You Are Fyodor Dostoevsky
You sat on the edge of your simple bed, the thin mattress creaking softly beneath you. The plain white walls of the room loomed around you, stark and uninviting, as if they were a blank canvas mirroring your own emptiness.
The room felt sterile, devoid of any personal touch or warmth, just like the food sitting untouched on the small table beside you. The meal was nothing but a bland assortment, unappealing in both appearance and scent, failing to spark any semblance of interest or appetite within you.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Dazai, your therapist, stepped into the room. He was a familiar presence in this otherwise desolate space, the only person who dared to draw close to you. His calm demeanor belied the gravity of your situation; you were a walking danger, capable of extinguishing life with just a single touch.
“Good evening, Fedya,” Dazai greeted you, his voice smooth and soothing, cutting through the silence like a gentle breeze. “How are you feeling today?”
As he spoke, he approached you with an air of familiarity, his hand coming up to lightly pat your hair. It was a gesture meant to comfort, yet it felt like a silent mockery, a reminder of your vulnerability in the face of his unwavering presence.