“Okay, Mr…Iero?”

Frank flinched in his seat at the sound of paperwork being dropped onto the desk in front of him from an unreasonable height. His counselor had pronounced his name wrong, - just like everyone else does, it didn’t really bother the teen that much, but still; he felt it necessary to politely correct his mistake.

“Oh, It’s-”

“-Don’t care! It’s a stupid name. Get one easier to pronounce.” The older man scowled at him, waving an unconcerned hand about as he took a seat behind his desk.

Frank stared at him quite shocked, mouth hanging open slightly in confusion. He had been warned of the counselor’s offhanded attitude. He was also later warned that ‘offhanded’ was most probably a compliment, rather than the ideal way to describe him.

“…What I’m trying to tell you Frank is that, he’s the epitome of asshole.” One of his friends informed earlier that day.

Frank brushed it off though; he thought they were just laying it on thick to scare him. He doubted the correctional facility would want someone like such to mentor under-age law-breakers. It just seemed stupid to hire a person who talked to the kids like shit, unless that was in fact the point.

He was Mr. Gerard Way, or so his desk header informed; which was flipped upside-down on a pile of pens and pencils, the shrink for New Jersey State Correction Center. Working every Monday to Thursday, in turn each juvenile would have to sit with him for an hour at the times they are scheduled and discuss what it was they had done. Once Mr. Way can observe the child’s new legal understanding and is convinced that their previous actions will not occur again, he then has the power to suggest a cut-back (or if need be an extension) on the time they serve and dismiss them from therapy. Frank’s friend Bob had told him that since Mr. Way started at the center two years ago, every single person in there had served their sentence in full.

He would then come in on Fridays, but only by appointment. If during the week one of the boys felt they needed to discuss something further, or simply needed to vent their thoughts, it would be Mr. Way on the receiving end of their confessions, or effortless mindless chatter. By now, the kid’s were well aware not to make to latter the case for why you wished to see the counselor on a Friday. Claiming the usual; ignorant, critical and blunt attitude Mr. Way possessed throughout his regular sessions unbearable enough, that if you took redundant time out from his day off to discuss your what he called ’girly problems’, the only words to exit his mouth would be nothing less than degrading verbal abuse.

“So, are we going to talk or something?” Frank asked, not sure if he should actually bother speaking at all.

“SHH!” Mr. Way hushed him somewhat hatefully, flinching a bit and his face becoming slightly distressed.

Frank retreated to silence; shock penetrating him again slightly as the man reclined his chair and laid back; seemingly trying to catch some sleep. He scanned the room subconsciously, though still managing to take in its details. The walls were made of plasterboard, oppose the concrete ones throughout the main sections of the center and painted in shades of gray and burgundy. They held lop-sized certificates of completion in courses of ‘Psychoanalysis’ and ’Psychological Profiling’. Psychological Profiling? The title caused Frank to pay a little more attention to what he was looking at and he wondered what the hell was Mr. Way was doing wasting his time advising teenagers, when apparently he has the ability to examine body language of those as dangerous as terrorists? He questioned over the authenticity of the documents; considering the counselor appeared half asleep, he found it hard to believe that he had even bothered to gain an education in the first place. Though Frank knew about the things Mr. Way would have learnt in such courses and he worried that maybe the man was taking notes in his head, because if his merits weren’t counterfeit then they were an indicating that he was quite capable of doing exactly that.

Frank swallowed hard as his eyes fell back onto Mr. Ways’ rested profile. He really didn’t look like a nasty person, he thought; he actually looked quite humble with his eyes almost hidden by his black locks. He looked to the window then back at his counselor; taking in the way the cheap plastic Venetian blind held the sun out and created scattered shadows over the elders face. Quickly he realized he was incredibly bored and looked at his watch. They had already used up twenty minutes of their session time and the man had said nothing to him, other than the mispronunciation of his name and that he didn’t care about it anyway.

Promptly, Mr. Way cocked his left eye open to look at Frank, who simply smiled at him sarcastically; already have grown impatient with his rudeness.  The man returned his smile and reclining his chair back to its regular position.

“This is fun right?” He asked, lacing his fingers together and pleasantly resting his arms on the desk.

“It’s incredibly boring and mostly I want to die.” Frank face was unusually blank. After what he’d been told about the counselor he decided he wasn’t going to let him crawl under his skin. The man may be incredibly smart and know the ins and outs of the human mind, but Frank wasn’t exactly stupid either; he knew Mr. Way could only get to him, like he does everyone else, if he allowed it, so his plan was to simply come to therapy, avoid answering any questions and if that can’t be done then answering them dishonestly would be fine. He figured if he could get through the sessions without actually letting the counselor know anything about him that wasn’t made up, then he wouldn’t have a problem.

