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Hey, want the next chapter? I know Trag and Fie do. Sorry, I'm hyped up on pop. Yay Dr. Pepper! Read and enjoy.
“Hey,” Hycinthus says, his soft voice interrupting my writing about my previous block, the session that is with me on the court’s order. That boy tries to confuse me on purpose but I’ll say one thing for the kid, he doesn’t lie. He says half-truths and evades questions like a true criminal, yes, but he never outright lies to me.
“Ahh,” I groan out as I stretch my arms happily. “My favourite session has returned to me. Where were you last block?” I ask causally, taking off my sunglasses and placing them on my desk. I watch his nervous posture; the way his hand twitches as if trying to clench, his submissively bowed head, the way he is swaying his body from side to side instead of forward and back. I make my voice light and pleasant but truthfully I am concerned. It is not like Hycinthus to miss a block, not like him at all.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, flicking his head down so his hair is in his eyes, so I can not meet them. “My parents had me go to some fancy dinner instead. I tried to get out of it but they made me go.” He scuffs his feet on my plush dark blue carpet, likely feeling guilty for not coming.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, trying to alleviate his guilt; the guilt he should not be feeling, not for this. “If it happens again, just call me beforehand, ‘kay?” I ask, smiling to calm him and his anxiety of losing people whom he wishes to care for him, I am quickly raising to this status.
If the people that he cares about truly care about him, they wouldn’t leave him; that’s how he thinks of it. His body relaxes as tension and worry leaves him and he sits in one of my soft squishy chairs.
--Does not wish to lose my company, wishes to please me.--
--Clear signs of emotional and mental neglect. Possibly--
--verbal abuse as well. Withheld attention to gain what they--
--wanted from him. Tension leaves when he is here. Enjoys--
--blocks.--
“I was in that hospital for almost three weeks before I was… dumped,” he says quickly and I raise one of my eyebrows at him.
This is very unusual; he has never been so direct or started to speak so quickly. Usually I have to coax him into even speaking at all, never about mind things that affect him so greatly. There have been a few sessions where we both just sat in silence; me with my dark sunglasses on and leaning back in my chair and him curled up like a cat on one of the chairs, sometimes sleeping, sometimes not.
He shakes his shaggy head at me and through that movement tells me that he doesn’t want to talk about why he is being so direct. I must admit I am quite curious.
--Agitated. Direct and to the point when he does not wish--
--to speak about things. Speaks of alternate pain when--
--he wants to avoid certain topics. Note to self: ask--
--why he is agitated later.--
Hycinthus continues to speak as I write. “It took about three weeks to heal enough to even leave the hospital and I had to adapt to using only one eye when I always used two, ‘cause I didn’t want to complain about it. I don’t want to be a whiner,” he explains, beginning to rock the way he does every block he is not curled up.
I look at him, trying to project serenity and calmness to him, and I tell him as truthfully as I understand the situation, “Telling people that you’re in pain is not whining, neither is explaining that you have a problem that can not be easily solved, like your eye problem. You are a very good person and explaining you have been handicapped does not make you a whiner.” I rest my head on the back of my curled hand and write again.
--He is in pain. Does not seem to understand that--
--complaining is not whining and can help in a situation--
--and that explaining will help other understand him.--
“Continue,” I murmur to him, wishing I that knew how to relieve his pain, wishing that I knew how to help him understand that he is not and should not be thought of as a burden by those around him.
“My parents…” He bows his head and breathes deeply, steadying himself, calming himself. I glance at his thin face and see the smaller man’s eyes dampening with tears. I wish to soothe him; to lie to him, and tell him that he does not have to relive his pain just to explain it to me. But he does because only by confronting his pain can he grow and heal from it. Become better than it and make it cause him pain no longer. “My parents made me go to school the day after I went home, said they couldn’t stay home for me, to watch me, even though I was still really hurt. I was taking some pretty heavy medication for pain so I was pretty doped up and groggy but I went to school. As I was told, I always do what I’m told. I just follow. I’m so stupid,” he mutters the last part under his breath, bowing his head and he does not peek through his curtain of hair to look at me like he usually does.
--Ashamed that he listened to his parents. Disillusioned,--
--it seems, about his parents and faults they may--
--possess. Does not trust them with his wellbeing. But seems--
--to have only been disillusioned and started to dislike/--
--distrust them some time after this event.--
“You’re not stupid,” I tell him calmly, standing from my own large squishy chair and walking over to the rocking and quivering young man. “You were a naïve and trusting teen who just wanted affection and got taken advantage of. That’s who you were then, you were not stupid. You are a shy and gentle but traumatised young man. And that is who you are now, you’re still not stupid; just different,” I tell him almost commandingly, but gently enough that he will think about my words, that he will truly consider them.
