#does hypervigilence bleed into paranoia? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nyehilismwriting · 3 years

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keep the wolf from the door

2.8k words; related (loosely) to a side project I’m working on. content warnings: animal death, gore, violence, descriptions of animal butchery. (apologies for my problems disorder)

the deer falls, blood and sweat dripping down her side in rivulets of pink foam. you watch as she tumbles, legs flailing, from the rocks she had fled to for safety, the jagged shadow of the steep cliffs offering false protection from the hunter.

quite the shot.

the arrow shaft snaps as she drops, leaves the head wedged under her shoulder, protruding bloody from her ribs. you stoop to taste her blood from the rocks, granite and pine and copper and salt, pure and heady. she's a young doe, plump from the summer grazing, separated from her herd by last night's storm. a lucky catch, one that will feed a family well.

you take the arrow shaft from where it lies, chew on the feathers - owl-soft and silent, with the bitter sharpness of ash wood. the splintered edge is sharp enough to draw blood, scraps of wiry hair clinging to the wood. you taste those too, the fear and hurt, adrenaline - and beneath, the taste of the wild.

the hunter is here, now, scrambling down the slippery rocks with their bow over one shoulder. they move like a mountain goat, clinging to the damp stone with long, thin fingers, bruised knuckles and bloody fingertips. they're thin - too thin, mongrel-thin, with matted hair and hunted-wide eyes. a starving cub, chewing on roots to survive.

as they crouch to work the arrowhead free of the deer carcass, you lean in close behind them. drag your tongue up the back of their neck (and they shiver as you do so, hypervigilance driven by isolation giving them a unique paranoia) and taste their sweat, the salt and musk of their oily skin. chew on the ends of their hair, tasting the bitterness of their youth, the citrus-sharp edge of desperation. lay your hands over theirs as they skin the doe, feel the tendons flexing beneath their thin skin, the heat of their blood pulsing thickly in their arteries. feel the fine tremor as they wield their knife, hunger and exhaustion gripping their muscles tight.

when they slip, when the paring knife bites into the meat of their thumb, you lunge, lap at the fresh blood before they press their hand into their armpit, letting out a weak sob. you swallow that, too, chew on the frustration and fear and hurt.

there's something beguiling about it, the way they press down on the bleeding split on their thumb until the oozing stops, before getting stubbornly back to work. they're even shakier now, slower than ever. despite their care, the deer hide peels off the carcass uneven, streaked with gore and pitted with holes.

the hunter drops it aside with barely a blink, too worn down to care. you settle down on the discarded hide, chew on one ragged edge as they adjust their grip on their little knife and dig it into the deer's muscle. one smooth slice and the guts spill out, slippery-slick and pungent, glistening purple and convulsing in the hunter's hands. they unspool like so much reeking, rotting rope, and the hunter shoves them aside to slice through the meat of the belly. the scents of blood and feces fills the air, making your mouth water, teeth chattering together with the clatter of wings, of rocks tumbling down the hillside. once again, the hunter shivers, and you do it again, relishing in the way their head snaps up.

there's a flash of disappointment as their wide, dark eyes pass over you without a blink, scanning the trees around them. when they turn their eyes back to the half-butchered carcass, you do the same, licking your chops as the hunter plunges their hand into the stomach cavity to slice free the kidney. it comes out slippery and steaming, reeking of salt and urine and leaking blood over the glistening fingers that grasp it. they eye it for a moment, thumb pressing an indent into the rubbery organ: then, hunger surging, head light, they open their mouth and swallow it whole. close their eyes tight against the taste, the texture, and shudder as it goes down. you can't help yourself: you lean in, lick the smeared blood from their lips and chin as they fight not to retch, all but purring at the heady taste. the hunter makes a noise, the broken whimper of a sick animal, and you snap that up too, roll it over in your mouth and swallow it down still wriggling.

when they have their stomach back under control, the hunter resumes their gruesome work, slicing through tendons and membranes with exhausted determination. you stay where you are, cuddled up to them with your head on their shoulder, occasionally chewing the ends of their hair, lapping at the tears that spill from their watering eyes.

they taste good. salty, earthy. savoury - and savour them you do, enjoying every minute as they force themselves through the process, fingers growing numb with cold as the night sets in. you haven't had a meal this good in a long time (the terror of the chase, the horror of wolf jaws on bone, the primitive dread as winter sets in and the nights grow long - all are enough to keep you alive, but easy to come by and less satisfying than you'd like), and it leaves you feeling sated, satisfied, a snake basking on a rock with its prey still bulging in its stomach. the hunter, too, is enjoying what you suspect is the best meal they've had in a long time; they've made a small fire, pitiful, really, but hot enough to charr chunks of venison, fat sizzling on the rocks. they shovel the meat down straight from the fire, mouth steaming, smeared with grease and ash that you lick delicately from their skin, their lips, their burned and blistering fingertips.

they stop eating surprisingly fast - don't gorge themselves the way you'd been expecting, and you wonder if this is the first time they've been starving. when they unpack their bedroll, halfway under the shadow of the cliff and curl into a tiny ball, you give in to the temptation (for the second time - does this little hunter truly taste so good?) and slide in with them, wrap yourself in their bitter exhaustion. they dream, that night, of running hunted through the woods, blood from deep cuts flowing ribbon-like behind them.

when they wake, stomach cramping with hunger and nausea, dehydrated and shaking, you lap at the tears that leak from their eyes. cling to them as they pack up camp, like a tick on a deer’s flank, sucking greedily at their discomfort. they pack up the meat they butchered, roll up the damp, gory mess of the hide and strap it to their pack, and all the while you can’t keep to yourself, chewing on their fingertips, snapping at their hair, lapping at their skin like a starving dog. when you lean in close, breathe across their face and lick the moisture from their eyes, they freeze. so do you. they blink, slowly, the strange intimacy of their eyelashes brushing over you as they frown into the distance - then, hoarse, voice disused and creaking:

“Hello?”

that’s new. you pull back, watching them curiously as they squint through you. there’s a long, heavy moment where neither of you move, you watching them as they watch the trees. they can feel it, you know - the metallic taste of primitive dread, the horror of the hunted, coppery in the back of their mouth, oozing out through their skin. still, though you coil yourself around them, purr in their ear, drag your claws down their back, they don’t move.

it seems they can’t sense you that acutely. it’s enough to pique your curiosity nonetheless, having been a while since you met (‘met’) someone so sensitive; perhaps that’s why, when they stand, sated, and pack up their little camp, shoulder their bow, you follow them into the woods.

it's a mistake, probably, that you follow them, lodged in their shadow like a splinter, for nearly a year after that. they're alone, and hurt, and a talented hunter, and these things are aphrodisia to you. so you cling to them, spend their nights chasing them in their dreams until cold sweat and heart-pounding fear is as much a part of their daily routine as sleeping and pissing. you can’t help but wonder what their last breath will taste like, when their luck and their talent finally fail them: will it be starvation, you wonder, or a bear? a wolf, as skinny and desperate and starving as they are, dripping jaws on their throat? you speculate, as you slink in their shadow, if their corpse will taste of rot, if they’ll be as sweet in death as they are in the throes of their nightmares, thrashing and sobbing. whether it’s the last breath, tender and resigned, or the penultimate, still fighting, that will taste best. the thought consumes you as you consume them, until one day they wake up vomiting from fear, and with the acid-bile on your tongue, you swear it to yourself: you will find out.

though you try, experimenting with them the way a wolf cub chews its parent's tail (though you know the strength of your jaws and it is far greater than any cub’s), you can't get them to see you. you leer at them as they walk, crouch unseen and grotesque on the rocky shore as they bathe; you hiss and snarl and snap at the crows that draw too close to the camp, startling them and sending them clattering to the sky. your little hunter flinches each time, jerks to their feet, but their eyes are always fixed on the trees, never looking close enough, to where you coil and shiver and purr against their chest, their shoulders, their shadow.

