#it was oday who spoke up and asked him to listen to the voice of his beloved deep within him.

[lorspolairepeluche]

Each of the usual suspects has their places they go to disappear for a while. Zieh'to hides out in the Manufactory (where Stephanivien has given instructions that anyone come looking for a Warrior of Light who doesn't want to be found should get only a shrug and a vague answer and should certainly not be directed toward the sooty greasy Miqo'te poring over blueprints); Doenlona just takes her airship, turns off the locator, and fucks off into the sky for a bit (Cid has to invent a whole new type of locator, but she doesn't usually disappear when she's really needed); no one can find Ves in the Shroud or Dravania or the Sylphlands if Ves doesn't want to be found. Thybé has his mother's house, of course, but if he needs to truly be alone, he'll go into the wilds -- Yanxia or Thanalan, possibly Mor Dhona.

The others know when one of them doesn't want to be found, and they won't pry. The bond will let them know if one of them is in distress, so they're content to live and let live unless they've been really worried about someone's emotional state.

Oday, for their part, sometimes goes to the Forgotten Springs or the Brotherhood of Ash -- places where they can simply be a fellow warrior and put aside the khagan and the Warrior of Light and everything else for a while. But most often, they go up to Zenith. They can feel Hraesvelgr near there, and the resonance between them comforts them. They don't call him -- knowing his steady, solid presence is enough. They camp there for a few nights, drill the basics of their myriad weapons -- no magic, no aetheric maneuvers, just the movements. Axe, sword, lance, bow, gunblade, perhaps even a katana if they ever find the time with Hien to learn. They help the moogles care for the place too, chop their own firewood, hunt their own game. They always bring tribute for Hraesvelgr and leave it at the summit.

And, after seeing them there several times, Hraesvelgr's reawakened curiosity gets the better of him, and he flies down to the lower level on which Oday is camped. "Mortal."

Oday puts up their lance and bows -- a gesture they reserve for only those they hold in the highest respect. "Great one."

“Why dost thou come to this place? I have seen thee spend a turn or two of the sun here, many a time.”

“I find the solitude calms me when I need it most. The chill in the mist washes away my confusion and doubt.”

“Solitude, thou sayest, yet I see thee converse with the moogles when they arrive to care for the place. And I have seen thee help them care for the tower, as well.”

Oday laughs. “Moogles, great one, are vastly different from the people I escape by visiting Zenith.”

[lake-arrius-caverns]

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 5: Breaking Point

happy valentines <3 here’s a slower-paced lowkey fluffy chapter for the occasion

summary After his disastrous mission to Arkngthand, Fahjoth's confidence has taken a kicking and his mood has hit rock bottom. Can he find the courage to face up to his next task?

content warnings none

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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Antabolis, at least, had been grateful for Fahjoth’s delivery. He had taken the cube with enthusiasm and offered for Fahjoth to return at a later time, when Antabolis may be able to give him a key to delve deeper into Arkngthand. Fahjoth had politely declined; the last thing he wanted to do was return there anytime soon. In fact, he would die happy if he never had to go near another Dwemer ruin ever again. 

He didn’t bother to attempt to read the notes that Antabolis gave him, nor was he even listening much to what Antabolis was saying. He was desperate to return to his bed and collapse into it, and in his current state of feeling constant aches and pains he found that he couldn’t care less about Sixth House or Nerevarine cults, whatever they were. 

By the time Antabolis finally bade him farewell, Fahjoth felt just about ready to drop. I’ve just got to get back to Cosades’, he told himself as he staggered through Balmora’s quiet streets under the dusty cinnamon sky, clutching Antabolis’ papers tightly in hand. As he paused to look up and watch the first stars begin to twinkle dully from behind the light evening mist, Fahjoth supposed he would have to meet Ribyna for that drink tomorrow instead. Finally, he reached Cosades’ house and let himself in. 

Cosades was sitting at his table, drink in hand as he perused the pages of a dusty old tome. He glanced up as Fahjoth entered, raising a brow at the state he turned up in, but offering no comment on it. Wordlessly, Fahjoth approached and passed the papers over to Cosades, already staring longingly over at his bed on the floor of the corner of the room. 

