Timeless Snow ✓

Ch. 3 - Red

The coarse fabric of the grey cotton blanket was the only distraction you were offered as you rubbed the cloth across your arms. The warmth provided by that prickly blanket in that chill office room was a comfort compared to what fresh-hell you'd be dealing with today. If you never were to hear the phrase 'How does that make you feel?' again, it'd be too soon. The relentless and meaningless questions vomited in your direction by a wanna-be doctor made your skin crawl. Your dirty blonde locks pulled back into a loose bun behind your head only got messier with time and unending fidgetting. You stopped responding to his belligerent questionnaire, which served to unease the doctor. 

"Let's try something else..." Finally, he gave up trying to get to know you on some personal level for the second time today. His wrinkled hands moved to the briefcase at his side as he shuffled through a stack of papers he had prepared in advance. It was common for your doctor to try and different phycology technics, your doctor bounced through quite a lot of different suggested practices in attempts to figure out how your brain operated. It didn't help that you shut him down or walled yourself off from participating in his social interactions. 

Doctor Andrews abandoned his briefcase as he pulled a stack of thick papers from the leather binding. Straightening his figure, he rolled his shoulders as he took in a long breath. This man smelt of Bengay, must, and bottled depression - if that was even possible. His hair had long since gone white but he still had a considerable amount of it. Perhaps a little thinning at the top but given his age that was applaudable. The man was easily in his sixties. Why wasn't he retired? He had a ring on his left hand. When his aged fingers would flex or bend you could see the discoloration of the skin, so he been wearing it for some time. 

Therapists didn't like to talk about their own life. They didn't want their clinically insane patients to know too much. Why? Did they think you were going to track them down and kill them? Like you didn't have a better plan if you were to be released from the walls of Chocia's Psychiatric 'Prison'. Not to say that you would, but perhaps if Dr. Andrews took down the wall of secrecy you'd be more inclined to share your shitty life. He flipped the stack of papers in his hand to review a messy page littered with black ink. 

"Have you ever heard of a Rorschach test?" His fingers rested at the bottom of the page, using his thumb to keep them upright as he kept his tired arms on the rest and hands in his lap. You guessed by the questionable look on your face he knew you had no idea what he was talking about. "It's better known as the 'Inkblot Test'." 

He gave you a minute to formulate your own meaning for the test. You have heard of plenty of psychiatric tests in your time at Chocia's but this one was new. The pages looked old and overused. Was this test from the sixteenth century? Wow, they were really grasping at straws now to try and understand you. Closing your eyes you hung your head and wrapped your blanket tighter around yourself, awaiting the lengthy explanation about the test you knew was coming. 

"This one's pretty simple." He began as the papers fell back against his stomach, seeing as you weren't looking at them he didn't bother to old them up. You could hear the drawn-out sigh leave his thin lips as he grew as tired of your apathy as much as you had grown tired of his slow-drawn out voice. "We're going to be looking at a series of pictures that have ink splattered on them." Obviously. Why? "All you have to do is tell me what you see in the ink." Really? "Or what it makes you remember or feel." Gross.

You began to rub the grey blanket against your tired eyes. The cold room making you feel even more on edge, winter always felt crisp in a chilly old hospital. The entire situation was frustrating. At times you understood why people treated you like you were 'crazy', you admitted you lost touch with reality on a few too many occasions. That didn't stop the fact that sometimes you just felt like you. The pointless questionnaire from the doctor's made you wonder if you were really insane or if your brain was rotting away from the monotony of it all. The worst part, people constantly tried to quiz you right before lunch. It should be mandatory that all of these tests were an after-meal affair. Sighing heavily you slammed your covered hands down on your lap in defeat. Unfolded your body from the chair and pushed the blanket from your shoulders, you could feel your gripped socks scrap the tile floor under you. The chair a few inches too high for your height. You swung your feet back and forth, using it as an idle distraction from the conversation. Paying attention to the pointlessness was impossible. The unending nagging that unused when you refused to participate was far worse. The quicker you blew through them, the quicker you could go find some bland hospital food to fill your belly.