then, one day, of course there come others. you're both squatting in the underbrush, you watching as they dig roots from the loose sandy earth with their bare, bruised hands. much to your shame, they hear it first: your little hunter goes still, wide-eyed, head cocked. they're both hunter and prey, frozen like a rabbit, eyes falcon-sharp as they watch the trees.

then you hear it, the rhythmic clank of metal, the meat-stink of well-fed men traipsing through your woods. your hunter flattens themself to the ground, bony fingers spread wide in the dirt; their stringy muscles are tense, coiled tight to fight or flee.

you scent the air, curious. the interlopers are loud, cheerful, brushing aside the woods with brutal carelessness.

you like that. ego like that is always delicious, especially broken open like eggs fallen from nests, rich salty yolk and slimy, savoury whites. you're starting to salivate, shaking like a starving mongrel (though you haven't been starving for a long time, you or your little hunter) with lips peeled back from broken teeth. your hunter is moving too, knife in their trembling hand, eyes fixed on the source of the sound.

the men are drawing closer, closer, branches snapping like bones beneath their boots. three of them, well-fed, strong, sleek muscle under quality clothes. slinking around them (keeping your little hunter in view, of course), you draw close enough to taste them, lap at their sweat and drag your fingers through their hair while they march on, oblivious. your hunter is almost flat to the earth, now, their dark hair and filthy clothes blending into the undergrowth, though the whites of their eyes are still visible, wild and panicked.

they’re almost past, voices echoing caustic from the trees, when your hunter’s nerve breaks. they twitch backwards; a twig snaps. the guillotine falls, the noose draws tight. the men turn. for a long, delicious moment, all four humans stare at one another, wide-eyed, the air crackling desert-dry.

then your little hunter turns and flees. predictable as a pack of starving dogs, the newcomers give chase, and so do you.

your hunter is faster, fleet on their feet and familiar with the woods: they hurl themselves over a fallen tree, leave skin and a smear of blood behind, and one of the men crashes hard against it, the air leaving his lungs with a whoosh.

your hunter is fast, but their pursuers are fit, well-fed, and smarter than you’d thought. you lope beside them, tongue hanging out to taste the adrenaline of the hunt, as they begin to close on your companion. the two newcomers still hot on their heels are breathing hard but steady, where your hunter is starting to hyperventilate, breath river-rock sharp in their lungs. you can taste inevitability like fresh blood in your mouth, and when your hunter stumbles-

-bone-cracking-

-leg-snapping-

-skin-tearing-sharp into the earth, tumbles head over heels down the rocks and lies motionless-

-it feels like vindication.

you shiver with anticipation as they roll onto their back, dragging their useless leg. their pain is almost overpowering, tempered only by stubborn determination as they claw their way into the underbrush, a futile attempt to hide. the pack crests the hill, faces split wide into gruesome grins as they survey their victory.

they slow, amble lazily down the hillside as your hunter spits and snarls, face twisted in pain and rage. spreading out behind the leader, a pack of wolves ready to feast; and you, too, are feasting, all but delirious in the fog of agony, bloodlust, sweat and adrenaline and bloody violence permeating in the air.

like any good pack leader, he takes his time, savors his victory; a tall man, three times as broad as your little hunter, he grins down at them with too many teeth, a knife between his meaty hands. stoops, presses a hand to the oozing wound on their leg where you can see red bone protruding; your hunter screams as he leans hard on it, grits their teeth against the grinding grating agony. you watch, curious, as the blood drains from their face, eyelids fluttering as their body fights to pass out, to die to avoid further ruin. they don’t, though, keep their wide dark eyes fixed on their tormentor’s face even as something new snap-shatters in their leg.

the man leans in, unsatisfied with the response. removes his hand, now stained red and glistening, from the wound, and reaches instead for their face.

your hunter moves. there’s a wet squelch, a gurgling. blood splatters their face, sprayed from the man’s throat. soaks their hand, still shaking on the handle of the knife the hunters had forgotten to check for. you start to laugh, the sound as harsh as grating bone, cawing crows, as the man slumps to the floor, the stink of urine filling the air. your little hunter turns their eyes on his companions as the body tumbles twitching into the dirt, and you can’t mistake the challenge there. it's futile; you all know it, and it makes you laugh harder, a wretched rasping that none of them hear, your hunter showing their bones to the sky, their back to the earth.

despite your laughter, as the two remaining start to move in on your wounded hunter, expressions dark with fury, discomfort prickles at you. they’ve been a good meal, a constant source of fear and fury over the past months; and more than that, entertainment, someone to watch, to toy with. are you willing to give that up, yet?

your answer comes blinding like lightning, shattering you down the centre like a struck tree. you look down at your hunter-

-your feast of the past months-

-dying in the dirt-

-and they look back at you.

see you.

and you have been feeding from them so long now it doesn't take contact to feel their desperation, their hand twitching as they reach for you, begging, pleading-

-offering.

the interlopers are closing in, and your little hunter sees you, doe eyes desperate as their killers draw close.

so when they lunge, you do too. when their hands close, so do yours - and when they scream, teeth in their spine and claws in their chests, you howl with a voice not your own, drinking down blood and salt and terror, bone fragments lodged between your teeth and their hearts convulsing in your hands. thin hands, shaking with exhaustion, a scar on the pad of one thumb. the pain in your leg is dulled by your presence, easy to ignore as you bite deeper, tendons snapping and sinew stretching as blood splashes up your chest.

the world looks very different through these eyes. your vision is blurred, wet, colours smudged across the landscape, a gore-streaked deer hide poorly removed. your hands are shaking, your leg (and pain is a new thing to feel for yourself, as used as you are to tasting it on the skin of others) a throbbing beacon of agony. your tongue sits heavy and leaden in your mouth, your chest tight - and it’s then that you realise you’re breathing, panting, saliva wet in your mouth and in your throat.

your hunter’s voice echoes inside their head as they speak, the first words you’ve heard them say out loud since that day in the clearing.

“I knew you were there-”

and their satisfaction glows briefly, sweet as glacier water, as autumn apples. then the world goes dark.

#always feel...sneaky posting non sentinel writing on here #but it's my blog and i can do what i want #stomps my feet #anyway yes here.....is a Thing #writing #not sentinel #fucked with some formatting again so hopefully it doesn't look like garbage on mobile #pls check the cws!!

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punishandenslavesuckers · 7 years

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A Joan Bright character study. Assume Joan takes a less passive approach to Damien’s influence in her life. Assume she’s sitting in her car with the engine running and he’s on the sidewalk in front of her. Assume there’s six months between this moment and the moment she first met him. (ao3)

PRESENT DAY:

He’s not very careful.

Why would he be careful? No one would ever hurt him, right? Ever. How could they bear to bring him harm?So he’s walking to the beach alone at night, cutting through the bad part of town. Joan wonders if chemicals have an effect on his power; if she drugged him or got him drunk or just hit him over the head, would he not be able to focus enough? Or would his panic make him stronger? Could she disable him? If so, what then?Dope him and… then what, Batwoman? Keep him tied up in your basement?

Give him to the AM.

Give him to Ellie.

Ellie would tear him apart. Easy. She’d disassemble the mechanics of his personality at a glance. She’d crack him open and engineer his brutal deconstruction. His reconstruction. His surgically designed weaponization and... Joan grips the steering wheel and watches Damien’s back. He’s drinking a soda, watching a bonfire from the edge of the parking lot. He’s illuminated by the street lamp, dressed in the same jeans he was wearing during his session. But the jacket is nicer. Not the hoodie he wore to see her. Is he trying to look normal?

She thinks about running him down. Let’s the idea live in her for a while. Let’s it breathe.

(Not here though. This isn’t the opportunity. A road somewhere, a lonely curve of highway along a guardrail or a wall. It takes so little trauma to break the fragile machines that keep a heart beating, a brain lit up. Bleeding out internally, ribs crushed along the flank -- that would do it. Make it solid hit and run. It would have to be done right the first time. There would be no circling back.)

