(I introduced Dia in the Build-a-Story game a few posts down. She's a character from a lawless, [dystopian] futuristic London. In canon, Dia is never able to seek professional help...but a lot of things would've been avoided if she had.)
* * *
Dia sat straight-backed and rigid. The synthetic, plasticky leather of the chair beneath her seemed to cling to her when she moved. Absently, she wondered what the other people in the waiting room saw when they looked at her, if they even saw her at all. A girl whose pale, roundish face should have appeared youthful, were it not for the purple-grey smudges beneath her eyes; the too sharp jut of her collarbones; the thin, strawlike quality of her short, ragged blonde hair. She let herself smile. That was good. It meant she was just like the rest of them. Drab; ordinary. She needed to be thought of that way.
She did not know how long she had been sitting there. There was a clock on the opposite wall, but she paid it no mind. Nor did she pay attention to the nondescript classical music being piped into the room. She was there, and she wasn't. And that, after all, was what she was doing here in the first place.