A/N: Hiya! I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed :D And to butterflykaguy87, no offence taken; in fact, that you took the time to write all that out just shows me how passionate you are about the subject at hand (which duh, since you've been in school for six years, shouldn't come as a surprise), and I admit, I should've researched the whole thing better (I'm totally out of my element here) but even for someone like me who hasn't the slightest clue about therapy and therapists I know how unethical it would be for a therapist to announce blatantly that she/he has all this confidential info on their patient(s)-that's why I wrote she'd realized she'd said too much, but not to give too much away to those of you still interested in this story, but she's not supposed to be a good therapist, she's not supposed to earn their trust, etc. So, that partly was on purpose, as for Abby and Ducky being there, I just friggin' love those two to bits and pieces and couldn't imagine them not being there. :O But, yeah, just thought I'd explain a few things. And if you don't want to read the rest of my story, thats fine too, thanks for checking it out though. :) Also, thank you either way for reviewing, it's the longest review I've gotten since joining this site a couple of weeks ago, so yeah, even if it wasn't exactly positive, I'm a whore for reviews (or at least I've become one lately -.-) so THANK YOU! :) Well, sorry for this loooong authors' note, I hope you guys like it! (sorry in advance for all the mistakes I make!)Enjoy! :D Also, for those of you wondering, yes, Kates still alive and nope, Ziva never joined the team (in this fic, anyway). Alright, onwards! Review pleeeeease! :]

II.

GIBBS WAS PISSED.

He didn't want to be here. He didn't need to be here. And he certainly didn't need Dr. Dorian peeking into his private life, much less spewing any of it to his team; if he wanted them to know about it, he damn well would have told them already. So he crossed his arms over his chest and continued to glare at her darkly. And the director-he had a gut feeling this was all orchestrated by that woman. Why she would do any of this was anyones' guess, he sure as hell didn't know.

Gibbs realized belated they'd been talking for a while now. "So much stress for politeness sake." Tony was babbling on. "Michael Pitt, AKA Paul from the film 'Funny Games', came out in 2007, really morbid piece, these two quirky psychopaths take a family hostage. A real shame it wasn't recognized more widely, some say not enough action, but I say Americans are just getting slower, because the conversation between Paul and Peter, the two psychos, the dialogue was crazy entertaining, I could quote those two all day, in fact. But you know, the film was originally an Austrian film, directed by-"

"This is what I have to deal with everyday." Kate rolled her eyes, interrupting the senior field agent.

"See how rude she is Doc?" Tony feigned an exasperated sigh. Abby giggled.

After a moment, wherein everyone was in a moment of chaos, shouting over one another like kids, Dr. Dorian finally got everyone to calm down and listen to her. She was an odd therapist, Tony thought to himself, not exactly very bright, if not pretty bad at her job. She was kind enough, but seemed to be digging for something.

First, that emergency lockdown couldn't be a coincidence, and the fact that Dr. Dorian had shot him an odd look when she'd spoken about knowing each of them more than they knew eachother, that was definately off. And to make matters worse, she apparently had dug up their personal lives, and had everything stashed away in a that briefcase of hers. Tony was certain that couldn't be legal.

He knew for sure something was up when she skipped greetings, and pleasentries, and was now asking each team member to talk about a traumatic moment in their lives. Tony frowned. He was no therapist, but surely you couldn't skip to one extreme from the other like that, could you?

He could tell though, that McGee, who didn't exactly have anything to hide, didn't mind sharing anything with the team, and therefore wasn't suspicious. Kate was another case entirely, he could tell she probably had a few hidden skeletons in her closet, nothing too major, but enough not to want to just spout it out the second a stranger asked, but she was also a hardcore feminist, and that Dr. Dorian was a successful woman spoke to her and made Kate want to like and trust her almost instantly. Gibbs' obviously didn't like the woman, and with good reason too. Duck looked to be as suspicious as Tony, although both hid it quite well, and Abby liked the idea of being able to trust someone of the doctors profession and was also naively taken in by Dr. Dorian.

McGee had drawn the short straw and was now telling them about a traumatic moment in his lifetime, which, as everyone had already known about, was when he'd thought he'd shot a man to death. Nonetheless, everyone listened patiently and supportively. Dr. Dorian wrote notes in her pad and nodded along as he spoke.

Tony though, wasn't really listening at that point. He remembered a traumatic moment in his life-more like, a traumatic period in his life, really, and he couldn't help but think back on it. Now, it seemed like a very distant, vague nightmare.

Ten Years Ago...

Time no longer mattered, right then, it was simply a word of a thing that used to hold so much meaning in life. Now, though, the clocks don't tick, or tock, they sit there, at the edge of the room, mocking my very existence; my state of oblivion is undeniably bleak. Had it been only hours?-days?-weeks?-months?-surely it couldn't be years? That would be too unbearable, too dreadful to fathom the idea that I've lost such a vast amount of time. So much meaningless, precious time.

