"To some, a monster, and to others, a leader. Either way, I became god."
"Did you really? Do you think God becomes trapped?"
Having just earned your doctorate, you decide to work in the Azkaban Secure Facility for the Criminally Insane. There, you...
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Your next day is dysfunctional. You spend the morning in your office, hunched over a myriad of mountainous piles of paper work, completely unable to focus, the words swimming in and out of focus. Everything was patchy, spots of colour and grey – bouts of confusion washing over you, receding periodically like the tide.
It was odd. Overwhelmingly so, when you found that visiting Tom seemed to be the only part of your day that remained stable.
"Good afternoon, Tom." You make an effort to greet him politely, already feeling the effects of whatever temporary condition you were suffering from evaporating like drops of water on a hot tin roof – dying with a hiss, begrudgingly entering the air.
"You too, Doctor." He says, shifting in his seat, watching you as you sat opposite him, the same way you always did. "How did your observation go yesterday?"
He frowns, an almost imperceptible crease forming between his eyebrows. You think for a second there's a flash of worry in his eye, and you know that it can't be for you, that there has to be something more to it, but it makes you soften nonetheless.
"I'm not entirely sure if I'm allowed to discuss that with you."
He smiles at you. It's probably meant to be charming. "I won't tell anyone if you don't."
"Do you think that'll work on me?" You raise an eyebrow at him.
Tom shrugs nonchalantly, the smile dropping off his face quickly. "Not particularly. It's worth a try though, isn't it?"
"I suppose. If only to show you that I'm not going to tell you something just because you ask nicely."
"To encourage me to work harder?" He sounds sly, teasing. And it strikes you then, just how comfortable, how deeply familiar you have become with each other in such a short amount of time. Maybe because you want to know him more deeply than you've ever wanted to know anyone before. Maybe because he's faking. He's difficult to read. You hope it's real, regardless.
"You know that's not why." You retort.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Who can say what I really know?" How whimsical, pensive, almost.
Trying to keep the frustration out of your voice is difficult. "What's that meant to mean, Tom?"
"Aren't I supposed to be delusional? Stark-raving mad, or something of the like?"
And there it was. The crux of the issue. You try to answer, to be reassuring, the calm and collected medical professional that he needs. "You're –"
He cuts you off, brutally. Swiftly. "Do you ever wonder, Doctor, why I don't seem at all mentally impaired?"
You had wondered. You had, you had, you had. You had wondered so much, so deeply, so intensely, so passionately, that you had lost sleep over it. But then again, it didn't really matter either way since he had a penchant for appearing in your dreams now, too. In one way or another. His voice. His face. Sometimes just something that would remind you of him. Other times it was like you were living in his head.
