"I guess, what I really remember the most…I guess it would be the window."

"Window?"

"Yeah, yeah, there was this window in my room. Every morning, before we had to get up and go do stuff, I would just kinda stand there and look out of it."

"That's really your clearest memory? Nothing else?"

I can't stand the way she looks at me when she asks this; the same look everyone has when they ask me about that place, like they're seeing a cute puppy in an adoption home or something, like they expect me to burst into tears. I could say Well, I remember a lot of things from there, yeah. I remember this one kid that would always scream. He was across the hall from me and they had to sedate him every time they wanted to move him or feed him or anything. He would try to fight them, or he would just start hurting himself with anything he could. Sometimes he would hit his head against the bricks until they sedated him or he knocked himself out. I think about the wall more though. Just to see how she would react, how she would recoil in awkward uncomfort, not knowing what to say for once. I don't want to talk about that though, I don't want to see any more looks of pity than I have to. "Yeah, I guess so. I really liked looking out that window. The nurses would get angry, or just curious I guess. For some reason they didn't like me staring out of it for too long."

"Oh, well what did you like about the window?" I hate when she crosses her legs like that, putting that expensive pen to that expensive paper in her psuedo-proffessional bullshit. Anyone can see right through it.

"I liked that it wasn't inside that place, that I could see real people, people who smiled, people who rode their bikes to work, people who were holding hands with cute dates and strolling down the sidewalk." I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said anything, just shrugged my shoulders. She's already giving me that look again. But I can't help it. I can't help seeing through that window, every time I dream, every time I remember. There was that beautiful, swerving sidewalk, perfectly maintained with square hedges, those neat little trees. I remember, at first, I hated those guys on the bikes. I used to love riding bikes, before I got in there. Seeing their muscular legs, their smiling faces, their rush and excitement about life, I couldn't help being jealous. But later, I found joy in seeing them, in guessing at their lives. I remember seeing the business men, stressed beyond belief and sipping at coffee to try and wake up, to try and face the dull day ahead of them, and realizing that even their frowning faces were happier than mine.

"You know why they didn't like you looking out the window?"

I knew, I knew perfectly well, because I'd thought that thought several times. Standing there, on one of the first mornings, I gently put my hand up against the glass getting a feel for it's strength, nervous as hell that one of those big nurses would catch me. I would judge the height, seven stories, more than high enough if I went head first. That was the day my mom came to walk with me. That was the day that I would miss my Junior prom. We would get fifteen minutes. I hated talking to her; I hated her questions, but it got me out of that miserable hole. That day we went to the library and I checked out the thickest, heaviest, hardback book I could find. I can read anything, literally any piece of garbage or complicated text out there, so she didn't question my choice. It took me the a month to finish that book, some dry old history about presidents. Then I started to read it again. It sat on my desk, looking at me, taunting me. I knew it would break it. One strong shove and it would shatter. I broke a lot of windows in my childhood and I was certain.

"Yeah. I do. That's not why I was looking out the window."

"No, you sure?" She knows I'm lying. She's paid to know when people are lying. But she won't call me out on it.

"Yes." The less words spoken, the better.

"So how are you adjusting to this outside world? Are you getting out there? Making friends? Do you have a girlfriend?" At the word 'girlfriend' she always gets that dumb smile like parents do when they're talking to a ten year old about girlfriends.

"I'm doing alright."

"That doesn't answer my question. Are you putting yourself out there?" I think it's funny when her bullshit professionalism slips and she gets frustrated. That's the only time I laugh.

"I go to school."

"Do you talk to anyone?"

"No."

"Do you get good grades?"

"Yes." I'd never, not even when I was there, gotten anything less than an A.

"So do you spend a lot of time studying?"

"No. None." I never studied. School was easy for me.

"What do you do with your time? Just watch tv?"

"I never watch tv. I hate it. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I guess I just kinda lay around, stare at the ceiling." Whenever I tell her this, which has been about a million times, she will always put on that fake look of concern that you see on children's faces at the funeral of a relative they didn't really know.

"Do you listen to music when you lay around like that?" I guess listening to music when you do this is more normal.

"No. Just lay there."

"So what do you think about when you're laying around?" These people are whores for thoughts and feelings, anything that can take up their time and make their service seem useful.

"Nothing. I just blank out." This is not true at all. I would remember the accident, that wasn't really an accident, replaying it in my head over and over and over again. Of course, this is what she wants to hear. I don't want to tell her.

"You know, it's very rare that someone can just think of nothing at all."

"I must be an endangered species then." There's only two minutes left, just kill two more minutes.

"You know Josh, at some point you're going to have to be honest with me."

"Would you want me to be honest with you if my parents weren't paying you?" I hate it most when she tries to act like she genuinely cares.

"Well yes, I would like to help you in any way possible."

"Now you're lying."

"This isn't about me, Josh."

"Time's up." I always watch that little digital clock with the extremest of scrutiny.

"What?"

"Time's up. Don't want to cost you any money. Goodbye."

"Josh, that's not what it's about."

"I'll try not to kill myself until next week, when you can save me again."

"That's not funny." Slamming the door feels good, especially on her, especially when I know it will be the last thing I do to her, to anybody. I never used to slam doors.