“These notes are from Hasphat Antabolis? Excellent. I trust he didn't work you too hard for them,” Cosades said, though the look on his face as he surveyed Fahjoth confirmed that he already knew the answer. As Fahjoth began to remove his armour, he couldn’t help but grimace at the poor condition it was in now; he would definitely need to take it to be repaired tomorrow. 

But as he was about to get himself settled for the night, Cosades spoke up. 

“I'll look these over in more detail later, but now, I have some new orders for you," he announced. Fahjoth felt his heart sink. 

Already? After casting one more glance towards his bed, he turned his attention back to Cosades and nodded to signify that he was listening. 

“I've glanced at Hasphat Antabolis' notes,” Cosades continued, a mild frown on his face. “They cover the Sixth House admirably, but not the Nerevarine cult. So. I’m going to need you to pay a visit to someone who can fill in the gaps. Hop on over to the Mages Guild and get Sharn gra-Muzgob to tell you what she knows about the Nerevarine. She'll have some silly errand for you, but do what she asks. And report back when she's given you the information.”

For a few seconds, Fahjoth was struck dumb. There was a searing heat growing in his chest, one where he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scream or break down and cry, but instead he swallowed and jerked his head in a nod. “Now, sir?”

“Better had,” Cosades agreed, “before it gets too late. She won’t thank you for that.” 

“Right.” Fahjoth’s voice was flat and somewhat husky in his attempt to keep his emotions bottled up, and he scarcely said goodbye to Cosades before he turned and strode back outside into the chilly dusk air. There was a lump in his throat as he walked, and though he knew it was exacerbated by his exhaustion, Cosades giving him yet more orders had been a crushing blow. All of his doubts came roaring back, playing on his mind and reminding him that he wasn’t good enough, and he certainly couldn’t keep up with the tasks he had been given. Yet, what choice did he have but to try? Fahjoth began to wonder whether this job would be the death of him as he paced onwards to the Mages Guild, bracing himself to be given a task that would nearly get him killed a second time. 

 —————————————————————————————

Sure enough, the irritable Orc that Fahjoth encountered in the depths of the Mages Guild had not given up her knowledge freely. In return for the information Cosades was seeking, Sharn gra-Muzgob ordered Fahjoth to collect a skull from an ancestral tomb, requiring him to retrace his steps back towards Seyda Neen. 

While in theory this didn’t sound too taxing, Fahjoth was more than wary of what he might discover in an ancestral tomb. The stories he’d heard from the locals had been more than enough to sow worries into his mind; instead of crumbling ruins and murderous thugs, curses and ghosts and the walking dead would be the hurdles he would have to overcome this time, which had been all but confirmed by the enchanted sword that gra-Muzgob had lent him for the errand. 

Fahjoth felt almost numb at this point. He was terrified, of course he was, but he was too physically, mentally, and emotionally drained to deal with it. He could barely even spare the energy to think about what lay ahead, nevermind try to process his feelings towards it. He paused as he reached the southernmost bridge spanning the Odai River, turned his gaze up to the stars, now set against a deep indigo sky, and wondered whether it was too late to meet Ribyna for that drink. Well, there was no harm in checking in. So he changed direction, heading for the South Wall Cornerclub rather than returning to Cosades’. Even if he couldn’t find Ribyna, perhaps a drink would help to steady his nerves. 

As he wandered down to the bottom floor, sure enough, he spotted a familiar figure nursing a bottle at an otherwise empty table in the corner of the room and made a beeline for them. Ribyna looked up as Fahjoth approached, initially grinning at the sight of her twin, but once she fully registered the mess that he was in her face fell into an aghast gape instead. 

“What the fuck happened to you?!” she exclaimed without so much as a greeting beforehand. Fahjoth sighed as he parked himself down at the table, dropping his head on his hands and preparing himself to recount the long, miserable tale. 