He’s leaning against a wood fence. A man passing him toward the beach stops and turns to talk to him. Damien glances at the man, shakes his head. The man’s expression in the lamp light is confused and a little desperate. He’s got a beer in one hand. Tipsy. She can’t see what Damien’s response is with his back to— what the hell? The other man drops his beer and yanks Damien forward, gripping his head, thumbs hooked up behind his jaw. He pulls Damien into what looks like a sloppy but violent kiss, drawing in close, hungry, almost frantic… which looks especially terrifying compared to Damien’s complete and utter unresponsiveness. Damien stands rigid, hands clenched, jaw tight, shoulders set back until—

The man lets go abruptly. Damien just stares at him.

Joan watches the drunk man’s expression resolve into confusion, then mortification.

He mouths, “I’m sorry. God. Sorry.” And then he stumbles up the beach.

Damien bends down and picks up his dropped soda can from the sand. He stays crouching down there for a while, hair sticking up where the man gripped and pulled it. Eventually, he takes a drink of soda, swishes it around, and spits it out. He tosses the can onto the beach and walks away from the beach back toward the main road. She waits, then puts her car in gear and follows.

SESSION ONE:

Sarah lets him in without a scheduled appointment, something which Joan does not largely tolerate except in the most urgent of circumstances. This means, either the client has expressed intent to hurt themselves or something has set off Sarah’s remarkable intuition as to a person’s need or vulnerability. (Joan particularly trusts Sarah’s intuition. Sarah’s intuition is top notch.)

So she’s willing to give the benefit of the doubt when a man in jeans and a hoodie steps through the door of her office and quietly closes it behind him. This would be less suspicious if he weren’t doing everything physically possible to look suspicious—keeping his head down, wearing his hood over his eyes, standing there slowly looking around her office as though taking stock of exits and entrances. Joan posits a few possibilities paranoia, hypervigilance, social anxiety, or (especially since Sarah let him in without an appointment) perhaps even suicidal intent.

Joan, still seated in her arm chair, says, “Hello.”

The man at the door slides his hands into his pockets.

“Hey.” He keeps his head down. “You’re… a therapist right?”

“I am. I’m Doctor Joan Bright.”

“I’m Damien.”

“Damien. Nice to meet you. You’re not on my schedule, but Sarah says you have an emergency of sorts?” Joan waits, hoping he’ll volunteer information.

He does not.

“She wouldn’t elaborate, so I have to assume it’s fairly serious. Are you thinking of harming yourself or others, Damien?”

“Huh? Oh… uh.” He shrugs and starts walking around the room. “Yeah. I guess.”

Joan notes it: the slight surprise, almost as if he’s bored. He’s lying. He’s not suicidal; he just wanted in the door. Strange. Unless she’s missing something, her gut says he’s a tourist of some kind, or…

“I’m glad you came in today then, Damien. I want you to know that you’re safe here. You can talk to me.” She waits to see how this lands with her new client. When he continues to simply pace the perimeter of her office, she maintains a gentle tone and rejoins, “Would you like to sit down?”

He’s picking a book off her shelf by the window. “I’m okay.”

Joan stands up. “Then I hope you don’t mind if I stretch my legs too?”

He turns his head. When he does this, she gets a good look at his face and the bland look of surprise. Quick assessment: Between twenty-five and thirty years of age (Mark’s age, he’s about Mark’s age.) but he seems young somehow. Or maybe it’s just the expression he’s making, or his haircut (unkempt, dark, curling in his eyes a little, a kind of teenager-like disregard for personal appearance). Doesn’t look like he washed his hair or his face today—a possible sign of depression or something else? Hoodie is old, worn, holes cut into the wrist for his thumbs. (Comfort clothes; it looks like he slept in them.) Jeans are also worn in, almost threadbare. Shoes are expensive.

He says, “Sure, Doc.”

“What brought you here today, Damien?” Joan hooks her hands behind her back and paces slightly, not toward him but idly around the room, mirroring him. “Did you want to talk?”

“Kinda. I’m just, you know, lost and stuff.”

“And stuff?” Joan repeats, tone measured.

He grins. “Ah, you’re gonna call me on it right away.”

Joan maintains eye contact, silently watching until he’s ready to speak.

“I wanna talk,sure. But I don’t think I’ll feel comfortable doing that until I know a bit about you.”

“I see.” (She internally notes the manipulation -- a function of narcissism, a defense mechanism, or something else.) “Well, I don’t usually sign new clients like this, Damien, but I suppose I can give you the benefit of the doubt. If you needed to speak to someone this badly, then it must be important to you.” Joan stops pacing, sliding her hands into the pockets of her pantsuit.

Damien’s watching her, waiting.

“This practice is about a year old. My credentials are listed on the way in, and I have references if you’d like to check them. However, my personal information is not necessarily useful to your recovery. Does that make sense?”

“But how can I trust you if I don’t know anything about you?”

“I’m a professional. You can trust me with anything. I’m legally bound to protect your secrets, barring any major crimes, past or future…”

“Nah. Not a major crimes kinda guy.”

“Then you should have nothing to fear from me.”

“Can you tell me something about you though? Your favorite color?”

“I could tell you that, of course, but to what end, Damien? My personal life is not important or relevant to helping you. It could even be distracting or detrimental.”

Damien tilts his head at her. He’s facing her now, one of her books open in his hand, but he’s looking directly at her. Maintaining fearless eye contact. Surprising. She wouldn’t have thought he’d be the eye contact sort.

“Most therapists will tell you that it’s not appropriate… to…”

His eyes are very dark. Very focused. Joan blinks.

“Um…”

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“No I just… Blue. My favorite color is blue.”

“Cool.”

“Damien, I should be up front. I specialize in… a very specific field of psychology. Did you… find me in the paper? Most of my clients do.”

“Nah. You were listed in the business registry.”

“Ah. Then, maybe I can refer you to a more general practice?”

“No, I like you. I want to talk. You’re… well, you have a little backbone.”

“How so, Damien? What makes you say that?”

“The other therapists. They just told me whatever they thought I wanted to hear.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Therapy is often an imprecise practice. A process. You shouldn’t let that discourage you, though.It’s just a matter of finding someone with the right approach. Perhaps someone to challenge your positions? Provide contrast?”

He thinks about it. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“I have a list of very tough customers I could refer you to.”

“I’m a bit… wary of new therapists to be honest. The last couple were pretty fucked up.”

Joan mentally backs up a step, re-assessing Damien’s tone and previous statements. “Are you saying that your previous therapists were inappropriate, Damien?”

He shrugs. “Some of them.”

“I… I’m very sorry to hear that. Do you want to discuss that?”

“Huh? Oh, wait, no, no, no. Like, not like that. They didn’t do anything, just… said things.”

“Nevertheless, I can see why you might be hesitant to trust another professional in my field if so many have disappointed you previously. Do you think there’s a reason so many therapists are unable to help you?”

“I have that effect.”

“Can you unpack that? What do you mean?”

“People make bad decisions around me. They can’t help it. Even pros like you.”

Joan considers the possibility that he’s lying, sets it aside. “You persuade people into bad decisions? Or you feel there’s some quality you possess that causes people to act a certain way?”

“A bit of both honestly. I definitely goad people into it sometimes, but a lot of times people just… do what they do because I’m there. Even when I’m not trying.”

“Damien, other people’s behavior is not your responsibility. If people behave badly, then they make that decision themselves. You are not responsible for other people’s actions—only your own. Some things are our fault, and we should take responsibility for them. But not everything is our fault. Knowing where your personal responsibility for others ends and begins is crucial to understanding your place in the world.”

Damien’s staring at her. He looks surprised again, but in a tired way.

“Yeah, I’d love to know that,” he says.

She’s struck a nerve of some kind. She presses a little, gently.

“Do you blame yourself for the actions of others?”

“No. It’s their fault. I don’t do anything. I’m just there.”

“Does it upset you? What people do around you?”

“I mean, I guess, kinda, if they do something really bad. But hey, it’s not my fault. Like you said, people do what they do, and I’m not responsible.”

