Alistair Caligari // WATTY'S 2018 LONGLIST

I. INTO THE FUTURE

The universe is described as possessing a circle of life, but only by those incapable of three dimensional thinking. Those that were capable often became preoccupied with the concept. The scientist was cross-legged in the corner of the room with his back to a wall. He was slouched forward with a single pale hand propping up his chin. His other hand tapped repetitively against his knee; fingers rapping soundlessly upon its surface. Easily, he could be mistaken for being bored given the vacant look in his blue eyes. His thoughts were elsewhere from his mind, distant and yet still within reach. He sat clothed in loose fitting, plain white attire with long sleeves covering the base of his palms and clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He was a blond man, golden locks thick and arranged in tight waves and elegant curls, but longer than what seemed necessary. It was unkempt and disorderly compared to the white room he occupied. White floors, white walls, white bed, white chair, white door. There was nothing particularly interesting within the room to take note of other than it's stark lack of colour, and thus there was also nothing to look at. His gaze was distant; looking through a window that was not there.

This was the sight that Doctor Ford was greeted with upon opening the white door. He wasn't surprised. Curtis Ford was a psychiatrist, one with no doubts about his skills and abilities. He carried an air of professionalism with him wherever he went, regardless of the time or place. It followed him as though he wore the concept of executive as a cologne. He was tall, which certainly helped him stand out within his field, with broad shoulders and combed black hair. A man with handsome, sharp features; almost an image of perfection if it weren't for the faded scar just below and to the left of his bottom lip. The scar was a mystery, even to those who knew him -- he never gave the same explanation for it twice. He turned to look over his shoulder, and mumbled a thank you to the person who had handed him a clipboard. The clipboard was full of check boxes and forms, some of which were already filled out. He'd looked through it earlier in order to get a better idea of the person he was dealing with, his patient, who was still sitting in the corner of the room. He hadn't lifted his eyes, nor given the opening of the door the slightest bit of attention. It would be easy to assume he hadn't noticed the movement or the sound, but the scientist was fully conscious and fully aware of his surroundings.

The door clicked shut as Ford stepped further into the room. He was almost immediately struck by the chill in the air; a little too cold for comfort. It was certainly a couple of degrees below room temperature, but his patient seemed perfectly at ease within his surroundings. Ford had worked in this business long enough that he wasn't the slightest bit unnerved at the idea of dealing with new patients, even those spoken up to be incredibly difficult individuals. He'd been warned about stubbornness, and warned about complicated thinking. It was the notion that their first meeting would take place within an isolation ward that held him wavered. His patient wasn't physically dangerous, in fact, he had a very frail and mousy looking image that made Ford think perhaps if he tripped he might break. He took a breath before approaching, and made sure to do so with confidence and certainty. He was sure in his steps, sure in his movements, sure when he crouched in front of the other and raised a brow. His patient's attention had yet to drift from the wall despite that Ford interrupted his view. It was as though he were a statue. He took slow breaths, barely blinked once, sometimes his gaze drifted but it never landed on Ford. He didn't lift his head under the doctor's scrutinising gaze. If there was one thing capable of making Ford anxious in any way, it was an uncomfortable silence. He was used to it from patients, but this was different. It was like he was being ignored. He tried to introduce himself, and in response he received nothing but a hum of acknowledgement.

"And your name?" The question illicit ed a response from the man on the floor. His eyes slowly lifted to meet Ford's, though for the moment he said nothing. He simply raised a brow, disbelieving, and moved his head away from his hand so he could reach out. He had long, thin, pianist's fingers. One of those spindly digits came down to tap against the edge of the clipboard that Ford was wielding between both arms; once, twice, with certainty. It was then that he finally answered.