“So then I got back to the bridge, and there’s this old man who’s just stood there, and for no reason he just goes fucking nuts and attacks me,” he concluded once he had covered the rest. “Conjured a fucking skeleton and everything. I fell down the... the chasm thing, then when I got back up, I just legged it.”

“Holy shit...” Ribyna mumbled, staring at Fahjoth in astonishment. “Had a hell of a day then, didn’t you?”

“That barely even begins to describe it,” he scoffed. “I feel like I’d have had an easier time if I just went to Oblivion and back.” 

To Fahjoth’s shock, Ribyna bit her lip, evidently trying to hide a grin. That couldn’t have been further from the reaction he had been expecting. “What?” he asked, a wary frown on his face. 

Ribyna hesitated, as though struggling with whether to speak up or not, but after a moment of pause she blurted it out. “Oh come on, all that shit happening— it’s a bit funny!”

“Funny?” 

At once, any hint of laughter on Ribyna’s face vanished, as Fahjoth felt a spark of anger ignite in his chest. 

“I nearly fucking died today and you think it’s funny?!”

“I never said that—!” Ribyna protested, but Fahjoth was already livid. All of the frustration, shame, and terror he had felt that day had compounded with relentless exhaustion, and now an intense stab of hurt from Ribyna’s reaction had been enough to light the fuse. 

“But it’s funny, you said!” Fahjoth snapped, struggling to force himself to remain seated at the table as he ranted at his sibling, while his voice rose in volume and attracted more than a few stares from the other punters. “It’s funny that I nearly died, it’s funny that I couldn’t handle the one job I was given, it’s funny that it went so fucking tits-up and you probably think it’s funny that I’ve got to go back out and do the same thing, and probably get myself actually killed this time!”

“Fahjoth—” Ribyna started, shuffling her chair around so that she was sitting beside him, but Fahjoth cut her off. 

“‘Cause— ‘cause that’s what’s gonna happen! I’m gonna do a ‘favour’ for someone, maybe not this one, but maybe the next time, or the one after that, but— sooner or later it’s gonna kill me!” The lump in his throat had firmly lodged into place, and Fahjoth felt his eyes burn as tears threatened to spill. He was less enraged now; all he felt was distress and fear, flooding his chest with a dull, unyielding ache. 

“I can’t keep up with it, Beebs,” he choked, his voice breaking and his face crumpling as he finally began to cry. “I can’t do this.” 

He dropped his face into his hands, his vision blurry with tears as his shoulders began to shake with suppressed sobs, but seconds later he felt himself being pulled into a tight embrace which he did not try to resist. 

“Hey, hey, come on,” Ribyna said, her voice low and soothing as she rested her chin on the top of his head. “You’re okay. Deep breaths.” 

As he struggled to get his erratic breathing back under control, Fahjoth was much too choked up to speak, so he simply remained silent with his head leaning on Ribyna’s shoulder. Ribyna continued to talk, hugging him tightly and gently rubbing his shoulder all the while. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you,” she apologised. “It’s just... well, it’s just your fucking luck, innit? Only you could end up dealing with that much bullshit in one go.”

Fahjoth managed a watery chuckle at that. “They say guarshit, here.”

“Ooh, well, pardon my Cyrodiilic,” Ribyna jeered, putting on the poshest accent she could muster. The tiny laugh that his sibling had inspired granted him enough of a mood boost that Fahjoth finally felt calm enough to sit up again, though the churning of apprehension in his gut remained and tears still slipped from his eyes on occasion. 

“I’m sorry as well,” he said at last, glancing over at Ribyna with regret. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

Ribyna waved his apology aside with a flick of her hand. “Don’t worry about it. Right, let’s backtrack a bit.” She leaned on her elbows, staring up at Fahjoth with a light frown. “What d’you mean, you’ve got to go and do the same thing?”

Fahjoth sighed, feeling a knot of trepidation settle in his chest once more as he anticipated the task ahead. “Basically what I said,” he explained. “I’ve got to do a favour for someone else in exchange for information. Only this favour involves me stealing a skull from an ancestral tomb down by Seyda Neen.”

