He sat alone in the corner of the small, white room, unaware that the man behind the glass was watching. The room was small, no bigger than a garden shed. The only objects in the room were a cot, a table, and a single chair. Everything was white.

He could hear it. A low, dull drumming was echoing from the walls. It was getting louder. Soon he found himself violently thrusting his head back and forth to the pounding of the drum.

As abruptly as it had begun, the roll of the drum had ended and his body fell limp against the cold tile floor.

He lay lifeless on the floor for what could have been hours. He had no concept of time now. He couldn't even remember the last time he had tried to recall what day, month or year it was. At this point it didn't really matter.

The heaviness of his eyes had distorted his vision. The white ceiling above his head had become nothing more than a blur. He rubbed his eyes in hope of clarity. When he opened them, he was further from it than before. He had opened his eyes to find the jagged features of a wild boar embossed on the ceiling.

He recognized the boar all too well. It was the same boar he had killed earlier, and just as before, the blood drained from its mouth. The tiny droplets descended from the boar's mouth through its bloodstained teeth, to become a puddle next to his head.

He was shaken with fear, and horrified by the pool of blood that was forming beside his head. He was terrified that such a creature could emerge from extinction and find him within the safety of these white walls. He could no longer hide. His fear was evident. The boar grinned.

He screamed at the creature, "I killed you once before. I can kill you again."

Inside he knew he couldn't.

He rolled over slowly and raised his limp body to its feet. He did what had instintively come. Rushing towards the cot where he curled into the fetal position and began to hum. He used to hum a lot, before the white walls kept him safe.

His breathing slowed from its quickened pace. When he turned his head the boar was gone, and standing where the pool of blood used to be was a tall, pale, skinny man, with greying hair and an evil stare. The man wore a grey cardigan, he always had. The man's face was much like his own, except it was old and tired looking. This was a man that had visited him often, too often.

The man looked at him and laughed. The laughter rang out; its cackling pitch was beyond anything a human could hear. The man stopped laughing and just glared in the direction of the boy. A glare so firmiliar and haunting he whimpered at the sight of it. After some time, the man's lips appeared to move, but what he heard he could not interpret. From the look in the man's eyes he could tell that these were not words of love, but words of hate. The sound the man was making was getting louder. He could hear the dull rumbling of the man's voice.

He closed his eyes and covered his ears with hopes that the man would go away. "Stop it," "Go away," "No," he screamed at the man, who had shattered his innocence.

Suddenly the room fell silent. The silence sent a chill up his spine. He felt compelled to look. He slowly turned his head, removed his hands from his ears, and reluctantly opened his eyes. The boar stood no more than three feet away from him; grinning a bloody grin. Fear grabbed hold of his heart. He screamed and swung his fists about in a fit of rage.

The man behind the glass pressed the oversized red button. Two large muscular men marched into the room and pinned him to the cot. The smaller of the two men pulled a needle from the front pocket of his white uniform and injected it into the weak thigh of the enraged boy.

He fell loose and drowsy. He fought to keep his eyes open. With the muscular men gone, he lay still on his cot. His eyelids were getting to heavy to keep open; the last vision he saw before he drifted off was the tail end of the boar sub-siding into the white wall at the end of his cot.