White walls, white floors, white door, white table, white chairs. You repeat that mantra over and over in your head. Everything was a pristine shade of white that made you want to gag. If you weren’t crazy before being sent here, you certainly were now.

You’re handcuffed to a chain attached to the table, long enough for you to comfortably move your hands but not so much to lunge forward and wrap them around his neck. Though, god, the thought is more than tempting.

He sits there, Doctor Crane, observing you with an air of smugness that would make the happiest ray of sunshine snap. A better-than-you persona, and the fact that he was right made it worse. Who are you to a man like him? Little more than a Guinea pig or maybe - if he liked you - a goldfish aimlessly swimming around and tank that was far too small.

Pacing. Looping. Confined. Chained. He tilts his head at you, a small him leaving his lips as he clicks his pen. Round and round with the questions, the same one everytime.

“How are you feeling today?”