“Yikes...” Ribyna lapsed into thoughtful silence, her gaze falling on Fahjoth’s hands for a moment before she got to her feet. “Hold that thought,” she said, trotting off towards the bar. Fahjoth watched with idle interest until Ribyna returned, clutching two bottles under one arm and a plain cup and cloth in the other. She returned to her seat and placed the goods down on the table, pushing one of the bottles towards Fahjoth as she settled. “Here’s that drink I owed you. Mazte. It’s alright, give it a try.”

After giving the bottle a curious sniff, he threw caution to the wind and knocked back a mouthful — only to immediately cough as the unexpectedly spicy aroma overwhelmed his senses. But as he swallowed, the liquid filled his chest with a potent heat that seemed to spread all the way down to his toes, temporarily washing away all of what ailed him in an instant. “Fucking hell,” he remarked, “that’s not bad at all.” 

“Innit?” Once Fahjoth had put his bottle down, Ribyna reached over and pulled one of his hands towards her. She squinted as she examined his skinned knuckles, her brows furrowing into a consternated frown, and Fahjoth felt a twinge of embarrassment that he hadn’t cleaned the blood off before now. He watched as she dipped the cloth into the cup — which turned out to be filled with water — and dabbed it gently but firmly onto his hand. Fahjoth grit his teeth and breathed hard through his nose as each brush of the fabric against the tender skin incited a sharp stinging sensation, but he kept quiet as Ribyna spoke. “Anyway, if what you said is true, then getting away with just fucked up knuckles seems like a bit of a result to me.”

“I suppose...” Fahjoth admitted. “I’m pretty sure I just got lucky, though. I mean, what if I come across something worse next time? What if I’m not lucky enough?” 

“Fahji, you’ve just had a hell of a bad day,” Ribyna pointed out. “Look, I’m sure it won’t be so bad next time. Live and learn and all that. You’ll be fine.” 

Fahjoth could feel his anxieties beginning to grow again and tried to mentally take a step back, as the last thing he wanted was to break down in tears for a second time that night. “I really don’t think I can do it, Beebs, but... I don’t even know what’ll happen if I try to pull out. What if they send me back to prison? And—...” 

“And?”

Feeling very self-conscious, his cheeks flushed slightly as he prepared for his next confession. “And I really wanted to try and make this work. It’s a real opportunity, innit? This could be our only chance of ever doing well for ourselves.” He paused, nodding towards Ribyna. “Not that you seem to be having any trouble with that, mind...” 

Ribyna was quiet for a moment, the tip of her tongue peeking out from between her lips as she concentrated on cleaning up Fahjoth’s hands, finishing the first and then moving onto the other. Finally, once she was satisfied, she let go and picked up her bottle instead, sipping some mazte before responding to Fahjoth. “Are there any rules about going by yourself?”

“Uh... no, I don’t think so,” Fahjoth replied, perplexed by the sudden change of subject. “Why?”

“Then there’s the answer,” Ribyna replied, grinning at Fahjoth from over her mazte. “I’ll go with you!”

“What?”

“I’ll go with you,” Ribyna repeated, a little more insistently this time. “With two of us, there’ll be a way smaller chance for you to... y’know... die. Or get fucked over in general.” 

Fahjoth’s mouth fell open slightly at Ribyna’s offer. “Are you sure, Beebs? It... it probably won’t be easy. I dunno what we’ll find in there.”

“Course I’m sure. As if I’m gonna risk letting my brother go and get himself killed,” she scoffed. “That’s my job, innit?” 

Fahjoth stared at Ribyna in disbelief for a moment or two, before he began to laugh with sheer relief. “Fuck, you’re a lifesaver. Right, are you ready to go?” 

“What, now?” Ribyna exclaimed, and it was her turn to glare incredulously at Fahjoth. “A, I haven’t even finished my drink, and B, you need to rest. We’re not going anywhere until tomorrow at the earliest. Those are my terms.”

Fahjoth opened his mouth to protest, but Ribyna cut him off. “Seriously, what’s the rush? Travelling at night isn’t a great idea even when you’re in perfect condition. And like I said, you need to rest, you look like you’re about to keel over any second. If Cosades has got a problem with that, tell him to take it up with me!”