I stand in front of him, watching as he thinks, rocking slightly faster than his equilibrium as he frowns, furling his eyebrows, and lifts his head to me. I remove my shoes and sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the chair Hycinthus is sitting in. I concentrate solely on my breathing, meditating and centring myself, regaining control over my emotions that have been in turmoil as of late.
After a full five minutes, I feel the thin man softly tap my left shoulder with the first two fingers of his right hand. My dark eyes snap open and my head slides up to watch his pale face. He nods once at me and I raise one eyebrow at him, running my long fingers through my dark hair. I’m going to need a haircut soon. It’s getting far too long. Hycinthus smiles wanly at me and speaks softly and quietly, “I… I believe you.”
My eyes barely widen even though I am thoroughly in shock. This is a phenomenal show of trust from him that I didn’t expect for quite a while – especially since he has been betrayed and neglected by those he cared about greatly and had the one thing all his trust depended on leave him like a lion cub rejected from the pride simply because he was pet by a human. “Thank you,” I say to him, half-hooding my eyes and smiling softly. He wants to trust, he wants to hope and this want is probably an unconscious desire that he does not, or can not, acknowledge; in the way that most do not acknowledge their more… demanding sexual desires. “Will you tell me what happened at school?” I ask; basking, unnoticed by Hycinthus, in happiness at his show of trust in me.
“When lunch finally came, my meds had run out and I was in serious pain. I was barely able to stand I hurts so bad and then I walked right into Judas, who I thought still cared for me, whimpering from the sharp sensation,” he says, biting his bottom lip and bowing his head. “I looked up and tried to smile at him, it probably came out as a grimace, but he just scowled down at me. I unconsciously pulled away from that look, that horrible, horrible look, and I asked timidly, ‘Judas?’. He raised an eyebrow at me – but not as elegantly as you do – and I thought he wanted me to continue. I was shivering in pain but all I was concerned about was him, so I asked ‘Are you okay? What’s the matter?’. Then he smirked; that scary, predatory, teeth-bearing smile. Then he shoved me back away from him and the small of my back slammed into a table. I couldn’t help but cry out in pain, oh the searing penetrating pain…” Hycinthus closes his eyes, rocking slowly and whimpering softly; trapped violently in his memory.
I gently rub the palm of my hand against his bony knee – not nearly as bony as what I saw in the first block – to comfort the thin man but tell him to continue. To persuade him to continue and release his pain and allow himself to heal. So he can – not erase his wounds – but allow them to scar them over and remember them with bittersweet nostalgia, not pain.
He breathes in slowly then he continues to speak and rock to soothe himself. “He started to mock me,” Hycinthus whispers, pulling his feet under him and leaning forward in the squishy chair that he sits in. He presses his forehead against my much broader shoulder beginning to cry. “They were so hurtful, those things he said. He said I was a ‘Stupid Queer’ and that he ‘never cared’, he just wanted to see if ‘fags were as good a fuck as girls’ and that I was a prude for not ‘putting out’. But doya wanna know wha’ hurt the most, Dr Dox?” he asks, now actively sobbing, tear rolling down his face and his thin frame shaking. He is gripping my shoulders hard but he makes no attempt to cause physical harm to me or to himself.
“I do,” I tell him simply, leaning the side of my face against the top of his head, still comforting him while gently pushing him further into my warm shoulder. “Tell me what hurt you the most,” I plea softly, reaching my hand up and smoothing his long, shaggy, scruffy hair, using a similar technique to the one that he generally uses to calm himself; gentle, repetitive motions.
“He said ‘it’s not like anyone could ever love you anyway’ and he laughed and then other people started laughing,” the boy sobs uncontrollably, moving closer, into my arms instead of against my shoulder, sliding out of the chair and into my lap. I continue to stroke his head and I start to rock my own body like he usually does, rocking him like a parent rocks a nightmare-awoken child. “Wha’ did I do?” he whimpers, desperately clinging to my shirt, soaking it liberally with tears, and starting to hiccup pathetically. “Wha’ ‘ave I done that makes me unlovable?”
