I’m sitting in the white room now, waiting for the Doctor. We get a check-up every week in replace of actually living. I think it’s a fucked up place. But Mom says it’s perfect. As long as you try hard, you succeed, no matter what.
A monotone voice calls my name. As I walk through the metal door that closes on its own, the voice tells me to sit. So I do, squeezing my eyes shut in preparation for the inevitable. And moments later the red light seeps through my eyelids as the room suddenly becomes blindingly bright, too bright to see a thing. You never can see in that room. No one’s ever seen the Doctor. You can only hear his familiar footsteps.
He proceeds to ask me silly questions, the same questions He always asks. What’s my height? What’s my weight? How long does my waist measure? How long do my arms measure? How long are my fingers? Have my biceps grown? What did I eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day of the week? (You learn to remember those kinds of things.) How many times have I ”ejaculated” since my last visit? Have I been angry in the past week? Depressed? How often have I attended waterpolo practice? How much effort did I put forth? He asks me anything and everything one could possibly want to know about the physical and mental nature of a person. And as much as I’d love to make shit up, rumor has it that there’s something in the room that senses lies. So, naturally, we tell the truth. Always.