“I’m sure he’d be quaking in his boots,” Fahjoth quipped, but he couldn’t argue with Ribyna’s logic. “Since when has my little nuisance been so sensible?”

“You know you’re in trouble when you’re calling me sensible,” Ribyna snorted. As she watched Fahjoth rise to his feet, she seemed prepared to spring up at any moment. “D’you need a hand getting back to Cosades’?”

“Nah, I think I’ll be alright,” Fahjoth replied, wincing as he gingerly put weight back on his feet, his sore muscles already stiff from the brief period of inactivity. He leaned down and pulled Ribyna into a tight hug once again. “I’ll come get you tomorrow, then? Once I’ve got myself sorted out. And... thanks, Beebs. For everything.” 

Ribyna patted Fahjoth bracingly on the back as she returned a loving squeeze. “Don’t mention it. Now go get some sleep, dickhead!” 

Taking his mazte with a laugh, Fahjoth waved once more to Ribyna before ascending the cornerclub’s stairs and ambling out into the clear night. Every inch of him still ached something fierce, but Fahjoth didn’t mind as much now, uplifted by the thought that whatever lay ahead, he didn’t have to face it alone. 

[lukeccrain]

»running to stand still

chapter: 1/? word count: 2.9 k pairing: stanlon side pairings: reddie (probably more to come)  rating: T, language, mention of violence, self harm, suicide ao3 version: here summary: who knew they made you go to therapy after you try to kill yourself? 

tag list: @slaytherin @eddie-kaspbraked​ @billbenbev

Stan Uris did not want to get out of bed.

Of course, he had woken up in this same predicament every morning for the last year.  But today, he didn’t want to get out of bed more than usual.  In the light that filtered through his half-closed blinds, Stan could make out the calendar that hung above his desk.  The month of October was marked by a green-headed tanager perched delicately on a branch, head cocked slightly as if to ask, “what’s the problem, Stan?”

The problem, Stan thought miserably, is that I have to get out of bed and see the concern on my roommates’ face as I head to therapy.

He could already envision Eddie’s mouth twisting before finally settling into a toothless smile, eyebrows knitted in concern.  He would splutter before offering Stan a yogurt cup, or toast, or some other breakfast food he wouldn’t accept.  He would try to maintain eye contact, but his gaze would slowly descend until it rested on his forearms.  Stan always wore long sleeves, but they both knew what marred the skin beneath.

Richie, on the other hand, would greet him too loudly, gesticulate too wildly, and look him in the eye too rarely.  To an acquaintance, their interactions would appear to be nothing out of the ordinary.  Richie’s jokes were always airy and casual, but the tightness that clipped each word betrayed his true feelings.  Stan was one of Richie’s best friends, but he was also a stranger that Richie wasn’t quite comfortable being himself in front of.

Overall, the prospect of facing Eddie and Richie this morning was perhaps just as debilitating as therapy.

The green-headed tanager stared back at Stan with blank, black eyes. “Well, Stan.  What did you expect after a stunt like that?”

Fuck you, bird.

Stan pushed the duvet aside and brushed a quick hand through his curls.  His fingers caught on the knots that had formed no doubt due to all the tossing and turning he had done during the night.  He grimaced slightly before forcing himself to roll out of bed and stumble into his on-suite bathroom.  As he brushed his teeth, Stan listened to the dull thumping of footsteps and the clattering of pans above him.  Every now and again, an easy laugh would disrupt the sound of kitchen puttering. While the sound of his roommates’ domesticity had at one point elicited feelings of comfort in Stan, it was now a source of anxiety.  The low hum of conversation caused the ever-present knots that lived in Stan’s stomach to tighten.  

Once he had showered, combed his hair, and dressed (a long-sleeved eggshell button-up and slacks), Stan grabbed his keys and began the ascent up the basement stairs.

