Disclaimer: I don't own Alex Rider

White Room

It was in a white room that you could find Alex Rider on the third of May.

In fact, it was in a white room that you could find Alex Rider everyday, between the hours of 1pm and 3pm.

He didn't do anything in this white room, nor did he say anything. Even though that was exactly what he was meant to be doing.

They even provided a very nice doctor for him to talk to.

No, most of the time he spent, looking at his hands. Slender fingers, bitten nails, nothing special about them really. But for two hours every day, in that white room, he would stare at them.

If you looked at his face you would see disgust. If you looked in his cold, brown eyes you would see fear.

If you looked very closely, you would see the slightest tremble in his shoulders, or how every sound would make him tense, just a little bit, in his hard, plastic chair.

If you asked him why he was staring at his hands he probably wouldn't answer you. But once, just once, he did. He told his very nice doctor in that very white room that he was staring at the blood.

It wasn't his fault that the doctor thought it was his own, the doctor should have known that he wasn't talking about the fresh, new cuts on his wrists, he was talking about the people who visited him every night.

It was their blood that dripped from his hands, not his own.