A Note of Madness by Tabitha Suzuma

got up, feeling as if he were moving in slow motion, and followed the man down a long corridor and then another, through several fire doors and finally into a messy office. Once inside, the man turned and shook Flynn’s hand, shooting him a brief smile.
    ‘I’m Dario Ludic. You must be Rami’s brother.’
    Flynn nodded wordlessly, unable to articulate the slightest sound. He could not believe this was happening. At the doctor’s without so much as a cold. What on earth was he going to say – oh, I’m here because I sometimes feel a bit fed up?
    Dr Ludic indicated a seat opposite his desk and Flynn sat, too close for comfort, staring at the piles of folders strewn across his desk. Dr Ludic took out some paper, spent several seconds hunting around his desk for a pen and then asked for Flynn’s details – name, date of birth, nationality, family background, schooling . . . The list went on. Flynn answered robotically, chewing his thumbnail and staring at the stained, beige carpet.
    Dr Ludic didn’t look up as he wrote. Minutes passed. The doctor continued to write into the silence. Then he looked up and started talking about data protection acts and patient confidentiality, and Flynn continued to nod and wondered how soon he could politely leave. But, unlike the GPs, Dr Ludic seemed in no particular hurry. And there was a box of tissues on the coffee table that separated the two chairs. For some reason that box oftissues was asking to be picked up and hurled out of the window.
    ‘So tell me a bit about what’s brought you here,’ Dr Ludic asked eventually.
    Flynn looked across at the doctor. He looked straight back. Flynn averted his gaze and pulled a face. There was a long silence. He could feel his cheeks reddening. There was only so long he could keep examining the carpet for.
    ‘Rami mentioned you seemed depressed. Would you agree with that?’
    Flynn chewed the corner of his lip. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled finally.
    Dr Ludic wrote something down. Was he going to take down his every word? Uncommunicative, he would hazard. Monosyllabic.
    ‘Can you try to describe how you’ve been feeling recently?’
    Flynn opened his mouth to say ‘crap’ and stopped. ‘Down,’ he substituted.
    ‘Describe what feeling “down” consists of.’
    They were going around in circles. Flynn fleetingly thought back to the agony of the past few days and knew there was no way of putting it into words. He couldn’t describe his innermost feelings to a perfect stranger, especially when those feelings revolved around fear and torment and morbidity.
    Finally, Dr Ludic asked him a series of one-word-answer questions relating mainly to his sleeping habits,daily routine and social interaction. As Flynn replied, he started scribbling again.
    ‘So when did this all start?’
    ‘A few days ago.’
    He looked surprised. ‘Have you felt like this before?’
    A shrug. ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘When was the last time?’
    ‘Mm – maybe a couple of weeks ago.’
    ‘And is there ever any trigger?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘You said you were at the Royal College of Music.’
    ‘Mm.’
    ‘That’s a competitive place. I imagine it’s quite a high-pressured environment.’
    Another shrug.
    ‘What do you play?’
    ‘Piano.’
    ‘You must be very talented.’
    He managed a polite smile. Silence.
    ‘Would you say you were talented, Flynn?’
    The question startled him and for a moment his eyes met the doctor’s, caught in surprise. He felt the heat rise to his face. Surely Dr Ludic couldn’t expect him to answer that? But his prolonged silence and unwavering gaze strongly suggested that he did. Searching for an answer just led Flynn to a series of blanks.
    ‘I suppose other people do,’ he mumbled eventually, looking away.
    ‘And do you agree with them?’
    Flynn thought about it. If I say yes I sound boastful, if I say no I sound as if I’m lying. And the truth? Maybe it’s worth focusing on that. Seconds ticked by, the