Deadly Truth

[]Michael[]

||A/N: Title represents the POV||

Sometime in 1984, beginning fall:

Why do therapists always ask "...and how does that make you feel?" like it's not clear enough from what expression you just put forward on the table for the professional mind mosquito to analyze and dissect.
I found it pointless, pointless to move on from what you were put into therapy for, it just made you analyze the issue from every angle before saying 'yes, this issue will very much give you trauma and PTSD.'
No shit Sherlock, kinda figured that out myself when getting around my father's property made me want to throw up or stab myself with a fork.
I was tempted to ditch my next therapy lesson, but I was already in the lobby checked in, sitting amung the other few people in the room. The receptionist was making a phone call, writing something down on a sticky note hurriedly.
I sighed to myself, leaning back into my chair with reluctancy, wishing I was in bed instead of here.
It's been required by my doctors for me to get therapy, like it'll help me overcome my past trauma. It doesn't. It just gives me a person to express my sarcasm.
And I was currently on my sixth therapist, and it was their first time with an appointment with me. The past have all tried and failed, but I know that this next one will do the same. Try once or twice. Maybe a third time, before sending me back to my doctors to find me another therapist they bribed.
I almost groaned outloud when a young lady in what looked like her early twenties called my name, her voice smooth and hushed in a motherly way.
I slumped forward and stood up, walking over to her. I felt someone's eyes on me and shot the owner of the nosey eyes a glare, scaring their gaze off to the window that had posters and a missing persons paper taped to it from the outside. I didn't bother to look into further detail for the paper, it was from years ago, and the funeral had already been held.
The young lady guided me back around the hallways' corner, into an office three doors from the men's washroom.
She let me in and motioned for me to sit on the couch leaned against the wall farthest from the door.
I slumped onto the couch, not looking at her when she sat down across from me in a rocking chair.
"So," she began, "you were recommended personally by your doctor to me. Mind giving more detail as to why?"
I didn't look at her still, but I answered her question curtly. "I have trauma, and they are forcing me to get therapy for it against my will."
"And yet you willingly came to this session," she commented.
Irritation pooled into my chest slowly. "I would have been dragged here by my doctors if I hadn't. They would force me down in a damn chair and make me talk about my 'problems'."
I could feel her analytic gaze on me as the seconds ticked by on the little clock nailed to the wall next to the closed door.
"Alright. We'll discuss this later. How about you tell me a little about yourself?" she suggested in a lighter tone.
I scoffed. "Like what? My hobbies?"
"Yes, that is an example," she replied quickly.
I finally turned to look at her, narrowing my eyes at her in defiance.
"I like to sleep," I said blandly. "That's it."
A little pucker between her eyebrows appeared and she exhaled through her nose softly. "What about your family?"
I looked away, clenching my jaw.
My new therapist was quiet, and I knew she discovered a sensitive topic.
"Is this one of the reasons you are forced into therapy?" she treaded hesitately.
I bit the inside of my cheek, looking at the details of the couch cushion.
"Yes."
It was a single word, but it felt like a waterfall of emotions were pouring down on me, making it almost impossible to breathe.
I sucked in a breath, shuddering.
"Do you mind explaining in a little more detail?"
I felt a tear slip down my cheek and I cursed myself internally, wiping it away angrily.
"No." I didn't like sharing that everyone was dead except for my bastardly father who kicked me out once he bought me a house on the other end of the town we lived in.
It's been three years after that, and I've moved into a completely different town now, starting over.
I saw her nod in my peripheral.
"Alright. Well, how about I tell you something about myself, then you share something similar? If it's too personal, you don't have to."
I raised an eyebrow to the couch, wondering if she knew I could just refuse to share anything about myself.
"Okay," I said, turning to look at her again. The pucker between her eyebrows was gone. "But first, tell me why you have a dead dog hidden behind your chair."