back to her quarters, we're done for the day!" What's a quarters? It's too late to think about this though as they already tie my hands and bustle me out before my mind can process the events around me.