{2 december 2014}
"louis? are you ready?"
pressing her clipboard closer to her chest, she furrows her eyebrows slightly, closely examining the young man sitting across from her. young barely describes him, she decides, glancing down at the notes on the sheet that her fingers are clutching to. young, definitely. 24 years old. tired blue eyes. messy, feathered brown hair. half a mystery, half a horrifying surviver's tale. young is sufficient for now.
she clears her throat, breaking louis' concentration on the book resting on the shelf just above her immaculate up-do. "ptsd: surviving the aftermath" it reads, and louis can't help but feel a small surge of irritation at the title. mental disorders are for lunatics. louis is fine.
"i- yeah. okay." louis stammers nervously. his pale face indicates no emotion, but the tremor in his voice and the way his eyes flick around the room between each word that he mumbles is a clear sign to the woman that this man is anxious. it's her job to deduce it.
"go ahead. whenever you're ready." it's routine. every day for the past three months, louis has sat on the small couch across from the therapist, wringing his hands on his lap where he thinks she won't be able to see. she does. each day, they talk about trivial, unimportant things for half an hour, and each day, she asks if he's ready, and he thinks he is, and then they sit in silence for the remainder of the hour. at the end, louis thanks her and apologises, she smiles and says she's proud of him, and then he's gone for 23 hours. it's a regime.
she shifts in her leather seat, preparing for the 21 minutes left in the session.
just as she expected. silence.
"i guess it all started with a stupid early birthday gift."
