Like Fire and Powder

07. Progress Is Not Linear

'I am not used to happiness,' she said. 'It makes me afraid.'

-- Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea

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"And how does that make you feel?"

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you looked at the clock on the wall for the hundredth time.

"Looking at the clock every second doesn't make them go by faster, (Y/n)."

You blinked slowly and looked back to your therapist, Parth. He was an android -- his skin was dark brown, his nose hooked and larger than most, and there were even streaks of gray in his black hair. When you'd first met him, you'd been surprised about the gray in his hair -- most androids had youthful appearances.

"I'm tired," you said, looking away from him again. Instead of looking at the clock again, you looked out the window. It was a small window because you were in a cramped apartment building, but you could still see some tree branches, could still see some birds on it.

"You just said you struggle with feelings of guilt," Parth said. "And that you'd rather not have them."

"Yeah," you said, still not looking at him. "Why does it matter how I feel? I said what I said."

"You also said you feel angry whenever you leave our sessions."

"Oops. Slip of the tongue, I guess."

You heard Parth shift, and you started in surprise as he moved his plush chair in front of the window, blocking your view.

"You are very easy to read, (Y/n)," Parth said, getting comfortable again.

"Then what's my mother paying CyberLife for?" You asked. "Just tell me what's wrong with me so I can stop coming here."

You wanted to feel angry, you wanted to feel something, but you just felt empty. It'd been a year since the accident, and you were doing poorly in your sophomore year of college. Your mother, having wanted to find a way back into your personal life, had offered to pay for a few therapy sessions.

"You don't have to be here," Parth said, waving his pen around. "It's not like your mother knows if you're here or not. So you must be here for something."

"I feel obligated, is all," you said, looking to the side. "Besides, you said I was easy to read. How so?"

Parth made a disappointed sound, but he relented. "Your track record with honesty isn't good, (Y/n)."

"You're telling me I lie a lot?"

"I'm saying," Parth said, beginning to sound exasperated, "that, yes, you lie a lot. I can't ignore the way your body reacts physiologically when you lie. But I'm talking about . . . when others are honest with you. You don't like that."

"That's not true."

Parth cocked his head to the side, raising a brow. "The last time I told you something direct about yourself, that you had yet to realize, your heart rate spiked. As well as your temperature. You clenched your jaw, and you left with a headache."

"That was one time," you said, shrugging. "You told me I push people away to feel better about myself, so, yeah, I was angry."

"Why?"

"Because that's not true," you said, scoffing. You crossed your legs and held your hands in your lap. "There's a lot wrong with me on the surface. My parents got divorced when I was young. My father was an incompetent asshole, borderline sociopath. Now, what does psychology tell me? That I have abandonment issues, and that I push people away. But I have a lot of friends. I'm social. I do things. I don't -- don't lock myself up in my room. I'm not depressed."