Inside of this box, nothing much matters, except the air that I breath and these four ivory coloured walls. At least once a day,(hour? week? month?)the walls start closing in on me, trying to devour that which is me.

And then on rare occasions, a man in a white painters suit comes into the box; and for the life of me, I can't figure out how, for there is no door in the box-only four white walls. He says his name is Fred, but I never remember, because it's not of importance in the box, and only important things can be stored in the box. Not names. Not time. Only air.

The man in white strokes the hairs on the back of my head, tells me how he wants to befriend me, and the statement is always followed up by this crocodile smile that never ever reaches those cold, reptile eyes of his. Except, he's the only real connection I have to the rest of the world, outside of this box, with plaster walls and clocks that don't tick or tock, and names that won't remain, and air that's ironically suffocating at best. The closer I let the man in white get, the more he tells me. They're always small, insignificant things, with little to no details, like who won the football game, or what celebrity married the other, or some scandal on the news about the effects of plastic surgery-things that in the right state of mind, I wouldn't give a second thought to, would rather not know, in fact. But in this box, I have no ears or eyes, or a mouth, or even a thought to spare to the world outside, not one thing except that peculiar man in white, with the petrified, distant eyes.

I indulge him, try to look enticed by the tiny bits of information he has come to me with. A thought stikes me one day, as I count the invisible tiles on the cieling, that they send the man in white to keep me intact-so that I don't go completely insane. To keep their lab rat on the edge of the cliff, push him off, only to rheel him back up again-I'm never able to enjoy the fall. It pisses me off, that they honestly believe I haven't lost my mind yet, and I decide to prove them wrong, because what do they know about the things inside my head?

The man in white comes in one morning?-night?-evening?, with that same crocodile smile glued to his lips, and my own lips quirk into this awkward, cynical thing that no sane human being would dare deem a grin. His eyes, cold and owlish, become suddenly aware, and to this day, a knawing feeling inside of me screams that he knew exactly what I was going to do, that he wanted it. But that's a lie, because fear was etched into those perfect almond eyes, and it's not the man in white who wanted it, but I. I needed, desperately needed, sweet, sweet release.

Only, I took the cowards way out, and I don't know how much later on it was, when I heard a familiar click, and near the corner of the room, I spotted a woman, in a starch vanilla lab coat, and black heels that made little echoes with every step she took.

The woman stared with what could only be described as, horrified fascination at the bloodied and mangled body of her collegue, just a few feet from her heels. I couldn't take my eyes off of her; a morbid curiousity to be a witness to her reaction at my actions stirred in the pit of my stomach, like a starving creature. After a pregnant pause.

"You're sick." she offered her two cents, and my lips quirked again. Now that I knew her thoughts, I had everywhere to look, except at the woman in her black stilettos. She was not important. Not names. Not time. Not her. Not the corpse of the man in white. Only air and eyes.

I remember reaching underneath the bed, the anticipation welling in her, the blood on my clothes, the rotten smell of death and decay, but most of all, I remember the look on her face when I pulled out two symmetrical, circular, gore-infested, almond eyes balls. My ears had rung for a long time, even after his pleas for mercy, and agonized cries had ceased, and all was silent in the box. The woman in heels, a doctor, I assumed, didn't utter one word. I don't know specifically what it was, that drove her to flee from the box. The gruesome eyes? The dead body? The crazed look in my eyes? Or did she feel it too? The walls closing in; inching centimeter by centimeter, closer and closer to crushing my body, breaking every fragile bone, scarring my skull, leaving my body unrecognizable to the naked eye.

I began to fear the worst, when all of a sudden, food became bountiful. The box never offered enough food, only a piece of bread, and some water. Were they trying to poison me? It seemed a plausible idea at the time. Then another thought occurred to me. This food was possibly just a plot fatten me up, so that I could be plump and rich, enough to cook and eat. They were cannibals, the lot of them!

That said, I didn't touch not one thing on those trays. For a long time, I ate nothing, and only drank the water, when it fizzled and popped. That meant that they'd drugged it full of sleeping pills, and I ravished for sleep more than I did for food. Insomnia had become my best friend after the first few weeks of my captivation in the box, and I lay up all night, like a paranoid nutcase, with both eyes wide open.

The buzzing, yellow light bulb, the one they never turned off, went out abruptly, and fright of the most terrible kind imaginable engulfed me whole. I had not been in darkness for so long, that this new trauma drove me to a small corner in the box, where I sat, like some cornered animal, for the longest time I can remember. I could do nothing more than rock back and forth, switching from a swaying motion, with my legs drawn up to my chest, to the fetal position.

Then there was light. And a door.

Escape.