I sat, listening. Numb. My facial muscles are pulling their weight, doing all the work I needed them to do. That she needed me to do. My lips and tongue are forming the words. That must have been so difficult for you. My forehead pinches slightly, and the corners of my mouth dip every so subtly. I force out a mini, muted sigh. She seems placated, validated. She continues on, telling me details of her recent social troubles.
I nod at some points. I force myself to pick up on words she says, to rephrase or summarise them, and say it back to her. So, your friends' short replies to your texts have been making you feel hurt and angry.
I pause when needed, I shift forward to indicate attentiveness. I smile, frown, compose a quizzical look on my face. This goes on. I’m also thinking of what’s going on. That’s a benefit of being detached and unable to feel. You think clearer. You see the patterns. I point out some behavioural patterns she’s been displaying, and how these may be contributing to her difficulties. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem to often be caught in this cycle, where you feel as if your friends don't reciprocate your efforts, you bring it up, there's conflict, you apologise and things are good for a while, and then you start feeling unappreciated again.
Soon, the session’s over. My lips curl into a smile, I look her in the eye and thank her for making the effort to get here and work with me on her difficulties today. She leaves, seemingly feeling a sense of relief at understanding her problems a little better. To perhaps go right back into the cycle and suffer again.
He walks in. I’ve never seen this patient before, it’s the first visit. He sits down, stares at me, defiance sparking in his eyes.
I clear the quiet mental sigh out of my head. I push the judgmental thoughts out. I summon as pleasant and neutral a voice as I can, and I speak.
We chat. Or rather, I talked. He stared at me. A cold, hard stare. Words left his lips like steam brimming over a lidded pot. In small hisses, and occasional eruptions.
We are midway through exploring his visible hostility. What do you think could be the reason you’re feeling this anger about being here?
He is enraged. I look at his contorted face, his spittle flicking as he throws words at me, and I try to arrange my face into something appropriate. I try to shrug off my indifference. The crushing apathy.
Another 15 minutes of talking. I feel drained. Just a while more, I think to myself. And I’ll be able to shut the door behind him, and stare blankly into the screen as my fingers type out the notes for this session. A while more. I could feel my energy seeping away with each word I utter, each concerned frown I make.
I’m not sure what’s happening. He is suddenly leaning into my face, smug cruelty glinting in his eyes. I stare at him, unmoving, for a few moments, before I realise that my pen is in his hand. And the tip is at my jugular.
A wave of relief rushes over me. This. A solution. Finally. An end. A release. I look straight into his eyes, pleading. He hesitates, a tinge of puzzlement tainting his expression.
I panic. He’s not going to do it. The disappointment hit for a split second, before I reached out, and gripped his fist. I move his fist forward. The cold metal tip of the pen greets the skin on my welcoming neck. I tense and give his hand a forceful tug. The pen sinks into my neck. That was easier than I thought. Warmth spreads across my collar, down to my chest.
He looks horrified. He’s let go of the pen. Blood laces his hand. I look at his wide open eyes and I want to comfort him. It’s okay, you can’t take responsibility for what others do. But what comes out of my mouth are soft, bubbly gurgles. I can’t speak. The pain registers.
He’s screaming for help. The room has no cameras. I start to worry. Would they know? I should let them know he didn’t do it. But I can’t speak, and the colours are fading. The light. I can’t see. All I can feel is the warm, thick liquid slowly wrapping the front of my body in a safe warm embrace.
I hope they find out he didn’t do this. I should have written a memo.