He had moved into the basement of Eddie and Richie’s cramped, 1970s townhouse after Patty had left him.  They had insisted that he wasn’t intruding, and Stan had insisted it was only going to be for a month or two, tops. “Don’t worry Stannie,” Richie had smirked, “we knew it was only a matter of time before Pat came to her senses. Stay as long as you need.”

That had been nearly two years ago.  Eddie and Richie had never griped or even asked when Stan had intended on moving out, not even passively.  In fact, they actually enjoyed having Stan as their live-in third wheel.  He was tidy and quiet, and was willing to clean the bathroom; a task that had been a source of constant bickering for Eddie and Richie before Stan had moved in. He had been a model roommate up until the oday when Eddie had found him in the tub of the upstairs bathroom. After that, Stan’s friends had been a little bit warier of his lodging.  He couldn’t blame them.

“Morning,” Stan greeted as he emerged into the narrow kitchen. Eddie swiveled his head to greet him over his shoulder from his position in front of the stove.  His lips curved upwards, but his eyebrows furrowed.   “Hey, Stan,” he hesitated for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words.  Finally, he settled on: “How’re you feeling about today?”

Before Stan could offer any sort of response, Richie had slapped his hand against the kitchen table, making the plate of waffles perched in front of him shudder. “He’s probably feeling great, Eds!  He’s about to re-enact a real-life porno.” Richie spun his fork between his fingers, wriggling his eyebrows as he looked over the top of his glasses in mock seduction. “And how does this make you feel, Mr. Uris?” Stan rolled his eyes, swatting the side of Richie’s head lightly as he squeezed between the two boys, and towards the front door. “Beep, beep, Rich.”

As he pulled on his jacket, Stan pretended not to notice the look that was exchanged between the two. “You’re not gonna have breakfast?  I made waffles,” Eddie questioned in a voice that was probably supposed to come off as breezy and casual.   “Yeah, they’re kosher…whatever the fuck that means,” Richie added, but he stared down at his own plate as he spoke. For a fleeting moment, Stan wanted to scream at him to just fucking look him in the eye, but the urge dissipated just as quickly as it had arisen.

“I’m not really hungry.  Probably the meds.” Eddie bit his lip, quiet for a moment. Stan had a hand rested on the doorknob, but knew that the conversation wasn’t quite over.  He was almost certain that Eddie had spent nights researching SSRIs and tricyclics, and the difference between the two.  He would know every single side-effect, and how to tell when the dosage needed to be upped.  All of Eddie’s research was poised on the tip of his tongue- Stan could see it struggling to escape.  But Eddie swallowed it, put on the same timid smile, and gestured towards the fridge with his spatula.

“Fair enough.  Do you wanna take a yogurt cup for later?  Richie picked up Oikos, and I think there’s some key lime left.”

And so, Stan had left that morning with a cup of Greek yogurt that he knew he wouldn’t eat in his jacket pocket, and Richie and Eddie’s worried eyes burning into the back of his scalp.

Stan’s appointment was downtown, a fifteen-minute drive that came and went much too quickly for his liking.  He had always enjoyed driving, as it had given him some menial task to focus on instead of the spin-cycle of thoughts that tumbled fervently through his head.  He had needed that reprieve this morning, and for a moment he thought wistfully of Patty’s luxury apartment that sat at the edge of the city in a neighbourhood that was too new to have garnered any sort of name for itself.  From there, it would’ve taken Stan an extra forty-five minutes of driving.  He fantasized about those forty-five minutes as he parked the car in the near-empty lot, and trudged into 1435 Cotswold Avenue.

The lobby was what was to be expected from any walk-in clinic; plastic chairs in an assortment of unappealing tans and burgundies lined up against the walls, a variety of out-of-date People and Good Housekeeping magazines fanned out across a glass coffee table, and a handful of eclectic clients with eyes desperate to look anywhere but at another person.  It was exactly what Stan had expected.

He approached the counter, and was greeted by a plump middle-aged woman.  She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose once he neared.  She offered a polite smile, and Stan noticed that she had bright pink lipstick on her right incisor. “May I help you?” “Uh, yeah.  I have an appointment with Dr. Morgan for ten.”

