The scent of the office was tangy. Tangy like hopelessness. Tangy like the despair of sickness. She sat, still, her hands clasped about her knees, displeasure etched into every feature. A slight upturn of the nose, a smirk tainted with distaste. She did not want to be there.

A door opened, closed, latched, and still she did not move. A throat coughed, choked, cleared, and still she did not move.

Her arms wrapped tighter around her body as she sat, building herself a wall, a wall that she promised herself would never come down. Her eyes were shut, and she fought to remain relaxed within the tangy office.

A footstep fell, and she stiffened, opening one eye- just barely- to see the foot that depressed the carpet before her. A second footstep stepped, and her eye was shut again, denying her presence, commanding her invisibility.

It did not work. The hand that came to rest on her shoulder was heavy with self-satisfaction, laden with knowledge of superiority, of health. It radiated arrogance, and as it lay upon her body like a great, dead, spider, she shuddered. She hated spiders.

The voice that spoke to her was tangy. Tangy like self-assuredness. Tangy like the sour bit of a candy just before it goes sweet.

“Hello,” the hand did not move. She could feel the breath on her neck, blowing uselessly, like a failed attempt at seduction. And like that attempt, it danced around her, tantalizing her with promises of normality, teasing her with the hope to be like them. And just before it was done- she was fixed, and home, and free- it was snatched away. Like taking candy from a baby.

“Hello,” it was not insistent. It had time, all the time in the world. She would sit here, hands clasped, nose tilted, and together they would stay. She would break, voluntary or not.

He was a mouth breather, and as the silence between them raged, his breath railed helplessly against her shirt collar.

She moved first. With a deft shift, she shrugged away from the heavy and, readjusting, closed her eyes once again.

They had been open, and in that brief moment she saw that tangy office. And she knew. The black leather office chair sat like a monument behind the cherry wood desk, and she knew. The slick, silver screened computer crouched in the corner, aiding and abetting to his schemes. And she knew. The walls, painted red, were smeared with the blood of previous participants- the blood of hope, of dreams, of sanity- lay upon those red walls, and she knew.

He breathed again upon her neck, one final time before the feet lifted and the carpet before her sprang up again, renewed. For a moment, she wished she were that carpet. No matter how trampled, dusty, dirty, and sad, she wished that she, too, could spring up unscathed.

The leather chair squeaked as he sat himself in it, and she she pictured the scene in her mind. He would be leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk, his thinning brown hair blowing as the oscillating fan passed by. His glasses, wire rimmed, would match exactly with his five hundred dollar suit, and under the desk, his ankles would be crossed, his pant legs pulled up enough to see the black socks underneath. His face would be wearing that sneer, that grin of superiority, and he would be fixing her with his most grueling stare.

Yes, she could see it all in her mind's eye, and she wished that she could cry out, could make some desperate plea to some benevolent stranger, could get out of this tangy office before he began. But she knew. She knew it was impossible to leave. She was sick, and he, he, that balding man with socks pulled up to his calves and an insufferable smirk upon his face, was the only one to make her better.

“Hello,” he did not care that they stayed here. He was paid by the hour. “Hello,” she thought of the day, long ago, when she pretended she was stranded at sea- she thought of the bright blue sky that awaited her on that day, of the roiling waves that crashed down upon her floating bed, of the salt that coated her lips and tasted like potato chips- she thought, and for a moment, she was transported back to that day. And she relaxed in the breeze as the seagulls called to each other, and she spread her arms to the ocean, and she embraced the never-ending horizon as she sighed in blissful happiness. And she smiled.

The seagulls' shriek was ripped, torn into a screech that hurt her ears as the voice spoke again.

“What are you doing?” and she realized that she was up, perched upon the floor like it was her raft, arms wide, eyes closed, walls down.

The chair behind her was gone, and panic set in as she felt about, trying to find her anchor, her safety, and she realized as she reached vainly, that she would have to open her eyes.

Her face to the floor, she felt a tear drip down, melting past her face like ice cream on a hot day. Slowly, her hands shaking, clenching and unclenching in a fear she had not felt for a long time, she began to raise her lids, pausing only to gather the remnants of her carefully constructed walls.

She was right. Her head slowly snaking its way back up, her frantic eyes searching for her seat, she found the man, wire-rimmed glasses and all, staring at her.

“I moved it,” he said.

She had let him near. He had come in. into her time. Into her dreams, and wishes, and hopes, and fears, and desires. He had scurried through her defenses like a diseased rat, biting everything in sight, spreading the sickness with a glee untamed by human morals.

“Would you like to talk?” he was soft-spoken now, sure in his authority, definite in his ability to control her.

For the first time, she spoke. Her voice was hoarse, cracking as she uttered a single syllable, “No.”

His face did not show his surprise at her speech, and he laced his fingers together, watching her as one watches a lab sample.

Within her, she felt a vast, empty sensation, as if without her knowledge, something had come in and taken all her feelings, all the regard she felt for- for- anything- and she began to shake.

“Do you know why you are here?”

It was building within her, a quickly growing mass that sucked up all her emptiness, sucked it up into one ball of hot, flowing, Godforsaken, thought. It grew. It grew inside of her, as the fan blew back her sweaty hair, it grew inside of her, as the man took off his glasses and polished them, his eyes never leaving her face, it grew as she remembered every moment, every time, every hurt. The ocean withing her roiled, churning as it demanded to be set free, seeking repayment for the screams of the dead seagulls.

It grew until it consumed her, every last bite, every last taste, every last care.

“You are here because you are sick.”

It lashed out, wanting its due for the hurt, for the pain, for the aching, terrible, loneliness that surrounded her heart and everything she did.

“You are here because you hurt others.”

It wrapped itself about her limbs, taking hold as she watched in horrified silence, wanting to stop it but knowing that it would not end, should not end- COULD NOT END- until she was fixed.

“You are here because you are angry.”

It would not end.

“You are here because you are afraid”

It should not end.

“You are here because-”

She leapt at him, arms flung wide as she embraced the horizon, crying out to the benevolent stranger that would never come, her fingers controlled by the thought as they found his throat, grabbed on, began to take their reparations.

He gurgled, flung back in his black leather chair, the wrinkles in his five hundred dollar suit revealed as he reached with two futile hands to his neck. He tried to pry her off, but the thought had her, and she squeezed, squeezed, squeezed, as hard as she could, reveling in the silence that was his open mouth breathing.

“I am not angry!” she cried, her breath coming in sobs as he flailed. “I am not afraid!” she cried, the tears blurring her vision as the pulse beneath her faded. “I-DON'T-HURT-PEOPLE!” she cried, as her grip lessened and she leaned back, her legs sticking to the cherry wood desk, and looked at what the thought had done.

The crash of the ocean was a memory in her ears as she stared at his slack body, and slowly, she rose, the tears flowing like chocolate syrup down her cheeks, mixing with the snot that ran from her nose, the union of the two at last finding their resting places on the carpeted floor.

She found her chair, and she sat, but she could not build her walls. She drew her knees to her chest, and fought to control her breathing, reminding herself that she did care, that somewhere within herself, she was not broken. She was a fully thinking, feeling, human being, and nothing would ever change that. She didn't want to hurt. She wasn't scared. She had no anger. She just wanted to-

The hand that came to rest on her should was heavy with self satisfaction, laden with superiority and health. It lay upon her like a great dead spider, and as she turned to look, a rasping, gurgling voice spoke.

“Do you know why you are here?”

“I-”

“I said, do you know why you are here?”

“Yes,”

“Why?”

“I am here because I cannot love.”