William looked at the young man sitting on the floor next to him. He was furiously making paper roses, he lay them all in lines, neat lines around himself. They were everywhere, some had been tossed aside, they scattered. The young man had piercing eyes but they never left the paper. His blue eyes occasionally filled with tears but more often affected by a frown of concentration. Paper. He folded. He shaped. He placed down with such care as though the roses were made of glass. He was not responding to his words. William felt a great need to help this young man. He could feel the bite of sorrow emanating from him. He wanted to know what his story was. He needed to know as much as he could if he was going to help him. His eyes filled with genuine concern, left the young man and he stood. Walked out, the other doctor shutting the door behind them. Everyone else seemed to have given up hope for Michael Scofield. He had patients lost before, so consumed with their insanity but there were some who could be helped. He wanted to help them all but that was impossible. Not everyone can be saved, not everyone can be helped, especially the ones who do not wish to be. He went with this other doctor and into his office.
“I am so pleased you are taking over Scofield’s case, it has been racking my brains,”
“What’s his story?”
“His girlfriend died, that’s all I know,” he said this as though it was no big deal. He had obviously never been in love.
“How did you find that out?” William wanted to know as much as possible before he proceeded with the patient.
“He has a brother, it’s all in the files,” the doctor said and handed William a huge pack of paperwork, all on Michael, he would be studying this later. It pained him to see another doctor so unfeeling towards a patient, like he really could not be bothered. He could not even be bothered to explain the story to him. ‘Its all in the files’ this angered him. He had to shake it off and he took the pack, thanking him half heartedly, since he did not like the man. He left and went into his own office, his name Doctor William Whitmore, was written on the door. He shut it and retreated himself. He had a new patient and he was keen to get as much knowledge on the young man. He wanted to help him. That was why he became a doctor.