Jules Villeneuve looked around him at the deserted office. Although he was a bit early, the receptionist had sent him in anyway, saying that the psychiatrist will be there to meet him sooner than later. The air in the room was a bit cooler than he had expected it to be, but the general atmosphere was, for him, comforting.
Maybe, Jules thought, he shouldn't have gone there at all. But - and he shook his head energetically, sending tendrils of light brown hair flying in the air - that wasn't him thinking. It must be one of the voices, those inhabitants of his mind. Right? Jules bit his lip. They're taking over his head, one mental space at a time. Certainly -
Footsteps echoed dully from behind the door that led to the office. Jules shifted from his chair, ready to rise should the person enter. Help. Help is coming. Then those voices won't stand a chance.
An omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles.
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