Aug 15, 2014
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This is interesting. My last therapist was a model-figured super-villain who let me do the dirty with her. What's your name, princess?
drkafka
"Can I have a new book?"
Dmitri isn't talking to Kafka, more like talking at her general direction. Stretched out on the floor, pillow under his head, arms folded over his stomach, and knees drawn up, he stares up at the ceiling. A copy of The Fault in Our Stars lays beside him. He picks it up, waving it above him in a slow arch.
"I've read this one before," he says, "Oh, and how's your throat?"
Cletus didn't attempt to struggle in the clutch the bed has on him. He hates this -- when the woods beside the facility were full of the lunatic shrilling of summer insects and the air wobbled with liquid heat. Thunder hammered at the afternoon. He wanted so desperately to be out in it. Not in a clinical state, with some ugly girl staring down at him like she could change him.
"Tell me something, Doc -- do I look like a damn idiot to you?"