“That’s not exactly what I said. I said there a limit to our responsibility in the actions of others. You said that people sometimes do bad things around you? Like what?”

“I… I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. What would you like to talk about?”

“You.”

“Very well. What do you want to know?”

Damien is leaning against her desk, the one in front of the windows, by her bookshelves. She doesn’t… like that’s he’s doing that.

“Would you like to sit down?” She gestures toward the armchairs in the middle of the room. “It’s more comfortable.”

“Sure, Doctor B.”

He pushes away from the desk and moves across the room. She sits in her arm chair and watches him drop as if boneless into the seat across from her. There’s a coffee table between them, with a pitcher of water and a stack of paper cups on top of it. A box of tissues. A tiny wicker basket with knickknacks for fidgeters. A few stress balls. A tiny stuffed panda. Damien examines the contents of the wicker basket, and Joan examines him. He slouches, knees apart, elbows on the arm of the chair. Very… open. Disrespectful, in her opinion. Deliberately too casual. He’s trying too hard.

“So tell me,” he says before she can say anything. “Why did you want to be a psychologist?”

“Damien, I don’t think…”

Joan stops, jolted by a sudden unexpected longing , almost painful in its intensity. Like a wire around her heart. She blinks, laying a palm against her thigh for a moment, hoping it will pass like nausea, like a headache, like any other myriad passing passions but it persists. It persists . Why? What is --? She looks up.

Damien smiles at her.

“Well, I like knowing how people tick. The human mind is interesting, how it responds to the world. I’ve always loved seeing what people do and puzzling out why they do it. I’m particularly fascinated by human responses to extreme situations and unusual circumstances. The human capacity for evolution and adaptation is incredible, and nothing makes me appreciate the world quite like finding those new and strange ways that our species keeps changing.”

Damien laughs. “Wow. That’s way more interesting than the others.”

“Thank you, but what do you mean?”

“All the other shrinks said dumb shit, like how they thought crazy people were interesting, they didn’t know to do after college, or they just like helping people. Heh. A couple said they kinda get off on knowing people’s, like, deepest fuckin’ fears and traumas and stuff. You’re the only one who said something interesting. I like ya, Doc.”

“That’s… your therapists said that to you?”

“Yeah.”

“They admitted to enjoying their patients’ pain?”

“Oh yeah, one schmuck almost got a woody just talking about it. I left pretty quick.”

“Damien, that’s horrific. I can’t imagine why a therapist would tell you something like that. That’s incredibly inappropriate, not to mention traumatizing for a patient! You should be able to trust that your therapist has your best interests at heart.”

“Aw, you’re nice.”

“I’m serious. What that therapist did was completely unethical. If you want, I could help you make a complaint to the licensing board.”

“Nah. I don’t think he’ll have a career much longer. He may or may not have reported himself before I left. I call that my good deed for the month. Plus, he said some really gross shit to me so, like, fuck that guy.”

“Wait, he… confessed to what he did? Why?”

Damien picks the panda up from her coffee table. “He wanted to.”

“I don’t… understand. You just implied you had something to do with it. Did you convince him to confess?”

“Don’t worry about it, Doctor B. Why don’t you tell me about your most interesting patient?” He tosses the panda like a softball from hand to hand. “You said you specialize in abnormal psychology, right? Gotta be some cool stories there.”

“I… that breaks confidentiality. I can’t talk about any of my current or previous patients.”

“Ah, but I can tell you want to. C’mon. I won’t tell. Besides, you want me to trust you right?”

“I do. I… okay.” Joan sits forward, smoothing the fabric of her pants a little to fold her hands on her knees. “Honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to about this kind of thing... My most interesting client came in suffering from a high-level control loss of… let’s call it a skill. She would often find herself involuntarily using her ability and causing great harm to others.”

“Like… wait, what do you mean? Was she like a sleepwalking martial artist?”

Joan laughs. “Kind of. That’s a good analogy. Let’s go with that.”

He grins. “Okay.”

“You mentioned sleepwalking. That’s actually the interesting thing. We found that she practiced lucid dreaming, you see. She had personal fantasies about using her abilities on people but would never actually do so in reality. So, she instead trained herself to dream lucidly so she could act out her desires while asleep and never harm anyone.”

“She… had fantasies about hurting people?”

“She was a detective. Several criminals were able to evade punishment, and it made her very angry. She wanted to kill and hurt these men, but she knew it was wrong, so she instead channeled her rage into fantasy. When she realized what she was doing, her guilt only escalated the incidents. She became self-destructive. To resolve the involuntary sleepwalking, we had to work through her anger and guilt. She was… is a remarkable woman. She’s gotten her life back, and I’m proud to say is out there doing an exemplary job once again.”

“Whoa. That’s fuckin’ cool, Doctor B.”

“Yes. One of my favorite cases, like I said. It’s been a while since I talked about it.”

“Don’t shrinks have shrinks?”

“Yes, but not me.” She sees Ellie, suddenly, looking at her from across a desk. Her smile. Familiar. Warm. It doesn’t reach her eyes. Joan shakes her head slightly. “It’s impossible now.”

“Why?”

“My work is too sensitive, and those who are available and qualified to be my therapist... I could never trust them. It’s a conundrum.”

“Sound lonely.”

“I… I suppose. Yes.”

“You know…” Damien props his chin in one hand, elbow on the arm of his chair. “You can talk to me if you want, Doctor Bright.”

“I shouldn’t. I… don’t think I should have told you that story.”

“Just don’t use names. Besides, don’t you want someone to talk to?”

“I do.” Christ, do I want to. “But this goes against my code.”

“Huh… wow. You must feel really strongly about that.” Damien clears his throat and sits forward, as if giving her his full attention. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk to me about it? I mean… you said how nice it was right? It’s been a while. I mean, I like listening, and I think it might help, you know, with my recovery or whatever. Like reverse therapy or something.”

“I’m glad to hear you’d like to be a patient here but we’ve only just met, and I’m not sure I’m the appropriate psychologist for you. Like I said, I’m very specialized.”

“Like… what? Psychopaths? Trauma victims?”

“No. My specialization is people with… unusual circumstances. What I do is akin to being an in-house psychologist for, say, covert operatives for the government. There are some things my patients can only tell me; no other therapist would have the experience to help them cope with their unique experiences.”

“That’s interesting. A bit vague though…”

“I can’t share any other details about my practice.”

“Whoa.” Something ghosts the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile, not quiet. “Hard stop on that. Nice.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Why can’t you tell me?”

“I… don’t get me wrong. I want to tell you. A lot, actually… but I can’t. It would endanger my other patients and, potentially, even you. What I know and with whom I work is very complicated.”

Damien frowns. “It could endanger me?”

“Yes, if someone found out I had told you anything. I am truly sorry for sharing what I already did. I don’t know why I…”

“Don’t worry about it, Doctor B. So, wait, you’re like a shrink for… cops and secret agents or something?”

“Or something.”

“Iiiiiinteresting. So like, real black ops stuff?”

“In a way, yes. That’s why I’m reluctant to share too much. That and, again , therapeutic confidentiality.”

“Yeah, you’re really hung up on that stuff.”

“I would love to help you, Damien, but again my specialty isn’t –”

“Don’t worry about that; just be my doctor. I think you want to.”

“I… you’re not… well, I guess I could make an exception. If other therapists have failed you so completely, maybe something different would be good. I could… yes. I suppose I could be your therapist. Maybe pro bono work, since you fall outside my usual client base?”

“Capital idea. Thanks, Doctor B. You’re an angel.”

“No trouble at all. I… yes, I want to.”

“Hey, it’s been real. Why don’t I get something on Sarah’s schedule and we’ll do this again?”

“Of course.” Joan stands up, smiling. “It was good to meet you. Until then.”

“Yeah. Until then.”

SESSION TWO:

“What is this, Damien?”

“Hanger steak with red wine sauce. I made too much.”

