he quit taking notes years ago

my story repeated many times

same beginning same ending

he knows how I feel about it

angry bitter regretful enraged

we've gone over it over it over

somethings can't be undone

somethings can't be unstuck

maybe it's all a bit life lesson

perhaps you needed this fall

will make you a better person

having loved lost lived through

makes you strong resilient stuff

unmovable untouchable muted

tell me again tell me again again

The first time I saw the young man, known as [R E D U C T E D], subsequently known as ‘the patient’, was when he was brought to me in handcuffs. He had an air of gloom I have yet to see in any of my patients. The photo that was shown to me and the man in front of me were like 2 different people. His lush brown hair had turned white and his attractive face had become skeletal.

The first week was spent without much progress. Most of the hour went on in an absolute silence and observation as he seemed to search the room. As if looking for something hidden. Occasionally he would listen to non-existing sounds and tremble. As it was my job to determine if the patient suffered from a mental illness or if he was sane enough for imprisonment, I decided to give him the time he needed to open up.

On the second week, he seemed to get more comfortable and started to open his thoughts to me. He spoke of the night in the woods and the horrors that had made the headline news that next morning.

His opening statement was, and I quote: “There are things in this world, doctor. Horrors beyond our wildest nightmares. And I have seen one of it.”

I pondered if those ‘horrors’ were manifestations brought on by stress or perhaps a genetic predisposition towards schizophrenic disorders? I don’t remember his parents mentioning anything about ancestors with similar disorders. But who knows. Maybe it happened further than the family remembers.

The patient continued by stating how it all begun during an intoxicated round of truth or dare. One of the victims, known as [R E D U C T E D], subsequently known as ‘victim one’, took out a piece of paper and dared him to read from it. He continues by recalling that he found the page strangely old looking and hideous. There was a text written on it in red ink. The patient questioned the victim what book this was from. But victim one simply told him it’s from some old box he found in his late grandfathers attic. It sounded creepy, so he brought it on the drinking excursion.

So the patient read from it a sentence, one he can not remember, as it was in some foreign language. But as soon as he finished the words, a lightning struck near them on the ground. He swears that he is not lying when he describes it as green and almost soundless. His blood analysis seems to confirm that the boys were not on any kind of mind-altering substance, safe for beer. A greenish black smoke rose from the place of impact and started taking on a human silhouette. From it formed a creature of grotesque shape. The patient seemed to sweat profoundly upon remembering. He describes it as, and I quote: “Barely looking humanoid, with a strange demonic twisting on it’s skin.” If one is to imagine his hallucination, the face only contained a mouth with rows of dull teeth, outstretched in a spiral towards the height of trees. Its hands were intertwined appendages of what he only described as, and I quote: “tentacles from an octopus.” Hysteria soon erupted between them. Screaming and yelling. Only victim one, that brought the page, seemed to bow to the ground for the creature. The creature grinned from one earless side to the other. That is the last thing the patient is able to recall before waking up in that same spot, with a knife in his hands and surrounded by the dismembered bodies of his friends. In a more grotesque manner than any horror film he had ever seen.

After this couple of weeks, it is my professional opinion; after spending all this time with the patient, to declare that the man known as [R E D U C T E D] to be psychologically insane and should be put under immediate supervision.

From some deep part of my mind, I have also decided to include a piece of unrelated information. In spite of the new heating installed in the office, I could feel a cold in the room as the patient told his story.

The mascara shamelessly got in the way of her tears, gliding gracefully down her cheeks, seeking an entrance past her lips.

My gaze remain fixed to the bruises on her body, which she had carefully concealed– a testament to the pain she had suffered in the name of love.

“I love him", she whispered, her eyes sunken and her voice trembling.

Yet again, her body betrayed her. The weight of her fear reeling me in, a silent plea for help!

Her shoulders tighten, and her fists clenches,as if bracing herself for her next fight.

“I feel trapped, as though bound by chains, and I can't seem to break free. His presence hovers around me– his angry face, his cold gaze, and his disgust at the sight of me, a nightmare.

I close my eyes, and I see myself locked up, while he keeps screaming at me. Fear consumes me, as much as his abuse has consumed every inch of my soul".

I hear the shattering of my heart, for the millionth time today.

Her wounds may never truly heal, yet, I knew she was a warrior.

I dissuade the little voice in my head that screams:

Oh dear, if the shoes fit, you'd be a ravaging soul, desperately waiting for death to set you free.

Due to the unbalanced nature of Daniel Moors' testimony, when the drugs had been almost absent, it was readily apparent that psychological dependence had set in. And at the moment he had desperately needed his vice.

However the young man had luckily had enough lucidity to not antagonize the officers or much move when called for a disturbance in the estate.

Due to his incoherence, his erratic behavior prior, due to the fact that the younger brother was petrified with eyes blown wide and drenched but otherwise uninjured on the patio a social worker was called in.

The parents had lost control. Realized so months ago when their son had punched a wall in an exhausted, irritable state one night.

And as it stood had no means or authority as parents to have corralled destructive behavior and violent language.

Olli had become something of a doll, otherwise unaccounted for in matters of the house, in the instances Daniel sober or not deigned to notice him. Sometimes he was in a hugging and crying mood. Other times he was in a venting mood.

He screamed at ten year old Olli on such occasions.

It was scary.

Even though his screams had demanded him to stay there, in one place, far from him while he was so angry.

His eyes had learned to track the movements of those bigger. Take mental note of how they paced, how long their strides, how measured or how agitated.

