Archives of Pain

Tick.

Tick.

The man sat across the desk didn't move a muscle, sat upright in his chair and looking directly at Ash over his strangely elongated nose. He had small, almost beady, eyes and a thin-lipped mouth which was down turned in an expression of eternal distaste. To him there was an haunty, holier-than-thou air, reflected not only in his posture but in his immaculate office - pristine white walls, organised filing cabinets and tastefully placed pieces of modern art, picturing only brushstrokes of grey against white.

The only hint of personality lay in a small pot plant situated on one lonely corner of the desk - the plant within, plastic, was faded to the point of caricature frailness. It didn't speak volumes of the man, but it did insinuate he had a least a smidge of sentimentality to him, to keep a plant that long. Apart from that, he was a miserable, dull, man, who - in Ash's opinion - was out to make his patients feel worse rather than better. This could be attested to by the torture instrument he had passed off as a chair - it twisted strangely and morphed Ash's spine naturally, keeping him trapped in an almost constant state of discomfort.

Bastard.

Ash stared at him a moment longer, then deliberately turned his away and towards the window, vaguely noting the window had been left ajar, and that slight sounds of the outside world could be heard to seep through. The swaying of trees. The music of a bird call.

“Mr Williams?” His eyes snapped back to the psychiatrist, his attention rewarded with an indescribable look of utter blankness. It was all part of the mans job - to hide his emotions, never imply anything. Silent. Nothing. His head inclined slightly in a nod.

“We have five minutes left of this session and you have yet to answer any of my questions,” He informed Ash, his monotone voice matching perfectly with his expression. It made Ash think of business suits and wall street, and the impenetrable glares of office workers.

He shivered minutely instead, and didn't bother with a reply, glancing over to the clock to check the time. This clock had unwittingly become the focus of Ash's entire life every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday for half an hour exactly. Time was the tyrant that bound him here.

12:28pm. Ash felt a small measure of relief; only two minutes. He could do two minutes. In the corner of eyes, he watched as the man took down a few notes on the pad of paper in his lap, no doubt commenting on Ash's continued muteness to add to his file later: Ashton Williams, refuses to talk. How quaint.

With only a minute left, Ash caved in and rose to his feet, snagging his leather jacket from the back of his chair and shrugging it on in one, fluid, movement. He headed towards the door without a backward glance, barely registering the murmured goodbye from his psychiatrist. Finally - freedom. Of a kind. He closed the door behind him and made his way over to the waiting area - taking refuge in a minimal plastic seat with a low glass table set in front of it. Ash withdrew his phone and unwinded his earphones, eyeing the receptionist carefully, before pushing in the earbuds and pressing play.

Teacher starve your child, P.C. approved
As long as the right words are used
Systemised atrocity ignored
As long as bi-lingual signs on view

With little interest, he reached out to some of the magazines laid out on the table for visitors to read. None looking particularly appealing, sporting either a half naked woman or some kind of morbidly excited announcement about 'x' cheating on 'y'. Where's the love gone? and What next? calling from every paranoia ridden corner. Never the big questions, never what innocent country are America going to attack in the name of peace? Never, when will we submit to the inevitable decline or human morality?

That, Ash supposes, may not sell as well. The people love their shallow comforts.

His musings are cut off at the entrance of a tall man with dirty blonde hair whom almost instantly locks eyes with Ash, white grin unsheathing at the sight.

"Ash! Come on, I left the car running," he gestures to the door he's propped open with his arm and Ash sighs at the welcoming greeting, pulling himself up from his seat and ducking under his brothers arm to the carpark. Ash spots Brendon's car immediately, and heads towards - but, is that people he sees inside it? He almost stops, suddenly not so sure that is his brothers car, when the man himself catches up.

"That's just Peter and his brother," he says, smiling, "In you get, I don't want to waste anymore gas." Dubiously, Ash followed his lead and climbed into the back of car, clicking in the seatbelt and decidedly ignoring the ginger-haired boy on the other side of the car. The engine roared to life and Ash slumped against the door, temple pressed to the window, almost absentmindedly turning up the volume on his phone to block out Brendons and Peters chatter.

The car ride from the centre and to his house was about thirty minutes, but the car stopped after only twenty and Ash groggily opened his eyes, looking out the window at the towering apartment building. Oh, great. Brendon's apartment. Brendon had moved out a few years ago, abandoning Ash to their parents mercy, and Ash had too much pride at the time to ask to move with him. But he'd make it out alive - Brendon had.

Ash groaned internally and pried himself off the door of the car, pushing it open instead and stepping out. Seeing him always drained him of energy, and all he wanted to do was curl up and get some rest. Though, he'd probably get a better rest here than he would at his house.

"Hey, Ash, can you open up the apartment? Pete and I are bringing some stuff up," Ash nodded, taking his keys from his brother and entering the building. Rather than take the lift, he made a beeline for the stairs. The lift in this building was painfully slow, and it was faster just to take stairs - the cold rush of air that hit him as he entered the stairway may have also been a contributing factor. It was blessedly fresh against his tired skin, and gave him that extra kick to make it all the way to the third floor.

Ash opened up his brothers apartment door with the appropriate key and left the door open so they could bring whatever it was they need to carry up inside. Brendon’s apartment was moderately sized, and modern. Black and white walls, with a dark wooden skirting board, glass tables, a lonely crème sofa, framed photos and strangely designed ceiling lights. It was hard to imagine someone like Brendon living here; he had been chronically messy at home, though, the whole house had been messy, then.

Leaving the keys on his brothers coffee table, Ash seeked out the guest room and instantly fell down on the bed, pulling his arm over his face and exhaling loudly. He hated having to see a psychiatrist, having to put up with that stupid face and his stupid questions three times a week, as per insisted. He was fine - better than fine. He was great. He didn't need help.

A slam rang through the house, alerting him to the fact his brother was now in. Ash, just knowing that something was going to pull him from his blessedly quiet reprieve, braced himself.

"Ash!"