Joan stares, perplexed, while Damien digs around the interior of a brown paper shopping bag and unearths a series of tin-foil covered plates, still radiating heat and wafting faintly the scent of red meat and shallots. He shoves the other things on her coffee table aside to make room and sets a plate down in front of her, then one in front of him. He digs again, produces what appear to be napkin-wrapped silverware. Her office smells mouth-watering within seconds.

“Damien.”

He ignores her.

Damien removes the tin foil from both plates and sits down cross-legged on the other side of the coffee table. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that says, neutrally, FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK with his torn jeans and boots. He looks a little healthier lately, like he’s showering. His skin a little darker. Less oily. Like he’s getting sun. He starts stabbing the fragrant hollandaise-dripped asparagus with a real silver fork and eating it with a kind of joyless focus.

Joan watches him chew in silence for about thirty seconds.

“Damien, what are you doing?”

“Eating. Like I said, I made too much.” He pours himself a cup of water from her ice-water pitcher on the table. “I can talk and eat at the same time, you know.”

“I refuse to believe you don’t know how strange this is.”

“I do, but I made too much. Seems a shame to waste a $200 piece of meat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He gives her a look .

Suddenly it seems essential she at least try it. Joan picks up the extra set of silverware and spears a small cut of steak from the edge of the plate, tapping it gently to wipe away the excess red sauce. She’s in a skirt and heels and therefore refuses to sit on the floor. She just leans forward in her arm chair and carefully takes a single bite and chews. She pours herself a cup of water and drinks that.

“Well?” Damien says.

“It’s good,” she replies. That’s an understatement. It’s quite good, but she’s annoyed with him.

“Honestly?”

“Yes, Damien. Honestly. But if I’m being entirely honest, this is highly irregular. I would prefer if you didn’t bring food to our sessions like this. Coffee is one thing but this… is distracting.”

She stares at him.

He stares back.

She pokes her fork at another bite. “I will eat, but you need to tell me a little more about how you’re doing. If we’re going to have an honest dialogue, then we should start with the basics.”

“What do you want to know?”

“How about you tell me a summary of yourself? If you had to quickly summarize what and who you are and only had a few sentences, how would you do that? Or does that exercise sound impossible?”

He thinks about it. “I do whatever I want.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, if I had to sum it up. I do whatever I want.”

Joan looks at the expensive food on her coffee table, somewhat drily. “Do you think that habit has a negative impact on your life or does this perceived freedom make you happy?”

Damien laughs, loudly. “Oh, fuck no, it doesn’t make me happy.”

Joan notes that. Sounded real that time, less posturing condescension. She would hazard it’s the first honest thing he’s said.

She sits forward. “Most people would say that the freedom to do whatever they want is a life goal, a dream. You’re saying you feel that you’ve achieved this, but it’s not fulfilling? You’re not happy?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Why is that?”

He shrugs, jamming another asparagus into his mouth.

“Do you know what would make you happy, Damien?”

He rotates the fork between his fingers, the tines making an unpleasant whining sound against the plate. “I dunno. Never thought about it really.” He stops spinning the fork. “I guess it would be nice to talk to someone about this stuff. Not, you know, a therapist. I mean, someone who gets it. Who could do stuff with me.”

“Do don’t have friends or family you can confide in?”

“No.”

“Do you feel lonely then, Damien?”

“That’s a bit dramatic. I just get bored.”

“Hmm. This is not universally true, but generally people want people to feel things for them, to knowledge their experiences. Understand them. It’s difficult to feel understood when we feel alone. Do you think having others who understood you… might make you happier?”

Damien looks annoyed. “So I’m sad because I’m lonely. That’s your prognosis?”

“No, Damien. I’m still getting to know you. I wouldn’t claim to know why you feel the way you do. I’m hoping we can figure that out.” Joan pauses a moment, then sits forward to pick up her fork and eat a bit of asparagus. “You said you weren’t happy. I didn’t assume you were sad simply because of that.”

“If you’re not fuckin’ happy, you’re sad, Doc.”

“Not always. It’s possible to simply be neutral. Not distressed, but… perhaps unchallenged or listless. When I first met you, you said you were ‘lost’. Now, that might have just been touch of sarcasm on your part…” She meters this with smile to assure him she’s mostly joking. “But I have to ask: do you feel that you’re just a little directionless or… do you actually feel sad?”

“I’m not sad. I’m frustrated.” He’s speaking with his mouth full. He takes a minute to chew and swallow. “Every year or so, I get sick of just doing things on my own and try to… talk someone. It’s like I’ve got fuckin amnesia. Like it’s gonna be different this time. But in the end, no one really wants to be around me, they just… reflect. It’s hard to give a shit about people when they’re just, like, parroting your own fuckin thoughts back at you, right?”

Joan frowns, dipping a bit of steak in hollandaise. “You’re saying you’re good at… persuading people to your point of view? Am I understanding right?”

He laughs a little, propping his chin in his hand, elbow resting on the coffee table. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“Do you think you’re looking for someone to challenge you then?”

He frowns. “Never thought about it like that but… sure. Yeah.”

“You said ‘every year or so’. Are you saying you don’t talk to people very much or in depth because they disappoint you? Do you mean that literally or…?”

“I don’t literally not talk to people for years. Maybe… months at a time. Sometimes.”

“Can I challenge you not to do that, Damien?”

He blinks at her. “What do you mean?”

“You might be surprised or comforted to know that is a very common sentiment to feel misunderstood or alone.” Joan shrugs. “Connecting with people can be… difficult. It can be very hard to find like-minded individuals who understand us. In fact, not everyone even requires the company or validation of others to be happy or fulfulled, but generally humans are social animals. I’d hazard it’s not healthy to shut off human connection like that. Unless you feel otherwise? That being alone makes you happier or calmer?”

“I don’t have social anxiety, Doc. Society just doesn’t hold a lot of appeal for me.”

“Society seldom holds appeal for many people, Damien. It’s usually the individuals we find within the whole of society that make societal contracts worth keeping. Developing trust takes time and effort. Earning confidence and a view into the private face of others… that’s hard. That does not mean we should give up on seeking those connections.”

“So it’s my fault no one understand me because I don’t talk to enough people?”

“No, but I would submit it’s hard to get to know people if you shut yourself up for months.”

“Doc, you might not be understanding how difficult it is for someone like me to find… uh, common ground with others. My odds are lower than the average schmuck.”

“What do you mean?”

“There just aren’t people like me.”

“What do you mean? People who feel lonely? People who like to cook expensive food and bring the left over to their therapists?” She levels a look at him when he smirks. “People with dark hair? People who are frustrated or misunderstood or play… I don’t know, video games? Do you play video games?”

He snorts. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

“Yes, precisely. Who doesn’t? I would hazard there are things about you that are very unique, combinations of experience and facets of emotion that are singular to you and in that… yes, you may be alone. Truly. So is everyone. That fact is there are many more things that make us similar and, perhaps, focusing on that may make the world seem less… hostile.”

“That’s pretty good advice, Doctor B. Not sure it applies to my… particular situation.” He folds his arms on the table and drops his chin onto them, staring up at her. “You ever take it yourself?”

“I like to think so.”

“Hmm, really though?”

Joan means to say that it hardly matters what she does, but she she says is, “No, not really. I do not maintain a social life outside of my therapy work. I find it useless.” Then, because the words have escaped and she cannot grab them and stuff them back in her mouth where her damn patient can’t hear them… she clears her throat. “But… that does not mean you should do what I do. I find solitude relaxing. I have never needed much company.”

Damien grins. “ Really , though?”

“Well, actually, I would prefer the company of like-minded people, but like I said, it’s hard to find them.” Joan attempts to end the sentence there, but additional color bubbles up. “Or rather, those I’ve found who are like-minded are also awful people who I wouldn’t spend a single solitary minute with unless forced at hypothetical gunpoint.” She sits there, vaguely aware of a headache forming behind her eyes. “I honestly don’t know why I told you that. I don’t imagine you found that helpful.”