“You have done nothing wrong,” I murmur to him, my lips brushing his soft hair as I rock him. “Human beings are stupid and can’t truly see you. I can see that you have done nothing wrong, that they are the ones who are wrong. You believed me, remember, when I told you that you are different, not unlovable; shy and gentle, remember?”
His sobbing slowly stops and then he timidly nods into my shirt, the dark grey material of the button-up shirt having turned black quite a while ago. “Yeah, I ‘member,” he whispers, acting more like a frightened toddler by the second. “I believe you.”
Again, I am elated to hear the trust he puts in me, despite the strange, strange, position that we have ended up in. “Very good,” I tell him, “because what I said is true. Someday you will find somebody.”
He chuckles softly into my shirt and looks up at me, his large eyes rimmed with dark pink and tear-tracks smearing and agitating his now rounder cheeks. Even crying and dishevelled he looks so much healthier than he did not so long ago. “Optimist,” the boy accuses me, laughing.
“No,” I say, mockingly scolding him, “Idealist.” My alarm goes off, blaring and screeching, and I look at the child-like man sprawled across my lap. “Better now?” I ask him softly and when he nods, I help him stand and then follow him up. “You know you can always call me, right? At anytime.”
Hycinthus smiles his crooked, watery smile at me and nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly, continuing to smile at me. He slouches forward and tenses his thin body and I hear soft pops which I assume are from his spine. He lifts his head, giving it a sharp twist to crack the bones in his neck as well, and he speaks softly, “Sorry, for crying all over you.”
I causally wave his apology off. “S’ok, tears are preferable to vomit. Besides, I only have one more block today,” I tell him I notice him opening his mouth while staring at the dark spots on my shirt. “Don’cha worry Cinth. I’ve got an extra shirt. I started taking an extra set of clothing to work after a session purposely vomited on me. Usually, though, I get water, or pop, or spit on my shirt,” I tell him and at his glance I continue to explain. “People get mad when their therapy isn’t seeming to work or is causing them pain. So they spit or throw their drinks at me. But sometimes you need to re-break a bone for it to heal properly, it’s the same with your mind. You have to go over your painful experiences and memories to heal from them. You need to understand why it hurt you to move past it,” I tell him, watching for his reaction. There are usually two reactions to this revelation: calm acceptance or violent denial.
He pauses to think about what I am saying as I walk over and pull a bag out from under my desk. It is a simple black duffel bag that is filled with neatly folded button-up work-shirts. As he thinks, I swiftly unbutton my shirt and place it in a small plastic bag, to keep it from causing mildew on my other shirts. I bend down to grab the white cotton shirt on top and I hear the young man’s voice. “I agree with that,” he tells me and as I look up, he leaves, wiping the tear-tracks off his face.
I quickly button up my shirt, and then the cuffs, glancing at the clock. Ten minutes until Donnor Severo’s block. Poor guy, he’s had it really hard lately.
I close my eyes, thinking, and then I write about this block in Hycinthus’ blue-covered book.
--Has no confidence in self and believes self to be--
--Less than he is but is willing to believe me if--
--I prove him wrong. Is beginning to depend on me, but--
--I can not tell if this is a good or bad sign. He depends--
--on me as a person would a parent or a kind older brother.--
--Takes time to consider what is being said before deciding--
--on an opinion. Shows a great deal of trust toward--
--me. Has an unconscious desire to trust and hope. Has--
--not been broken. Feels great deal of pain for what--
--his ex-boyfriend has done and said to him. Suffers--
--social estrangement. Has no one to comfort him besides--
--his twin, who has left, and, now, me and wants help--
--because twin is no longer near. The fact that ex said--
--he was ‘unlovable’ has hurt him more than the slurs--
--toward his sexuality. Still quite childlike. Needs--
--reassurance. Refraining from harming self. Forgot to--
--ask why he was agitated. Very concerned about what--
--others think of him. Wish to seem strong in front of--
--me, has started to tease. Seems to understand he must--
--relive the pain of his memories to heal from them. He--
--is very intelligent but going through his school--
--records he has not done well in classes. Why?--
I close the scribbler and place it in Hycinthus’ drawer, and as a tall man with black tipped blond hair enters I pull out his red-covered book and place it on top of my desk. Red for passion; for anger and for blood. Works well for this session’s life, his job. He is a police officer with a severe lack of impulse control. “Hello Mr. Severo,” I say easily and calmly to the broad-shouldered man.
“Donnor,” he tells me curtly and the last block of the day begins.
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