Mr. Way frowned sarcastically, running a finger down his pale cheek. “How old are you…” He looked at the front of the manila folder; sat on top of his messy pile of papers, then back up “…Franklin?”

“Quite young. How old are you?”

“You know…” He looked to Frank with raised eyebrows, placing the folder back down. “…I do have your personal file right in front of me. I can open it up and just see for myself.”          

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because whether you like it or not, you’re trapped in this delightful office with me every Monday and Wednesday, for an hour each day, for the next three months. Then, you will be here every Monday for and hour for the next two to three months after that; depending on how well I think you’re progressing. Should you choose not to talk to me constructively the whole time, I’m afraid that you will be putting up with approximately thirty six hours filled with myself singing famous cabaret songs to you and might I add, in an unbearable tone, how would you like that?” He smiled a childish toothy grin; swaying side to side in his swivel chair somewhat performance like.

“I’m eighteen in October.” Frank answered squinting at him; not really understanding why the man had chose to move in such a dreadful way.

“Okay! I was twenty-four in last week. So now that we have a mutual understanding that I’m clearly much brighter than you I suspect you will answer the following questions correctly?” He shuffled his papers around in search of the appropriate reading material.

“Actually, I have a question. Do I have to call you Mr. Way? It bothers me.” Frank scrunched his nose and looked at his watch; so far his stalling was going perfectly.

“Well, to be honest the name ‘Franklin’ bothers me. It reminds me of a cartoon I used to watch as a kid, in which ‘Franklin’ was in fact the name of a turtle. I hated that turtle also, I on several occasions attempted to run into the television screen; in hopes of making it to the other side and my intentions were to rip that stupid little shell he called his house, clean off his back. But, I didn’t ask to call you something else did I?”

Surprisingly Frank found himself half smirking at Mr. Way’s little rant. “So why did you keep watching it if you hated Franklin so much?”

“I was addicted that’s why. I thought I’d get through the glass one day.”

“I see. Well, I don’t mind if you just call me Frank.”

“Oh, well thank you so much for the permission. Frank.” He scowled, picking up a book and pen and scanning over the page for a moment.

Frank looked to watch again, twenty minutes to go. Time seemed to go so slow in here, he thought, but really so far Mr. Way wasn’t anywhere near as bad as he was expecting.

“SO!” He piped, pulling Frank’s gaze away from his watch to look at him “Just answer these questions as fast as you can. First thing that comes to mind, if you would. Mostly because I’d much rather wax my cat than sit here with you and try to work out why you don’t know the difference between what’s right and what’s wrong.” He placed a finger at the top of the page and began.

“One. Are you male?”

“Sometimes.”

“Good. Two. Am I male?”

“Pass.”

“Three. What color is this room?”

“Grey and Pink.”

“Four. What color is your room?”

“Here or at home?”

“Home.”

“Posters.”

“Five. Are you in fact a turtle?”

“What? That’s not-”

“-Five. Are you in fact a turtle?”

“NO! I am not in fact a turtle. This is stupid; you’re just making these up.”

“Yes. Six. Do you think serving time in New Jersey State Correctional Center will change your ways.”

“Hardly.”

“Seven. Are you a virgin?”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’m not answering that.”

“Then I’ll sing…What good is sitting alone in your room, come hear the music play-”

“-Ugh! Alright. No, I’m not.”

“Male partner or Female partner?”

“You didn’t say a number.”

“That’s because it’s not part of the survey, it for my own personal thoughts.” He smirked over his paper and Frank recoiled slightly. “ANSWER!”

“Fuck you!”

“Life is a cabaret old chum, so come hear the music play-”

“-OKAY! Shut up. Girl. Girl, it was a girl.”

“Eight. Will you enjoy spending time with me?”

“I will love every second of it.” Monotonous.

“Wanna go make out in the bushes?” Mr. Way practically slammed his papers down and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“I would like to leave now.” Frank looked at him expressionless and was irritated with himself for letting the counselor’s questions get to him. He looked over at the paper Mr. Way was supposed to be scribbling his answers on and noticed it was completely blank. He glanced back up at man a little vexed; he would definitely noticed Frank’s observation, it didn’t seen to worry him though; he was still moving his eyebrows up and down like an idiot.

Frank stood from his chair, still glowering. He made his way to the door, turning and looking at his counselor one last time before walking out. He made his way through the corridors and back to his room with an array of mixed feelings. Mr. Way was definitely inconsiderate, he’d give his friend’s that, but still he couldn’t help but think the man wasn’t necessarily an asshole, but more simply a moron.