'It begins rather drearily, I'm afraid'
'A dreary beginning is as good as any' The psychologist set down his cup and leaned forward in his chair, creating a dull creak that sounded foreign to the particular type of silence his treatment room had acquired. He did not say another word, his leaning forward seemed to speak for him.
'It would seem that I was to tell my story on a day where rain lashed against an old window pane, and a cup steamed somewhere at my side. A day that was dark and contented in it's quiet. A day so far removed from my memories that it seemed possible to tell them'
Into my lengthy pause after this statement the psychologist spoke; 'And yet you chose this day'.
My eye had set itself at the window. A clean, modern, white window. Beyond it's glass, the sky too was a sterile white. I had no rain to trickle down to punctuate my words - just a colourless, still and inaccurate morning. I had been desperately eyeing that blank abyss for a dash of grey or even a parting of blue when the psychologist had spoken.
'Yes. Yes, I chose this day' and I paid the abscence of emotional weather no heed from that final intake of breath before the spill.