A/N sorry it’s been so long since the last update. Year 11 cometh around, and I’m up to my eyeballs in coursework…

Greg’s favourite time. Still forced to bear the humiliation of having to wear a hospital gown, he was escorted down that eerily silent corridor. If he glanced into the rooms on either side, he could see the occupants watching him with benign curiosity, or staring dispassionately at the ceiling, or gaping flaccidly at those omnipresent TVs.

That room. At the end of the corridor, turn left and second on the right. He could probably sleepwalk there now. If he felt he needed to give them a reason to worry.

They held the door open, and the short bustling woman (why were there always short bustling women?) Sent him in.

“Your 11 o’ clock, Dr Killott,” She smiled in what was obviously meant to be interpreted as an encouraging manner at Greg, then scuttled off down the corridor. The desolate clicking of her heels reverberated around his head for what seemed like a week afterwards.

He felt unusually timid as he pushed the door closed behind him and waited to be addressed. After an age, Dr Killott turned way from his stack of papers, having evidently extracted the file he wanted, and seemed to notice Greg for the first time.

“Ah.” He gestured widely to the cold-looking chair in the far corner, “Would you take a seat?” Greg took this as an invitation to sit down. Killott himself retained his swivel chair, and rolled over to sit uncomfortably close. Greg made his displeasure at the situation evident, refusing to look at Dr Killott, but letting his gaze wander around the room. Not that there was much of it, of course. The walls were a regulation beige, and the only furniture was a grey desk loaded with the papers Killott had been perusing previously, the swivel chair and two hard plastic chairs, one of which Greg was occupying now. He sighed, and relaxed into the back of it. He knew there were going to be questions. There always were, to begin with.

Dr Killott, sensing that he was perhaps being a little intense, kicked his chair back a few paces and leaned back, his fingers interlaced behind his head. He swung listlessly, and cleared his throat, as if in preparation for a long and boring lecture that he didn’t want to give.

“Now, Greg, I believe our paths have crossed before.” Greg nodded warily, staring intently at the garish Art Deco print above the desk behind Dr Killott. His eye snagged on it. It wasn’t quite straight; he was dying to get up and set it right…

“Greg, are you listening?” Greg made the requisite eye contact, broken as soon as was physically possible.

“I was just saying, how many times have we met before?”

“Thirty or so.”

“No, I mean…” He shook his head, struggling to rephrase it, “ I mean, how many times have we been in this situation – the first meeting after –“

“I see. This is the sixth.”

“Yes.” (God, that moron. If he knew the answer, why bother asking?) “So… there’s evidently a problem. Would you agree?” (Well, yeah. People kept thwarting his attempts. And Killott was obviously a pretty crap psychologist, if it kept happening.) He shrugged non-committally. If he said something. Killott would only want to psychoanalyse him. That was how these shrink types got their kicks. And, if refusing to speak irritated him, then so much the better.

They’d been in this territory before: Killott growing ever more infuriated as Greg refused to co-operate. Dr Killott knew the score: the boy didn’t want help, so why bother? He had to be there to keep an eye on him, should he by some miracle decide to talk, but other than that…

Anyway, this was his sixth suicide attempt. If the boy was that determined to die, why didn’t they just let him? (He strongly suspected that Greg felt the same way about this. Oh, well, at least they had something in common.)

He decided to try a new tack. The drawing of the last two occasions had been a bit of a fiasco. Writing, on the other hand… Greg was a self-confessed hypergraphic. It was worth a try. And it was a fair bet that he already kept some kind of a diary.

“Greg?” He looked up, startled. He’d previously been glaring at his knees, “ Have you ever kept a diary?”

“Why?” This was an unusual question; one that it hadn’t occurred to him to consider a response to before.

“I’m just interested.”

“Sometimes. It depends.”

“Do you keep them?”

“They’re at home.”

“Would you consider letting me see them?”

“That would depend.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’d be interested in the content, whether I’m happy to let you read bits. Whether I could trust you.”

“I see. As for the first thing, I’d be happy to see anything you’ve written. I can’t speak for the second, and the third… I’ve seen you through six suicide attempts. I would hope you’d see the sense in trusting me.”

Greg appeared to be considering. Dr Killott was astounded: this was probably the longest exchange they’d ever had. It could all go wrong, though.

Finally, Greg spoke, slowly.

“I would consider letting you see them, yes.”

“Excellent. Dr Killott sat back in his seat, trying not to evidence his relief too strongly. “Now, I know the previous arrangements have been that you see me as an inpatient for a couple of weeks, then a few more weeks as an outpatient… but I think, with your parents’ consent-“

“-you don’t need to bother with my parents.” Greg replied quickly. Dr Killott shook his head.

“I have to by law. Anyway, what I’d like to do is extend your term as an inpatient, so I can see you more frequently. That sound alright?” Greg nodded, shrugging.

“Like I have a choice.” Killott decided to let that one go. Greg was already looking fed up (but then, nothing changed) and had resorted, apparently, to counting the tiny mosaic-sized tiles on the ceiling.

“Greg, if you want to leave, feel free. I think there’s someone coming to see you in a minute, anyway.”

“Who? Not-“

“Not your parents; a teacher. Mr... Daley?”

“Oh.” Without another word, he got up and left, leaning across to straighten the picture as he went. Dr Killott smiled to himself. The boy had exercised excellent self-restraint that session. On his worst days, he’d been on the floor, moving all the furniture to align with the narrow grooves in the carpet. Or he’d been sitting in the corner, rocking gently and ignoring any attempts by Dr Killott to engage with him. Though this had happened only a handful of times.

Yes, he might not want to believe it, but Greg was definitely improving.

Back, shut in his invisible jail, Greg lay on his front, his face buried in the pillow. The guy in the room opposite had the TV blaring, but Greg wasn’t interested in having his own on. The vague hubbub of conversation pervading his consciousness was oddly comforting. The room was stifling: cloying and humid (he wasn’t allowed the windows unlocked, since they were on the fourth floor).

Mr Daley still hadn’t turned up, and it had been an hour and a half. Either Killott had been lying, or Mr Daley had forgotten. Though he didn’t blame him. If he could, he’d walk out of this room right now; walk out of this fucking building and leave his broken body behind forever.

He moved his head slightly to the left to take a deep breath, and then pushed as hard as he could into the pillow. The pressure: the choking blackness was strangely liberating. For a moment, he wondered if he could get away with not coming up for another breath.

That would really screw with Killott.