Stan focused on the pamphlets for seasonal depression and borderline personality disorder as the receptionist typed something into her computer. The models stared back at him with blank eyes and big, cheesy grins. “Stanley Uris?” He gave up on his staring contest with the pamphlets and met her expectant gaze.  He nodded once, which prompted her to type furiously once more.

“Right, well you’re right on time!  Dr. Morgan’s nine o’clock cancelled, so you should be able to walk right in.” Stan mustered a grateful smile, though something in his stomach churned as he followed the woman across the waiting room and towards a long, carpeted hallway.  Stan counted three doors before they stopped in front of one that had DR. K. MORGAN engraved into a silver plaque.  The receptionist knocked twice before opening the door enough to poke her head in.

“Dr. Morgan, your ten o’clock is here.”

There was a mumbled response that Stan couldn’t quite make out before the receptionist pushed the door open and stepped aside.  She smiled happily as he passed, and he offered her a soft, breathless thank you.

The woman sitting behind the desk was young, perhaps mid-thirties. Her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she surveyed Stan with warm blue eyes as he tentatively made his way into her office.  Dr. Morgan stood to greet him, and held out her right hand.

“You must be Stanley.  I’m Dr. Morgan.” Her voice was soft with cordial; a feature that no doubt came with dealing with suicidal individuals for a living.  It wasn’t unpleasant.  Stan reached across her desk and pumped her hand up and down twice. “Nice to meet you.  Stan’s fine.”

She nodded with a smile, and gestured him towards two overstuffed armchairs by the window. “Okay, Stan.  Did you wanna take a seat?”

No, I want to leave, Stan thought despondently as he obliged.  It wasn’t that he had anything against therapy; he wanted nothing more than to walk out cured of any negative thought or compulsion that had ever possessed him.  However, the issue was that he believed himself to be entirely beyond the sort of help that Dr. Morgan could offer.  Stan prided himself as a logician; someone who held rationality above all.  What his rational mind was telling him was that there was no possible way things were going to get better.  He had crunched the numbers, done the research and played with the algorithms, and the unfortunate result was that there was no way to crawl out of this pessimistic hole he seemed to find himself in.  Really, the only reason he even made the appointment in the first place was to ease Eddie’s anxiety, not his own.

Dr. Morgan lowered herself down into the armchair opposing him, crossed one leg over the other, and balanced a clipboard on top of her thigh. There was a black pen poised in her left hand, ready to write down the Tragic Story of Stanley Uris.   Stan quickly swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Okay, Stan, I’d like to begin by just asking you a couple of questions about yourself.  How old are you?”

These were the types of questions that Stan had no problem answering: age, occupation, where he lived and who he lived with, had he ever seen a therapist before (twenty-three, university student, 2174 Osler Avenue in a basement suite, two roommates, Eddie and Richie, a counselor once or twice in high school…).  They were easy and semantic, and he rattled them off like he was reciting numerals from his calculator in a maths class.  He felt at ease for the first time since he walked in the door.

“Okay, good.  And why are you here today?”

The confidence that Stan had garnered suddenly dissipated from underneath him.

“P-pardon me?”

Dr. Morgan, who had been scribbling furiously before this, lifted her ballpoint pen from the paper and peered up at him with a lopsided smile.

“Well, most people don’t just wake up in the morning and suddenly decide they’re going to try therapy.  Usually there’s something that spurs them, you know?  What was that spurring moment for you?”

Stan felt the words bubble and catch in his throat.  He had never said it out loud; he’d never had to. Everyone knew what had happened, and everyone worried about him, but nobody wanted to say why.  This was especially true for Stan.   He stared back at Dr. Morgan for a moment, frozen, before clearing his throat, forcing the words to detach themselves from the back of his mouth.

“I tried to kill myself.”

Dr. Morgan began writing once more, her eyes focused on her notes as she asked, “how?”

“I, uh…I slit my wrists in the bathtub.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with the weight of all that had that transpired after that one day.  Stan felt an icy feeling well in his chest, and he watched his therapist continue to write without a moment’s hesitation.  Once she had finished, she leaned back in her chair to survey him.  She wasn’t smiling anymore, but her eyes conveyed something akin to compassion.

