I Imagine the dew would have been frozen to the overgrown blades of grass in the back lawn on that bittersweet morning -- if only one of us had the audacity to leave that room. None of us could. For this was a time for mourning, a memorial service for him. Unfortunately we couldn’t have an open casket, for the majority of us thought the hole in his forehead might be too much for us see. It was better this way; with a picture of him next to the mahogany and walnut box with his body safely stowed away.
It could have been the bullet, or maybe it was the inevitable flow of time. Yes, one could argue that indeed was “his time”, that it was “meant to be”, but how could the world be so cruel as to indefferently dismiss the unjust murder of an innocent  boy?

“The boy was seven?” The doctor inquired. The mans voice was a siren, suddenly shattering the illusion of which I find myself caught up in now and again. The wrinkles on his face seemed to shatter as his lips moved, letting out a comforting, yet stale voice, and with it filling the room with sound as if to banish the eeriness of silence -- but only for an instant before once again the only thing that could be heard  was the steadily quickening heartbeat of me, myself, and I.
The quiet lights seemed to utter an unspoken whisper as the baseboard heating, partially hidden by the lavish trim which ran around the base of the walls hummed, creating a barrier between the warm walls and the white carpet, which seemed to glow with a slight tint of gold under a soft haze created by the mixture of the early morning sun filtering through the curtains and the incandescent light smoldering overhead. As a morning breeze seemed to seep through the walls I came to the realization that the window was open on the other side of the curtain. The  room grew cold, and the complete absence of sound began to create a tension in the air.
“Yes, seven years and four months” I answered, once again pretentiously filling the room with some form of life  as he dipped  his feathered pen once again into the small inkwell on the front left corner of the lustrous desk that was the barrier between the doctor and me; the patient..... The one who needed “fixing”.
“It wasn't his fault though”, I added in a moralistic sort of way. “How was he supposed to know? ........He walked that same street home every day”
With every pedantic word that left my mouth, I felt more and more as if I was alone in this room, apart from that pen; always running back and forth on that peice of paper as if nothing in the world was valid unless written down.

There it was again -- the silence. I never knew a room could feel so empty. 
“After the death of your little brother, do you remember--”
“He didn't die!” I interrupted incredulously . “He didn’t die. He didn’t have cancer, he didn’t pass on peacefully in his sleep, he wasn’t fortunate enough to leave this world with a sense of peace..... He was ended. He didn’t die.”
“....”
Something about the doctor changed in that moment. He Looked me in the eye for the first time. His eyes communicated with me in a way language could not. But only for a moment until once again, as if the flame in his mind was doused by the ink in which he dipped his pen another time, I was gone to him. The strokes of the feather in his hand quickened, it was as if each and every letter,  every word that he created on that parchment was another bar in the tiny, seemingly inescapable prison cell inside of my head. With each word I was pushed further away from him, until the solemnness in my head slowly turned into impatience. Always writing, never listening, always writing down the things I say, never listening, always ignoring me, never listening. The impatience was no longer there; frustration took its place.
“STOP!” I raised my voice, finally getting the doctors attention. “Put the pen down and listen to me already!”
  He did.
“He was just a boy! He was an innocent child and he was shot in the head! It has been ten years, 2 months, and 17 days since then and to this day nobody cares to find out how, or why Jacob Barret, a seven year old boy was murdered in cold blood in a drive by shooting!”
Dr. Bentleys eyes seemed to look past mine, as if staring into my Brain itself. Or possibly he wasn't looking at me at all...  The doctor stood up. I noticed a  stain on the bottom left of his baby blue button up shirt as he stretched  his arm across his chest, letting out a yawn he seemed to have been holding in for quite some time now.
A sudden knock from the other side of the door ran throughout the room.
“I’m terribly sorry James, but we will have to finish this conversation next week. We are currently running 5 minutes over our appointment time.”
I didn't even say goodbye as I  Stood up carefully, turned around and left that place. For the last time, one foot in front of the other, with a steady pace and confidence in my step, as if I was just one in a single file line of hundreds in front and behind me.
I can't remember if I cried when I walked home that day... It doesnt really matter anyways.
It could've been the knock on the door, or maybe it was my audacity.   One could argue that it was stupidity rather than audacity,  either way I knew in that moment that Dr. Bentley couldn't do anything for me anymore.