Blunt

In the Name of Freyja

Incense filled the air thickly, seeping in and out of nostrils, bringing sickly exotic smell with it as they exhale and inhale. Martin had a pen ready on his right hand, a notepad on his left hand, and a cup of warm tea on his tabletop. As usual. But nothing prepared him when a bold question shot out from the pretty lady in front of him.

"Doctor, do you know what it feels like to be high from too much incense?"

Her eyes twitched and wandered freely; they never seemed to stay focused. They were glazed with an undecipherable look as she lounged on the comfortable couch, her head lolled to the side, with one hand draped across the armrest to support it and the other hand on her stomach. He cocked an eyebrow as he processed the question. It was Freyja's first and most active sentence ever; and they had been having around three sessions before, four including this one. Usually she would just stare at the unknown space, her mind soaring high somewhere else - nodding and shaking her head in response to anything he throws at her. So her question was, or at least he thought it was, a precious start after three resultless sessions.

"Well, no," he replied, then hastily added, "Though I've heard of such cases."

The gears in his head started moving. "Are you feeling...?"

A simple nod was all he needed from her. Maybe it was the answer. To why she could never focus, why she could never be serious with him so far.

She nodded, the copper ringlets on her shoulder shaking vigorously. She looked numb. As if she wanted to say something, but dare not to say it. Martin got up and cautiously closed the lid of the incense jar. "It might need a few minutes to completely wear off..." he picked up a can of fragrant water and started to spray it around. "So take your time, Miss Freyja."

When he sat back, he saw that Freyja had already changed her position - something she had never done in the previous sessions. He could feel a smile forming on his face. A dozen psychologists had tried to make progress on her at all - but none of them had gotten this far, not from the woman in cotton dress who kept asking for help yet couldn't exactly say what kind of help she needed. But he did it. He got her to talk, got her to move.

"Now that the incense is finally cleared, shall we start on some questions?" He flipped through his frustrated scribbles and curious questions. She was truly a mysterious woman. But she and him knew nonetheless; that he wouldn't take no as an answer, when it comes to asking her questions.

"What's your name?"

"Freyja."

"What's your last name?"

Her eyes flickered with doubt for a second. "It's... Freyja."

Duh.

"Who are you, Freyja?"

"I'm..." she casted her glance downwards, "I'm Freyja... Just Freyja... ."

"Who is Freyja?" He tried on a different approach; he usually uses it when he talks to kids, or teenagers with some deep shit psychological problems. It usually works.

"Freyja... is..." there it was again, the doubtful flicker on her eyes. But then it was replaced by a steely glare, as if molten lava had filled those orbs in an instant and strengthened them. "Freyja is Freyja," her voice stated, without the usual meekness. "And you are creeping her out; you are unbelievably unbelieving."

His ears were all perked up as he took in the situation. Interesting. Patient is showing signs of having a double personality, if not multiple. Need to be investigated.

"Okay, then," he tore his eyes away from his notepad, "What are you afraid of, Freyja?"

The question seemed to hit her like a train as her head wobbled back, the same glazed eyes staring at the ceiling again. He just smiled. He knew that questions about fear are what the patients hated the most; the deeper their fear, the more hesitant they are to speak. And he'd faced two or three difficult cases, so what's a young woman like Freyja? He could certainly handle them.

He waited. And waited. Just waited.

"Okay, let's change the question. Why do you need help, Freyja?"

".......ains."

The whisper was so low, Martin could've mistaken it as the wind. "What are ains?"

"...chains."

The young woman shifted uncomfortably; yet her eyes showed determination, one which is clouded with extreme fears, and ruthless doubt, but stood firm still. Martin slowly put down his pen as he drill a stare at her. "What chains, Freyja? You know you can tell me. You paid for this. I'll give you any help in return."

Freyja now sat up straight, her knees drawn up to her chest as she swirled invisible pictures on the couch. "Is that how you trick people into believing you can really help them, doctor?

By saying reassuring words,

Spewing kindness in your voice,

Carrying out a cup of warm tea to the troubled patients with cold tears?"

He squinted. He needed to test this; it was a shortway to knowing one of the mysterious woman's mystery. "You're not Freyja," he concluded confidently.

"Oh, I am Freyja." She smirked, and then her demeanor changed again; "I am Freyja." And again. "I am Freyja too." And again. "Still Freyja."

The change of behavior was so quick, it had left Martin quite surprised. It wasn't like facing a patient, whose name is Freyja.

It was like facing the world, in the name of Freyja.

"So you're Freyja," he said cautiously, his lips quivering. Calm down. Nothing new here. You're a professional psychologist, for God's sake. He reached out for his cup of tea; now mildly cold, for he had not touched it once. "Tell me about the chains, Freyja."

"...it's not a chain."

The usually distant Freyja was back.

"There are chains... controlling me... uniting me. Making me one of them," she whispered, terrified. Martin sipped his tea as he watched the distraught expression of the woman in front of him. "The chains," she whispered. "Are everywhere."

"They peer at me as I sleep,

A small creak as the door opens,

And hudreds of eyes glow,

As they bind me in chains,

And I fell back asleep..."

Putting down his tea, he started to scribble Freyja's words on his notepad. It might be some clue to heal her. And if it was, then he would be the first person ever to crack the case of the mysterious Freyja.

"I hate those chains," she whispered, raking down her hair with her fingers. "I don't want to be bound like them."

"Who are they, Freyja?"

"I don't want to be like them, chaining other people ---"

"You can trust me, it's okay to spill."

"No!" She threw a pillow onto the floor, and held up an accusing finger. "All your kind can do is to shut them inside my head! They told me! They told me all of it! You can't help me, no!"

Maybe it wasn't wise to keep pressing on; but Martin was determined, and so he scooted closer to the young woman. "Freyja, calm down. I can help you. I can get rid of them - whoever they might be - and not shut them inside." For a moment he thought that she looked guilty - a small gesture of fear threatening to spill out from her tear ducts.

"...put it in..."

Martin rose an eyebrow. "What?"

"They made me put it in," she confessed, in a hoarse whisper, her hands shaking. She dug her fingers into her pocket and pulled out an empty glass vial. "Chains made me do it... Oh doctor, you can't ever save me."

Freyja stood up, shoving the glass vial back into her pocket. "So now you know what I fear and why I dislike your kind," said her, leaving a confused Martin on his crouching position. Turning her head, he saw that tears had escaped her bloodshot eyes, but a malicious expression was etched still. "You can't ever help me.

I'm sorry...

My fear...

You can't ever help it."