Psychotherapy || HS

One

HELLINGLY ASYLUM

Maximum Security Ward for the Criminally Insane

SESSION ONE

The guards were rough with a manacled man with lightly curled brown hair and a mirthless grin. His body remained fit through the many days in prison and court dates, and he's taller than I ever imagined, but it fit with the talk of the newspapers.

I remained standing while the guards helplessly tried to position him to sit upright on the couch. After four minutes of rough placing and pushing, I decided to ask them to leave. I'd seen his face many a time. Newspapers, the television, even my own mother spoke about him with a tint of disgust and utter disappointment of a bright man gone insane. But to find myself standing diagonally from him, I could see that he was going to be an interesting work of art. One that will take patience, and endearing false love.

The smile had faded, but it flashed in the back of my mind as I sat. The smile; brought up to the creasing corners of his eyes reflected a tasteless, priceless sense of satisfaction. His eyes depicted a soulless, lost human being. I liked to believe that most of my patients hadn't lost their mind but was lost in it, but Harry Styles made it seem like he fit into both. He stared at me and licked his lips while I stared at him. I'd gone back to my thoughts on his facial features. His teeth were so healthy and big, better than my own, and I found myself jealous of teeth. Teeth.

The whiteness of his clenched knuckles and chestnut color of his hair were the garnish on his bizarre human concoction. And, in that moment, I wondered how God, should he exist, made such a man of color that lacked sanity. During my few short years at Hellingly Asylum, I'd encountered some of the strangest and most disturbing cases of mental illness in its most violent manifestations. But I'd never seen a case that seemed so minor compared to many others, yet so deranged that it stood out in my book as one of the most interesting. The case of Harry Styles.

Nothing in the media prepared me for the powerful will that I knew would come with such a patient. The smile he wore was his trademark, the same smile that almost made you feel bad if you didn't know why he pulled such a happy stunt. The questions from the press only seemed too trivializing to him, and he answered them with ease. He meant to kill them. He even smiled when he did so. We've all become accustomed to the stories of the devil within Harry Styles. My job? To get to know this devil.

The two armed guards reluctantly let go of Harry and removed his cuffs. I didn't allow the metal restraints in my therapy room, they reminded the patients they were stuck and alone whenever I tried to pull them away from that reality. I reached my hand out once I'd gotten comfortable in my seat. He didn't shake my hand, his gaze didn't break from my eyes. As many stares and gazes as I'd held with many other patients, one with Harry Styles was one of the hardest, but I stood my ground and retracted my hand. "I'm Sophia. I'll be-"

"Call me Harry." There wasn't a hint of a please attached, but more of a demand. His voice was surprisingly soft and contained a bit of brokenness, but soon replaced with the raw, disturbed vibe once he said his own name. It was as if he was proud of what he'd done, and I knew that he was. Although I've learned through many cases and years of patient after patient and college course after college course to not let the patient intimidate me, I was starting to believe that Harry Styles was breaking every lesson I'd learned and smothering it. Another thing he'd killed-my sense of knowing.