Scene 25
"Whole life. My whooole life, I've always been alone. No friends, brothers, sisters, a father…"
Matthew's voice was flat, emotionless, as he lay on the leather couch in Dr. West's office. His arms rested on his stomach, hands clenched together. His green hair was disheveled, falling across his forehead in uneven strands. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, tracing the hairline cracks in the plaster that spread outward like veins from the light fixture.
Dr. West sat in her chair across from him, one leg crossed over the other, her notebook balanced on her knee. Her pen moved in small, precise strokes, recording everything. She didn't interrupt. Not yet.
"I had a mother tho," Matthew continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "she tried. I know she did. But she was always... distant. Like there was a wall between us. Glass, maybe. I could see her. Hear her. But I could never feel her."
His eyes didn't blink. Didn't move. Just stared at the ceiling, seeing something else entirely.
"When I was eight, I asked her why I didn't have a dad like the other kids. She said he left before I was born. Didn't want me. Didn't want her." Matthew's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Tear after tear, seein how much i look like him, She'd say "Matt, did disappearance isn't your fault." Every time. But I knew…"
"Deep down, I knew it was."
Dr. West's pen paused for just a fraction of a second, then resumed.
"What if she was right? What if it has never been your fault, Matthew. Why could you even convince yourself otherwise?"
Matthew's chest rose and fell in a slow, measured breath.
"Because it happened. I was the reason he left. She got pregnant. He didn't want that. Didn't want... me." His voice remained flat, clinical, like he was describing the weather. "So yeah. Alone. Always alone."
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft scratch of Dr. West's pen and the faint hum of the ventilation system.
Dr. West leaned forward slightly, her brown eyes studying his face.
"Matthew, you are not alone..."
Matthew's eyes finally moved. They slid from the ceiling to meet hers, but there was no curiosity in them. No emotion at all. Just empty green pools reflecting the fluorescent light.
"You might feel like you are but I am here for you. Everyone here; the guards, nurses, doctors. We're are all here to help you to be like a family to you."
Matthew's expression didn't change. His eyes remained locked on hers, empty and unreadable.
"A family," he repeated, the words flat and hollow.
"Yes," Dr. West said, her voice warm, reassuring. "We're here to support you. To help you heal."
Matthew's gaze drifted back to the ceiling. A long silence stretched between them.
Then, quietly: "Do families lie to each other?"
Dr. West's pen stilled. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing." Matthew's hands unclenched slightly. "Just... thinking out loud."
Dr. West studied him for a moment longer, then set her pen down on the armrest of her chair. She leaned back, her expression shifting to something more casual, less clinical.
"Matthew," she said gently, "I want to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me."
Matthew didn't respond.
"Have you seen anything unusual? Anything that... doesn't make sense?"
The question hung in the air.
Matthew's fingers twitched against his stomach. For the first time since he'd lain down, something flickered behind his eyes—something small, sharp, and afraid.
He remembered.
The boy. Pale skin. Dripping wet. Standing inches from my face and his question:
"Will you be my friend?"
The memory flashed through his mind like a photograph, vivid and immediate. The vacant eyes. The water pooling on the floor. The soft, childlike voice.
His jaw tightened.
"No," he said, his voice flat.
Dr. West tilted her head slightly. "Nothing at all?"
Matthew's hands clenched together again. "Just the two guys who fainted this morning."
"And?"
"And the fight in the cafeteria. The girl. The guy who got beat up." Matthew's tone remained clinical, detached. "That's it."
Dr. West watched him carefully. Her eyes searched his face, looking for cracks in the mask.
"That's it?" she repeated.
"That's it."
Another silence.
Dr. West picked up her pen again, tapping it lightly against her notebook. Her expression was unreadable.
"Okay," she said finally, her voice soft. "Okay, Matthew."
She wrote something down—three quick lines—then looked back up at him.
"How are you feeling right now? In this moment?"
Matthew's eyes finally moved again, sliding back to meet hers.
"Empty," he said simply.
Dr. West's brow furrowed slightly. "Empty?"
"Yeah." Matthew's voice was barely audible now. "Like... like there's nothing left. No anger. No fear. No sadness. Just... nothing."
Dr. West's pen moved again, slower this time.
"That's the side effects of medication," she said gently. "It's helping you find balance. Calm. The emotions you were feeling before—the overwhelming anger, the paranoia, the fear—they were symptoms of your illness. The medication is helping you regulate those feelings."
Matthew didn't respond.
"Do you understand, Matthew?"
His eyes drifted back to the ceiling.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I understand."
But somewhere deep inside, buried beneath the chemical fog, a small voice whispered back:
"Liar."
Dr. West glanced at her watch, then closed her notebook with a soft snap.
"Alright, Matthew. I think that's enough for today." She stood, smoothing her white coat. "You've made good progress. I'm proud of you."
Matthew sat up slowly, mechanically, his movements stiff and deliberate. His hands braced against the couch cushions as he pushed himself to his feet.
Dr. West walked to the door and opened it, gesturing for him to exit.
"Get some rest," she said. "Dinner is at 8:00 PM. Don't forget to take your pill."
Matthew nodded once and walked past her into the corridor.
The door clicked shut behind him.
He stood there for a moment, alone in the empty hallway, staring at the white tile floor.
"Will you be my friend?"
The voice echoed in his head, soft and plaintive.
Matthew's hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"No," he whispered to the empty hallway. "It's all in your head, Matt. All in your head."
He turned and began walking back toward his room, his footsteps echoing softly in the sterile silence.
Behind him, At the far end of the corridor, the guard stood in a state of unsettling agitation. His skin was a waxy, sickly pale, coated in a fine sheen of cold sweat that glistened under the sterile fluorescent lights. His eyes—a deep, tarnished gold—were fixed on Matthew with a heavy, predatory intensity, tracking his movements like a hunter watching wounded prey from the shadows. A sharp, rhythmic twitch pulled at the corner of the guard's mouth, a frantic tremor that broke his otherwise stony expression. Without a word, he finally averted that dark, amber gaze—but not before his mouth split into something that might have been a smile—and turned, disappearing into the shadows of the intersecting hallway.