And from the very start he'd not trusted Dr. Eddal. Hadn't wanted her there.

From the start a requirement to shelve the entire ordeal as resolved was for the parents to submit Olli to a counselor for care.

Specializing in abused children.

She'd been used to horrible. And in some occasions yes, the children did turn into statistics into her mind.

She could only hope every day, try a little harder every day that those ill-suited tracks of thought never showed.

Dr. Eddal first consulted with Olli late at night, not long after Daniel had been detained and formally registered into rehab. Rather than her regular office it had been in a hospital.

The parents or Uncles, the adult family members were often the most common culprits. But there were always the times-- where, "the brother in his stupors would talk in coarse language, extort the child, blackmail and demand from the child to keep his silence."

"We do not believe physical force was applied."

"Marks designated to be 'with intent' are few and far between. Most if not all are now old and partially healed."

She answered his questions.

She asked her own, of how he felt of what he liked and who he liked. What did he do at certain times of the day and when he ate. How was school? There had been a note that he tried out for his basketball team and had been a rat in the Nutcracker show that winter.

Eddal did her utmost to reassure he was a person. A valued person who'd been undeservedly mistreated. In a way no one deserved to be treated.

And with time, in their eighteen months together she hesitated, but ultimately decided that it wouldn't be unprofessional if he considered her a friend.

If it meant his fear of adults all but faded.

Once he'd graced her with his voice, well, she certainly laughed a great deal. She clapped when he showed her the steps for the rat's solo in the Nutcracker. She listened as rules were enforced and the candy and cookie jars were placed out of his reach.

It was a transitionary period: from indulgent negligence to authoritative.

She reminded him it was out of love. She reminded that it was his decision and his alone to see Daniel, to contact his older brother-- his older brother with an illness who had hurt him, who had known so to some level-- when it was safe. Safe for Olli physically and safe for Olli mentally.

She only saw him twice-more after the eighteen months were up.

Three years later and she'd have to correct that.

Setting her purse on the seat beside her a coffee mug had been slid into her hands.

"Thank you ma'am," Daniel said quietly.

Olli had allowed his brother to borrow his phone to call for a consult.

The boys' parents were at the moment, at Olli's school for a conference about recent behavioral issues. Before they were to realize the younger son had set them up to leave.

"Everyone else thinks I was hallucinating what I saw on that road. I'd be a little less pissed if they at least gave me a chance to speak."

"I'd read about that in the papers. You claim to have seen--"

"A ghost maybe, best way I could think to describe it when my head had been cut clean through with my windshield mind you."

Daniel Moors was terse but otherwise composed. He kept his temper and sighed out his frustrations.

"So," he continued with an obstinate shrug, "I hired three high-school freshmen. Okay, two freshmen and my brother."

Tap...I can see it in the way they walk into my room...tap... I can feel it in the air as a sharp inhale followed by a shaky exhale, disrupts the space between us…tap… I can hear it in their trembling voice when they speak from the empty bowls of desperation. They are hopeless and in anguish for their lack of mental nourishment. It is not the fault of a child if the adult has failed in their pursuit to teach but it is the fault of the child if they choose not to receive. In front of me sits both the child and parent in a single soul, each longing to connect with the other and yet stubborn in their understanding.

I cannot help them for they are co-dependent on their suffering, and they continue to push onward as a machine would. Using the tiny bits and pieces they had cultivated in the community they built before it came crashing down as fuel. They are finite, and they know that because it has been proven to them time and time again in the form of chaos, anarchy, and destruction. And when thats all they know what can you expect me to do? I will not fall victim to their will, but I will not stand in their way.

He’s been utterly, dreadfully alone.

It is not a professional way to think, but even therapists are doomed to feel sympathy for their fellow human.

And if the patient is not going to feel rage on their own behalf, someone else can be a placeholder until they work their way up to that.

Caden is not prone to rage. He does not anger easily. For that matter, he doesn’t feel many emotions easily. Many of them come across dulled, like there’s some sheer lace between his skin and his nerves.

He’s spent much of his life with a coping mechanism, likely starting around the time of his parents’ passing to an awful disease. Despite the fact that many families were impacted by the disease, Caden still feels isolated, perhaps because it was only his parents and him, no extended family. He has felt like a guest at someone else’s house for as long as he can remember.

This is a potential explanation for his muted emotions; It is hard to feel safe expressing anger or sadness when you can be kicked out for doing so.

The coping mechanism is similar to what every child adopts at some point, an imaginary friend. Caden refers to a tall man dressed in black with a low voice. His ‘castle’, according to Caden, is outside of our village, but within walking distance for a day-trip.

The stranger speaks very softly. Caden has presented symptoms of sensitivity to noise. The stranger’s house is described as spacious and lived-in yet clean, with a large library. Caden feels easily overwhelmed and trapped. The stranger’s house is an ideal safe place for his mind to go when he needs comfort.

It is fine for him to hold onto this imaginary friend, for now. We will work on how to create a safe space in other ways, so he doesn’t feel like he has to escape all the time.

He just left, he never cared about me

She thinks she's the reason he left

She doesn't think there could be another reason?

He didn't love me like he did her

She thinks she wasn't good enough

She thinks he found someone better

I can't live without him in my life

She credits him with her life

She feels insignificant without him

I love him, I'll never love again

She made him the center of her entire universe

She thinks she can't continue life and find someone else

Session over

I know what I need

She is highly dependent on others emotionally, but doesn't like being a burden

She wants things she can't have

She just has to keep no contact

I have a feeling that won't work out