Loomis put his head in his hands.
In the year and one month that Loomis had been treating Michael, no progress was made. No efforts could reach the poor boy, who simply sat staring at the blank wall. He had stopped eating. He did not come out of his room. Dr. Wynn had given up on Michael already, but Loomis was a more patient man. He had gotten much worse out of people; Michael simply needed to break out of his shell. He told himself this before every session.
But the child still made him uneasy. He had never seen a look of such emptiness. It was uncomfortably unnatural. Just being in the room with the child gave him goosebumps.
"He's not normal, Terence."
Wynn looked over his cup of morning coffee. They were in the lounge; Loomis's daily session was to begin.
"It's as if some evil is hidden inside him. It's as if he's waiting for something. Something inevitable."
"He's waiting to die?"
Loomis shook his head. "No. It's not like someone on death row, wasting away as they get closer to their last breath. He really thinks he's getting out of here."
"Surely the death penalty won't come into play?" asked Wynn. "After all, he was only six when it happened."
"He was aware of his actions, Terence. He's no schizophrenic or MPD. He has no mental deficiencies or disorders. We can't plead insanity."
Wynn nodded.
"You'd better get along, Loomis. Try to get him to talk. If he can't do that, he may be able to write, or draw."
"Michael?"
The boy turned to face him, going through the motions of turning his chair around. Loomis brought a small table over to where they sat.
"Can you do something for me?" He paused, then pulled a pencil and paper from his chest pocket.
The silence was loud.
"Could you please draw a picture of your family for me?"
Michael simply sat there, looking at him. It seemed the boy thought that this was an insult to his intelligence.
"I know it seems childish, but - oh, who am I kidding, you're only six-"
For the slightest moment, Loomis could have sworn he saw a threatening anger cross the boy's face.
"I'm sorry, Michael, it's just that...I'm trying to help you. I don't want you to be here. I want to see you live your life, and prosper. But if you want to get out of here, then you have to cooperate with me."
The faintest huff issued from the boy. He wasn't buying it.
Loomis took back the paper from Michael. "Alright," Loomis resigned, "I'll help you. So there's your mother."
He drew a simple stick figure, adding hair and eyes.
"There's your father."
Another stick figure, this time with shorter hair, and a bit taller.
"Your sister."
A miniature version of the mother.
"Do you have any other siblings?"
Michael blinked.
"Well, all that's left, then, is you."
Loomis drew a small figure. Spinning it around, he pushed it to Michael and gave him the pencil.
"Can you describe your family?"
The pencil lay still in his hand. He grasped it like a knife, studying the picture.
Suddenly, the pencil flashed out like lightning. Michael slammed it into the desk, embedding the picture. Loomis threw himself back, then hastily went to remove the pencil. He was surprised to discover it was very well wedged into the desk. After a good-sized heave, he broke the tip off into the desk and took the picture.
"I think that's enough for today."
Loomis went to leave, taking a glance at the picture and noticing a hole through the head of the smaller female figure.