Damien’s grin is ear to ear. “Ohhh, I dunno. I feel a lot better.”

“I apologize.”

“Don’t. It’s nice to know my therapist is human… and that fortune cookie advice about love and friendship should be taken with a grain of salt.”

“All advice should have a grain of salt with it.” Joan sighs. “I did not at all mean to imply that my personal habits are in anyway something you should model. My isolationist tendencies are not one of my better qualities, Damien.”

“Sure, Doctor B.”

“Damien, while I may not follow my own advice, that does not mean it’s not sound advice. It simply means I’m not currently in a position to follow it. Perhaps I will in the future. You are not me. You can make moves to change your circumstances immediately if you would like to. It’s your decision to make.”

“Yeah, I’ll just walk out there and because I’m thinking positive, things will be fine.”

“No. But if you walk out there and try, the odds improve that you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

“Sounds like bullshit, Doc.”

Joan sits back folding her hands. “Don’t knock it until you try it, Damien.”

“I have tried. I told you.”

“And I hate to be honest, but you will need to keep on trying.”

“So why don’t you? What’s stopping you , Doc?”

“What I do is not important. You shouldn’t fixate on… on what I’m…” Joan closes her eyes, exhales through her nose. “Actually, the reason I don’t maintain friendships presently is simply that there is no one else out there I can share my secrets with. Any relationship I have would be a pretense based on my forever screening them from a part of my life that is absolutely core to myself. What I do, my work -- I love my work. I would even say it defines me. And yet, I cannot talk about it. So what is the point?”

Damien smiles. He stands up. He grabs his jacket and says, “I know right?”

Then he walks out of her office. He does, however, book another session for later in the month.

Joan buys a bottle of very expensive scotch later that evening.

SESSION FIVE:

Joan is looking for her car keys when it occurs to her.

“I think he stole my panda.”

Sarah, seated at the front desk looking immaculately put together and focused on her work, looks up from her day planner and says, “Oh no. Mr. Black-Black?”

Joan looks up from her purse. “The stuffed panda does not have a name.”

“Yes, he does. It’s Mr. Black-Black. Who stole him?”

“Damien, I think.”

“Ugh. Of course.”

Joan gives Sarah a look .

“Sorry. He drives me crazy. He missed his appointment today. Again . No courtesy call. And, you know, the first time he came in… I’m pretty sure he said that suicide line because I’m legally obligated to send him back if he makes that kind of threat. Also: I’ve never messed up patient’s paperwork like that before. I don’t know where my brain goes when he starts talking to me. It’s aggravating. So I find him aggravating. He’s ruined my reputation as the perfect secretary.”

“Nonsense. This place would burn to the ground without you.”

“I know, Joan. I’m essential. That doesn’t mean I have to like him.” Sarah sips her early-evening latte. Her perfect fingernails sparkle iridescent in the waiting room light. “Didn’t he show up to his last session late with fast food then literally leave before you even sat down?”

“McDonalds. He has thing with food, I… Nevermind. Just try to get his information down next time.”

“Joan. Sorry.” Sarah grimaces, nose wrinkling. “Could you ask him to fill it out? I… I am serious about my not being able to focus around him. It’s been twice in a row. Maybe if you do it, he won’t circle around the issue? I know it’s literally my job but I genuinely can’t seem to get it together when he walks in. He kind of blows right by me.”

“Oh. Well, if you’re that worried about it.” Joan frowns at the little purple orchid on Sarah’s desk. Sarah, immutable and unflinching Sarah, can’t get a patient to fill out basic paperwork. It makes something… squirm in her brain. “Give me the intake sheet. I’ll get him to fill it out next time he’s in.”

Sarah hands it over, slowly. “Are you okay, Joan?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You just seem like maybe you need someone to ask that question. Barring that, is there anything I can do? Get scented candles for the office? Pick up more of your favorite tea?” She smiles brightly, having reached the end of her ‘sensible and pragmatic’ list. “Set you up with a smoking hot yoga instructor?”

Joan plucks the file from Sarah’s fingers, a smile twitching at her mouth. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No. I’m saying you deserve nice things.”

“Appreciated. No thank you. You could, perhaps, pick up more flowers for around the waiting room. I think a few of my patients like them.”

“No, Joan. I was asking what things you like.”

“I like making my patients more comfortable.”

“Fine. But I’m getting you those little scone things you like.”

“Very well.”

Sarah pumps her fist once, minutely, in victory. “Yes.”

“I’m going to tidy up a few things before I head home. If you want to go, just flip the sign on your way out.”

“Okay. Don’t stay late. Go home and relax.”

“Have a good evening, Sarah.”

Joan smiles and makes to turn back to her office, stopping when she hears Sarah in the hall.

She’s saying, loudly, “Oh, uh, you’re late.”

Joan turns in time to see Damien – dressed in black, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand, grinning – set his hand against the door by Sarah’s shoulder and push it open a little wider. When he does this, he briefly comes in slightly too close in the process before stepping past Joan’s secretary into the foyer. Sarah, who looks down at Damien when in flats and presently sports a pair of platform pumps, glares down at him from her impressive tower of pink sweater vested dislike. She folds her arms, making to follow him.

“I can reschedule you. We’re closed.”

Joan sets her purse down behind Sarah’s desk and tucks her notebook under her arm, waiting, brow arched.

Damien, entering the waiting room, smiles at her. “Hey, Doctor B.”

“You’re late. This office is closed.”

“Not to me, surely.”

“Don’t call her Shirley,” says Sarah automatically then looks sorry when Joan shoots her a look. “Doctor Bright, do you want me to stay? I can stay.” She’s headed toward her post behind the desk already. “It’s fine,” she says.

“No, Sarah. It’s okay.” Joan gives Damien a long sideways stare. “I will close up. It’s not a problem.”

Sarah takes her seat anyway, picking up a pen. “I have some work I want to finish.”

Joan, who knows Sarah has no work whatsoever to finish, nods neutrally. “If you feel strongly about it. Then okay.”

Sarah nods, eyes Damien, then goes back to scribbling something on a sticky note.

“Your secretary seems… defensive,” says Damien, once they’re safely in Joan’s office. He takes a seat in his usual armchair and has a long sip of whatever he’s drinking. The name on the cup says, Katie. “She not like me?”

“She doesn’t like it when patients are late or don’t call ahead.” Joan takes her seat across from Damien and tugs the intake sheet from the folder beneath her arm, shaking it out. “You didn’t fill out your paperwork last time. Please do so.” She slides the paper and a pen across the coffee table. “If you want to be my patient, I need you on file.”

Damien continues drinking Katie’s Starbucks order, looking at the paper but making no move to fill it out.

“Is there something wrong?” Joan says, crossing her legs and waiting.

“Nah. Sure thing.” Damien sits forward, sets his drink down and scribbles some info down on in the blank spaces. He finishes with unlikely speed, then sits back and picks his drink up again. From the faint scent, it’s some variety of cloyingly sweet mocha something. He shrugs. “There ya go.”

Joan picks up the paper. “You didn’t put your full name... or your address.”

He shrugs again. “Problem?”

“I… no. Actually, it’s fine.”

“Great. Hey, doc, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Damien, can we talk about your tardiness before we move on? You were supposed to come in at three today. It’s almost five thirty now. Is there a reason you couldn’t make your usual time?”

“I just got caught up with something. You don’t mind do you?”

“No, I don’t mind. I think we’ve established that you’re… not entirely like the rest of my patients, but I would prefer if you give Sarah a courtesy call when you can’t make your appointments. You can inconvenience me, but not my staff. Is that understood?”

Damien smirks. “So you admit I’m special?”

“No, Damien, you’re just more high maintenance.”

“Ha!”

“What did you want to talk about today?”

“I dunno.” He studies her. “What do you want to talk about?”

She maintains neutrality. “This is your session, Damien.”

