Reece attempts to control his breathing, his hands tightly gripping the armrests of the rickety wooden chair and releasing them over and over. Every few seconds, he glances at the door of the office, then at the clock, which currently shows two minutes past six in the evening. 

The door finally opens, and a woman with a black bowl cut walks into the room, holding a clipboard and wearing a white and grey suit. 

“You’re late,” Reece says, relaxing his tense body and sitting back on the chair. 

“I’m very sorry,” the woman responds, taking a seat on the couch opposite him. “Traffic was a nightmare today.” 

“You should have left earlier.” 

She gives him a small smile. “Well, Reece, unfortunately I had no way of telling how bad traffic was going to be.” 

“Is that what He told you to say?” 

Her smile doesn’t falter, but she looks down at her clipboard, flipping a page over. “Have you been doing the exercises we discussed?” 

“No; they don’t help, because He’s real, like I’ve been telling you for twenty-two sessions!” 

“I see,” she nods, scribbling something on the paper. “Does that mean you think these sessions are a waste of time, Reece?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why do you keep coming to them?” 

Reece grinds his teeth, starting to tightly grip the armrests again. “Because He makes me.” 

“Does he now? How does he make you come? Does he physically push you? Does he threaten you?” 

“N-no, He…” Reece swallows, looking around, as if making sure nobody is watching him. “He just… He just makes me go.” 

The woman raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean I just… I don’t even have a choice. He doesn’t do anything.” 

“Interesting. So, in other words, you’re not really being forced to come, are you?” 

“You don’t get it!” Reece shouted, slamming his fists onto the chair. “You never understand! Every week, you tell me the same rubbish! About how He doesn’t exist, how I’m in control of my own destiny, how I’m just imagining Him!” 

“I see, yes.” She doesn’t even blink at the outburst and just writes more down on her clipboard. “And why do you think I keep telling you these things?” 

“You’re one of His little minions, aren’t you?” Reece shouts, pointing an accusing finger at her. “He makes me come here so you can convince me He doesn’t exist, doesn’t He? He doesn’t like that I’m aware of Him!” 

“Alright, Reece, that’s enough,” she warns, tapping her pen on the clipboard, but not moving from her seat. “Any more outbursts and I’ll need to have you removed, okay?” 

“Okay. Sorry.” He retracted his finger slightly, before stopping, his frown deepening. “Hold on, no! I don’t want to be here!” He looked around frantically, jumping out of his seat and making it crash to the ground. “You’re controlling me again! I know it! I know You exist!” 

“Reece, please settle down. Remember what I said?” 

“Shut up!” He shouts, storming over to her. She doesn’t react at all, not even as he snatches the clipboard she’s been scribbling on all session from her hands. 

It’s blank. 

“What the fuck,” he whispers, flipping the paper back and forth. They’re all blank. Not a single mark of ink on any of them. 

“Stop fucking with me!” he shouts into the air. 

That’s enough, Reece. 

“Who… You! It’s You! I knew I wasn’t insane!” 

No. You’re not insane. 

“I need to tell everyone,” he babbles, the office around him vanishing before his eyes, leaving him in a white, empty expanse. He looks around, mouth agape. “What is this? What did you do?” 

I’m putting you somewhere else. 

“What do you mean?” He frowns, and the walls start to reform. Not the same walls, though. They’re white, clinical. Steel tables are placed in rows along the much larger room, and chains are attached to each chair. Reece looks down and finds his clothes are gone, replaced with an off-white shirt, a number stencilled onto his breast pocket. 

“What is this? What are you doing to me?” He shouts. 

You’re disruptive to the story. I tried to make you conform, but you wouldn’t. This is your own fault. 

The area forms completely, and many other people in the same outfit as him materialise. Some of them are seated, chained to the tables. Others are wandering aimlessly, some are babbling nonsense to themselves, and others are playing with children’s toys, or staring at a television screen playing static. A few larger men wearing orange are patrolling the area, batons at their sides. 

“Where am I?” Reece shouts, drawing the attention of a few of the orange-dressed men. 

You’re where you belong. A place where you can be safe, and where nobody will believe you when you talk about Me. Most importantly, though, a place where you can’t disrupt My story any longer. 

“You can’t do this! Let me go!” He shouts, and one of the orange men walks over to him. 

“Hey buddy,” he says, gripping Reece’s arm tightly. “Doing alright here? Need to go back to your room to relax?” 

“Get your fucking hands off me!” He shouts, tearing his arm from the man’s grasp and running, heading straight for the door that says exit. He takes a few strides forward before his shoelace comes undone, and he trips, falling onto his face and hearing a sickening crunch, his nose exploding with pain. Howling and writhing on the ground, a few of the orange men rush over to him, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him to his feet. 

“Fuck You,” he says, tears in his eyes. 

Sorry Reece, but again, this is your own fault.