Fix Me (Septiplier) || The Boy Trap Book 2

Chapter 15 - Little Kid

September 12th, 2017

Mark's POV

I walked into the red building and through the halls, looking around at the slightly intimidating place. Finally I hit room 112 and knocked on the door.

"Hi Mark, thank you for coming here." Jennifer shook my hand and backed away so I could walk into the room. I looked around, different stress toys and puzzles tucked in a box in the corner. Different drawings of monsters and scribbles were hung on the walls, obviously by a little kid and several years old. "Take a seat." Jennifer sat in a chair at a desk and I sat across from her. "So how are you?" She asked with a soft smile.

"Uh, fine." I shifted uncomfortably.

"Okay. Well I'm Jack's therapist, Jennifer." She pushed a few papers aside, clearing her desk.

"We've met briefly before." I sighed. "Y'know, I've almost forgotten Jack went to therapy. He doesn't talk about it at all, and he has gotten a lot better since last year." I looked up at her.

"He has definitely gotten better, which is why I want to talk to you today." She said kindly. "Jack has improved a lot, his anxiety has gotten better, and I think it's because of you. You've helped him a lot, Mark." I smiled softly. "But only when he's around you." My smile faded. "His personality disorder has gotten a lot more out of control. We're putting him on a new medication, but he is very... Resistant, to it. He's very socially anxious as well. But he calms down when he talks about you." She clicked around on her computer a bit. "Our biggest problem that we're facing right now is that he's turning 18 soon. When he's an adult, I can't take care or him any more. We're trying to get something figured out so that I can still be his therapist, but it's very difficult." She sighed sadly. "I just want to show you his progress so you understand what's going on with him. When I'm not able to be his therapist any more, I need you to be there for him when I'm not." I nodded. "Anyway, these past few weeks Jack has started art therapy. I give him something to paint, and leave him to it for an hour. For therapy reasons, we record what happens in the room because I can't be in there with him." She stood up, waving over for me to follow her. She opened the door at the back of the room.

Everything was white and splattered with random colors of paint. 4 canvases were lined up against the wall.

"The first day I asked Jack to paint what anxiety felt like." She gestured to the first canvas. It was smudged with black, a green figure falling from the top of the canvas. At the bottom of the canvas was a circle of bright white light, a red figure holding a lantern in the center of the light. I remembered the night of the tornado when Jack had a panic attack in the closet. Jennifer moved on to the next painting. "This one I asked him to draw what his borderline personality disorder felt like." The canvas was splattered with random colors and rainbow colored hand prints. Everything was smeared together, the color becoming muddy in the nonsense of the painting. "And then what it was like when you're around." The next canvas was perfect and neat. Each color of the rainbow was in perfect stripes across the canvas, the painting organized and calm. "The last one, I asked him to paint how much he loved you." She pointed to the last canvas. It was completely blank, not a spot of paint on it. My heart dropped slightly, confusion filling my head. "I want to show you the video for the last one." She walked out of the room.

She sat at her computer, clicking on the file she opened earlier. I stood behind her and watched the video play.

Jack walked into the room and the door shut behind him. He looked at the blank canvas, then at the paint. He reached for the red paint, but drew his hand back. Instead, he sat in front of the canvas and stared at it, doing absolutely nothing. Jennifer sped up the recording, and the entire time Jack had just sat in the same place and stared at the canvas. She stopped speeding it up, and Jennifer walked in on the recording.