“Yeah, I know, but sometimes I get the feeling you look forward to these talks as much as I do.” He sips his drink then laughs. “Oh, c’mon , Doctor B. You can tell me. I think we’ve established, like you said, that our doctor-patient relationship’s gone a bit sideways. I think it’s a two-way street, yeah?”

Joan sighs.

“Damien, while I admit that I’ve allowed personal information into these conversations -- mostly at your insistence -- the point of these conversations is your mental health and well being. So these sessions are yours. We can talk about whatever you think would be most helpful to discuss. Whatever’s been on your mind.”

“Kay, so you circled around that. Be honest: You like talking to me or not?”

Joan sighs again, more for effect.

“Damien, you are by far my most challenging, demanding, and aggravating patient. You know that. You’ve asked me dozens of times and for whatever reason, I feel you can handle me telling you that.” She lets the statement stand for a moment. Then sits back in her seat, flipping her hair over her shoulder in annoyance. “But, I admit, I can talk more freely to you than I have anyone else in a long time. I personally have no idea why you haven’t gone to another therapist. This is highly unorthodox.”

Damien grins over the top of his Starbucks lid and shrugs. “Hey, even therapists need therapists.”

“You’re not a therapist, Damien.”

“Yeah but… talking about stuff helps, right?”

Joan says nothing for a moment. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

Damien’s brow knits slightly. “So… do you actually like talking me or…?”

“Sometimes. Mostly talking to you is frustrating but… I do look forward to a chance to simply be honest about things from time to time.” She shrugs. “This arrangement is beneficial to me, I think. A mutual therapy if you like. I do appreciate your being a sounding board from time to time. It’s helpful.”

“Just kinda unprofessional?”

“Immensely. But you know that.”

He snorts. “Yeah I figured it out after you vented to me about the girl that took all your crayons in third grade or whatever.”

“Ugh, why did I tell you that? Stop derailing me. What did you want to talk about today?”

Damien laughs. Joan… she smirks a little. Later, she lie in bed and driver her car and eat dinner and listen to her notes and all the while, somewhere, eating at her: his question. Do you actually like talking to me or…?

SESSION TWENTY:

“You have a brother?”

Joan freezes.

Damien’s looking at her.

It’s eleven ‘o’clock at night and the sky’s gone dark through the windows of her office. Joan stares at her patient for a long moment, then sits back on her seat and runs her fingers through her hair and just stares at the carpet between her shoes because she can’t… She checks her recorder. It’s on. It’s been six hours since she sat down with Damien. His jacket’s lying on the floor by his chair. He’s got one boot up on the edge of the coffee table, sitting slouched in his armchair, a cup of warm tea in his hands. She made a pot around hour three. He’s gone through most of it.

“Um, yes, but that’s… that’s not what I was talking about.”

“Sure, but that fact you’d rather tell me about your shitty ex from grad school and not once mention you have a brother this whole time? Kiiiinda weird, Joan.”

“Don’t… uh, don’t call me Joan, Damien.”

He blinks at her. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously, I would prefer you didn’t.”

“You just told me three stories about dudes you dated through college; their failures as people and as lovers… but you don’t want me using your first name?”

“I… yes, Damien, exactly.” Her face feels hot suddenly. Her palms itch. “I don’t want you using my first name. Can you not?”

A startled look. “Uh, sure. Okay. I won’t.” His brow furrows. “Hit a nerve there, Doctor B?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Hey, I get it. People calling me by the wrong name would piss me off too.”

“Yes, uh, I guess it’s been a long day. It’s getting late. Should we pick this up later or –?”

“So your brother,” Damien says, ignoring her. “He live nearby?”

“No. Let’s not talk about him.”

Damien tilts his head. It makes her spine tighten. “Why not?”

“He’s been away for a long time. He’s sick, actually. I don’t want to talk about him.”

He just looks at her, gaze steady and dark and magnetic.

Joan closes her eyes. It’s still there though, growing in her guts somehow, a weed taking root and blooming words into the back of her mouth – the longing . Desperate and intense. She focuses on her hands, her nails digging sudden crescents of blood into her palms because Damien says ‘your brother’ and she has a vision – warm summer sunlight through the kitchen window, illuminating a bowl of fresh strawberries and a cup of sugar. Granules on the wood. An old backpack on the floor and little boy carefully dipping a berry in the soft white and –

“I miss him.”

Her eyes sting. Joan sits there, mortified, as saline runs molten behind her eyelids and heats the interior of her skull. Her throat aches. Her tongue swells. She cannot breathe around the poisoned organ between her teeth and yet she opens her mouth and goes on, like someone has their hand in her throat and keeps pulling the words out like ribbon from a reel.

“It’s almost been a year and I haven’t seen him.” She presses one hand to her face, her mouth, shaking. She drops it to her lap. To the cushion. She brushes her hair from her face. “I want to see him so badly. No one will let me.” Her cheeks are wet. She’s crying. Oh god . She’s crying. “I can’t talk to anyone about him, Damien. There’s no one I can tell and I just want to tell someone. I want someone to help me. He’s sick and I am trying so hard to help him but there’s no one.” She draws a ragged breath. Vomits up words. “He’s my little brother. He’s my… my responsibility.” Another heave. “I don’t want to do this alone.”

She’s breathing too fast. She can’t. She stands up, presses a palm to her belly.

“You need to go.”

Damien’s staring at her.

“You need to go, Damien. Go right now .”

“You okay, Doctor B?”

“No! I’m not. I don’t know why I told you that.” She turns away, walking toward the desk on the other side of the room. “Why did I say that? What’s wrong with me?”

“Because you wanted to tell someone?” She hears the soft clink of a cup being put down. Boots on the floor. “Because you literally just said you’re all alone with this big fuckin’ secret? Your brother’s sick? No one knows. You gotta take care of him but you can’t? I mean… that’s pretty heavy, Doctor B.” Joan feels Damien standing to her left now, peering at her. “Only makes sense it might come out talking to a friend.”

“You’re not my friend , Damien.” She looks at him just in time to catch a small startled hurt, there for a moment, then gone. “You’re a patient. This is… this is inappropriate.” She drags her hands through her hair, aware of how out of control she’s getting, unable to rein it back. There’s not enough pressure on the planet to staunch the wound she just ripped open for nothing. For no fucking reason at all. “I wasn’t… I didn’t want to talk about him. I can’t talk about Mark. Why did I do that?”

“It’s okay,” Damien says.

“No, it’s not. It’s not…”

“It’s okay that you wanted to talk about it,” Damien says, louder this time. He’s moved to stand in front of her, meet her gaze. He holds his hand palms out, non-threateningly. “Hey. Doc. Listen . It’s okay that you wanted to talk to me. Right? You wanted to talk?”

“I… what is that?”

“What’s what?”

Joan drops her hands from her forehead, feeling dangerous suddenly. Feeling on edge. “You. There’s something about you.”

Damien takes a step back. “I didn’t do anything, Doctor B. Remember? I’m not responsible for –”

“You feel like… like…” She blinks, stops. “ No .”

“Are you okay?”

“What are you?”

He looks afraid. “What?”

“Don’t lie to me. You came looking for me. Did you already know who I was?”

“ What ?”

“What are you? What are you doing? Is this… some kind of empathic projection? What is this?” She starts to reach for Damien’s arm but he jerks back. “Damien. Tell me right now, what are you doing here? Did Green send you? Is this Ellie? Are you one of Ellie’s?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Joan.”

“Don’t call me Joan!” She shoves a palm into his chest. “Are you with them!?”

“ Back off!”

Joan feels static. Goes static. White noise in her head suddenly. She comes back with her hands flat against the spines of many books, the ones across the room. She’s leaning against the bookshelf. She’s missing one heel, like she lost it sprinting away from… She looks slowly over her shoulder, through the now tangled sheaf of her hair, at the young man about Mark’s age standing in front of her desk. He’s looking at her. His expression: dead. Pitiless and empty. A line of sweat runs hot down the back of her neck. Her palms, sticky, she peels from the books and she turns her back slowly to lean against the shelf, bracing against it for support.

