The utter blandness of the room hardly reflected what went on there on a daily basis. White walls, steel table with two chairs on either side of it, one of which provided the most limited amount of comfort it could to its occupant. He, however, reflected the character of the room fairly accurately. Apathetic stare, plain face in every aspect. The kind of person you think you might know when you pass them by, but don't care to approach about it. Not unattractive, but far from gaining the attention of the female population.

After a few minutes had passed, a man entered from the door. He was wearing cheap leather shoes, khakis, and a plain shirt covered by a blue sweater that showed definite signs of age or abundant use. The incorporation of a die-hard liberal was even in his facial features, his unshaven face and unkempt hair.

"Are you the man that's gonna determine the state of my mental health?"

Unfazed by the sarcasm, the psychiatrist answered that he was indeed, and introduced himself as Dr. Godin. He grabbed the empty chair facing the prisoner, shooting his subject a short inspective look as he lowered himself.

"I can save you some time. I'm not insane." The prisoner lowered his gaze from Dr. Godin's face to the table, offering no further explanation to support his statement.

"Well, killing a fellow human being generally indicates certain decay in sanity, but I'd like to leave the conclusions for later, if you don't mind." The psychiatrist proceeded by looking over the files he had laid out on the table.

"I guess it would," replied the prisoner in complete monotone.

"I've got your therapist's files on you."

"My required sessions as a social outcast in middle-class America?"

"With my acute professional ear, I detect that you didn't find it very helpful."

David looked up, his eyes sharper and his voice tighter. "What for? I was perfectly content. It was my parents' wish, not mine."

"You had quite a few violent confrontations with your classmates. It doesn't seem like they sent you there completely without reason."

The prisoner smirked at this, "They just didn't know what else to do."

"You think that they didn't feel fit to deal with it and wanted to hand you off to someone who could?" asked the psychiatrist, maintaining his ever so attentive stare.

"I guess that's an accurate explanation." David's eyes started to wander, and then stopped, as if he had found a particularly fascinating spot within the whiteness of the wall, then continued. "They didn't really know how to deal with anything. I was supposed to bring some meaning to their lives..." he chuckled, thinking of something. "I was supposed to be the Styrofoam for their lives. Turned out the Styrofoam had an agenda of its own."

Dr. Godin listened to this without giving any sign of being affected. "Would you say your parents suffered from depression?"

"What the fuck do you think? Don't you have my file in front of you? My mom killed herself!"

"Dr. Frances also wrote down that you stopped coming to your appointments shortly thereafter. Why's that?" the doctor quickly responded, without reacting to the insult.

"What are you gonna say to a kid whose mom just committed suicide? Besides, I can't say I felt much of anything about it." The prisoner's stare became pensive. "The greatest feature that distinguishes humans from animals is their ability to feel... and there I was, completely apathetic to the death of my mother... You know, in the movies, actors break down crying in these situations... I guess to convey exasperation, or guilt eating away at them, and me? If anything, I was angry at myself for how little I cared. What a fucking waste of a life I am."

At this, the psychiatrist showed the faintest bit of surprise, "A waste of life?"