“Right, okay…and what compelled you to do that?”

The answered seemed pretty obvious to Stan.

“I didn’t want to live anymore.”

“Well, sometimes people will attempt suicide for other reasons, sometimes as a cry for help.  Did you tell someone, or leave a note?”

Stan shook his head, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“No…my roommate found me.”

Dr. Morgan’s eyebrows furrowed, and she tapped her pen twice against her lips.

“You said earlier that you lived in the basement.  Did you do it in that bathroom?”

“No, the upstairs one.”

Stan didn’t understand why it mattered which bathroom he tried to kill himself in, but apparently it was important because Dr. Morgan was scribbling again.  He was tempted to lean forward and catch a glimpse of her scrawlings.  Before he could do so, however, Dr. Morgan had set down her pen and crossed her arms on top of her clipboard.

“Well, Stan, here’s what I’m thinking.  The upstairs bathroom is your roommates’, right?  If you really didn’t want anyone to find you, I think you would’ve slit your wrists in the bathroom in the basement; that’s your own personal space, and no one would have any reason to go in there until he realized you were missing, and that wouldn’t be for at least a day.  Do you think it’s possible that you did it upstairs because you wanted to be found?”

Stan thought about the question, mulling it over in his head. Did he want Eddie to find him, arms opened from the top of his wrists to the crook of his elbows?  Eddie hated blood, and apparently there had been quite a lot that day.  Stan felt bad that he had probably scarred him for life.  He had only wanted to hurt himself, not Eddie and Richie.

“No, I wanted to die in the sunlight.  There’s no windows in the downstairs bathroom, but there’s one above the tub upstairs.”

His answer was steely, but a knowing smile played at Dr. Morgan’s lips. It trigged a spasm of annoyance in Stan. Who was she to question the motives behind his suicide attempt?  There was no crying for help about it- Stan Uris had really and truly wanted to die that day.  Sometimes, he still did.

“That’s fair.  But can you do me a favour, and just consider that idea between now and our next session?”

He nodded, but was trying to cram the notion into the depths of his subconscious at that same moment.  

The remainder of the session was spent talking about his depression, family history and how he was feeling on his medication.  Dr. Morgan had stopped probing, and didn’t mention his suicide attempt again.  Since she was a professional, Stan assumed that she could tell when she had crossed a line with a patient.  Still, he knew that the topic was probably going to come up again next week, and so the anxiousness that had emerged did not wane.  

At eleven, Dr. Morgan stood and tucked her notes underneath her arm.

“Okay, Stan.  I think that this was a very promising first session.  Should I expect you the same time next week?”

Stan nodded meekly as he raised himself from the armchair.  He quickly shrugged into his jacket in an attempt to ward off the complete feeling of vulnerability.  Dr. Morgan held her hand out once more, and smiled as he grasped it.

“And, Stan…will you please think about what we talked about today? Even if you don’t think it’s true at all?”

Stan mumbled some sort of affirmation, before fumbling with the doorknob and retreating out of her office.  He felt like his ears had been stuffed with cotton, and his throat was raw as if he had been swallowing sandpaper all morning.  He knew what Dr. Morgan had said wasn’t true, but it still bothered him.  

“Hey, man.  You okay?”

Stan’s eyes flicked upward and he pursed his lips.  A black boy, about the same age as he was, looked up at him from behind the receptionist’s desk.  He looked concerned, but not in the same way that Eddie or Richie did; not like he was a piece of fine china that was about to splinter at any moment, but like he was a genuine person who appeared to be upset. The boy’s lips curved into a smile, his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah…f-fine,” Stan finally spluttered, his hands retreating into his jacket pockets.  The fingers on his right wrapped around the yogurt cup and squeezed instinctively.   The man’s grin grew.

“Alright, just making sure.  See you next week, then!”

Stan managed to reciprocate a gentle smile of his own as he shouldered the door to the building open.

Yeah, I guess you will.