She’s gutted, insides out, nerves turned up to the stinging air. Her skull’s got a hole in it and Damien’s got his hand in it. Or he did. Or maybe he does. She can’t be sure. He’s just standing there looking at her and she can feel her skin start to crawl with anticipatory terror. She grips the shelf behind her until her fingers ache.

“Damien,” she says. “You need to get out.”

“You figured it out,” he says.

“Get out, Damien.”

“No. You figured it out. You said…” He shakes his head, runs his fingers through his hair, processing. “You didn’t seem surprised about me. Like… like it wasn’t that weird I could do something like this. You’re freaked out, but not… surprised .”

“Just go !”

“You asked what I am?”

“I don’t know what you are.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Joan flinches, feels it now, not subtle like before. A heat suddenly, a shunt of desire like a chemical injection just below her belly and somewhere in her head, like a rising migraine and she wants it. She wants to tell him everything. All of it, pour it all out on the floor and show him every part of it and – She makes a noise, hand coming up instinctively, no protection at all from whatever he’s doing, however he’s reaching through the ether and rattling the insides of her brain. Damien starts to walk toward her.

“ Don’t ! I’ll tell you! Just stop!”

Damien stops just before he reaches the coffee table. The pressure lets up.

“I don’t know what you are. Not exactly. I thought you were… like other people I’ve worked with. You’re… atypical. You can do things most people can’t.”

“I – I’m not the only one?”

“No. There are others. I work with people like you, people with abilities.”

Damien seems shaken. “There are others like me?”

“No. Not like you.” Joan swallows, speaks through her teeth. “I’ve never met someone like you. That’s why it… why it took me so long to realize. You’re doing something. You… make people… Telepaths can’t do that. They can’t…” Joan shakes her head. “I can’t think straight right now. You need to go.”

“No way, Doctor B. I want you to tell me –”

“Damien! Stoppit !”

And to her amazement, he stops. The pressure lets up, he freezes a moment, expression blanking for a moment to surprise. Joan breathes, straightens up, and pushes her hair back from her face, gathering it at the nape of her neck. Then she smooths her button down a little and raises her chin.

“Damien. It’s late. I’ve just… realized that you are, in fact, exactly the kind of patient who should be on my books. My specialty is people with atypical abilities like yours. I wish you’d told me sooner.” I wish you’d never walked through that fucking door. “I have the context now and I am more fully prepared to help you. This is good. This is progress.”

Damien watches her confused and wary.

“If you want to keep talking, then we can do that. Do you… do you want to come back tomorrow? Same time? I can answer your questions then.”

Damien narrows his eyes. “Aren’t you mad?”

“Yes, Damien. I am. That’s why I don’t think we should talk until tomorrow.”

“How do I know you won’t run? Tell the truth.”

Joan grimaces. “I won’t run because if I ever want to see Mark again, I need to keep this practice going. I won’t jeopardize it or my patients just to run away from you .” She breathes in, slowly, then crosses the room and moves to pick Damien’s jacket up off the floor. She steadies herself, turns, and hand it to him. “Come back tomorrow. We’ll have a real talk.”

Damien doesn’t take it immediately. He studies her face, her eyes. Joan keeps holding his jacket out, gaze even.

He takes the jacket from her hand, very deliberately grabbing it so his hand touches hers. She keeps the reactionary scream behind her teeth -- lethal as a bullet.

“Okay. See you then, Doctor B.” He pulls his jacket on, straightening the collar and tucking his hands into his pockets. “Really, lookin’ forward to it.”

She waits until he’s gone.

She waits another two minutes.

Then Joan falls against the armchair and sinks to the floor of her office and lets out that scream.

SESSION NINE:

“Is that scotch?” Damien says, sitting down. His boot finds her coffee table almost immediately.

Joan glances lazily at the bottle and two glasses on her desk across the office where she is now openly keeping it on display.

“Yes, it is.”

Damien narrows his eyes slightly. “Are… you a little drunk right now?”

“That would be inappropriate.”

“You are. I can feel it.”

She shrugs. “ Oops .”

“Uh, that’s kinda weird, Doc. You sure you should be drinking around me?”

“I’m not drinking around you. I drank last night. And today. The effect is just continuing into now. Which is good, because I feel that I need to be a little drunk to have this conversation.”

Damien snorts and sits back in his seat, taking the moment to look her up and down and fold his hands on his stomach, just above his hips. “You really that mad I didn’t tell you?” He huffs a laugh. “I didn’t even know there were other people like me, much less that you would know anything about it. Why would I tell you?”

“That’s not why I’m angry, Damien.”

“You’re mad I yelled at you? Because you came at me.”

“You honestly don’t know why I’m upset?”

“Because you accidentally told me about Mark?”

“No, Damien, I didn’t accidentally do that. You used your… ability to get me to tell you about Mark, something I was not emotionally prepared to do or obligated by any social contract to do. You extracted deeply personal information about my sick brother from me, Damien. That’s… very cruel of you. I hadn’t thought of you that way until last night.”

Damien glares at her. “Guess you don’t know me very well.”

“No. I know nothing about you, but I get the feeling you want to know everything about my work so, in light of the fact I will have to do this, I’m making it as easy on myself as possible.”

He sits forward to pluck a stress ball from the table. “If you puke on your fancy coffee table, that’s your fault. Not mine.”

“Noted. Did you know it took me until just a few hours ago to rationalize a decent argument as to why you probably won’t rape me?”

Damien stops fiddling with the stress ball and looks at her. “What the fuck ?”

Joan sits back in her seat, hooking one elbow over the back of her chair. “Does that surprise you?”

“That’s fuckin’ gross. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, comforting words from a man who regularly coerces people into doing things they would normally never do and will likely regret later. Who sees no moral issue doing that. Who does it regularly and without any sign he intends to stop. Why would I ever be worried this man, a virtual stranger to me, might do me harm? That’s unheard of in this day and age. I’m clearly irrational.”

Damien doesn’t say anything.

“You understand that what you do… it puts anyone in your radius under a certain level of influence.” Joan’s hands tighten a little, small ligaments tensing. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, doc. I do.”

“Do you care?”

“ Jesus , I don’t do that, Doctor B. Calm down. I’m not stupid.”

“It’s not about stupid; it’s about apathy. If you don’t care about hurting others, why would you let a little thing like consent get in your way? You’ve given me literally no reason to think otherwise. I don’t see why--”

“Because it’s dangerous .” Damien tosses the stress ball on the table, clearly not impressed with its effectiveness. “Okay? I don’t do that because it’s dangerous. Core drives are dangerous. I don’t fuck with that stuff. Happy?” He waits for her to say something, then, when he gets no answer, says, “ What ?”

“So, because it’s dangerous to you… that’s why you don’t do it.”

He stares at her, dead-faced. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Joan sits forward and picks up the stress ball. “Just checking.” She palms it, fingers digging in. “So… let’s talk.”

PRESENT DAY:

“I thought I saw you on the road a few days ago.”

Damien, who is on his way out the door, turns and frowns at her. “Oh?”

“Yes, walking along Bourbon Street. Toward the brewery district.”

“Maybe. I go there sometimes.”

“Do you always walk?”

“I like walking.”

“You shouldn’t walk with your back to traffic like that. It’s dangerous.”

He looks at her. His eyes are dark and there’s gravity in them, but she detects the nuances now. The undercurrent of uncertainty, the confusion. She feels the beginnings of a compulsion settling somewhere in her teeth, her bones, her brain, like a hand around her amygdala… but then it fades and Damien just smirks. It’s less convincing these days.

“Thanks, doc. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please do.”

fin.

#the bright sessions #tbs #joan bright #damien #sarah #tbsedit #tbsfic #this is it #the fic where joan does not hit damien with a car #i know #i should have written the story where she DOES hit him with a car #i dont know why I waste my talent like this #why write if you dont write joan #hitting annoying trash boys with her car?#i mean honestly #10000 words of not hitting damien with a car #fucking tragic #rae writes #raewrites

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