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"Could I talk to Theta, please?"
Alpha looks down at his lap and fiddles with the hem of his hoodie. "Why do you want to talk to them?"
"Leonard. If you don't listen, I will have to tell your father."
"No! No, please don't tell dad," Alpha pleads. "I'll be good! I just - you … Theta gets really scared! They get really scared, I don't want to hurt them..."
Price offers Alpha a stiff, clinical smile. "I understand, Leonard. But these are not people. They cannot get hurt, or scared. Do you understand?"
Alpha bites his lip.
"Leonard?"
He nods, just the barest movement of his head. Down, up, down. He doesn't believe him, but his counselor is older, and smarter, and he's got framed diplomas on the wall, and he's dad's friend, so he should trust him. But Alpha knows that his alters are people, and he knows that they get scared and hurt, and he just — he doesn't want Theta to come out because the last time Theta was out, they got hurt.
Alpha doesn't know how, or why, but he knows that it happened.
"Could I please talk to Theta, Leonard?"
Alpha squeezes his eyes shut, but he nods again, and tries to let himself go. His dad and Price both say that it's incredible how well functioning they are — how well they can communicate and switch and control the body — and how Alpha shouldn't be able to talk to all of them, let alone switch on command. But that's just how it is. Maybe it's because they're all his friends. Even Omega, who's mean sometimes, and Gamma, who lies a lot.
But he has to stop thinking, or he's not going to be able to let Theta come out.
Maybe he could lie. Maybe … maybe he could say Theta just didn't come to the front. That happens sometimes. But what if Price knows? What if he tells dad?
What if he tells dad? Eta echoes for him, a ball of nervous energy in the back of Alpha's head.
Alpha shakes his head and clamps his hands over his ears. He doesn't want to listen to her - he doesn't want to listen to any of them right now. He doesn't want to be in this office. He doesn't want to feel Price's eyes on him. He doesn't want to try and dissociate so Theta can front so they can get hurt. He doesn't want to lose time duing these sessions anymore. He doesn't want any of this anymore.
"Leonard," Price says again, voice muffled, and Alpha drops his hands and looks at him, feeling frustrated and angry tears well up in his eyes.
"I know that you're ... struggling. This can be very hard. But if we continue to have sessions like this, where you won't listen—"
"I am listening!" Alpha interrupts. "I'm trying! I just — my head hurts and I can't think and I can't … can't..."
He trails off. Arguing won't help, Alpha, Delta tells him. And he knows that. Alpha knows that! But he has to defend himself! It's not his fault. It's not his fault...
But the point turns moot as Alpha feels himself slip away, Theta's presence taking over for him. One minute Alpha's there, feeling the tears in his eyes and the leather of the chair under him, and then it's gone. It's like falling asleep, but … scarier.
Theta blinks up at the Counselor, and then their gaze flits away.
"Hello, Theta."
"Hi, Counselor," Theta mumbles, wishing they could sink into the chair beneath them until they disappeared. They don't like the Counselor. He's mean, and they don't think he's doing any of them any good...
But they can't say anything.
Theta watches as the Counselor opens a small notebook and clicks his pen, posing it to the paper. They watch as he writes something, the faint sound of the scratching filling the quiet, sparse room.
"Theta," the Counselor says, looking away from the notebook and towards them. "How have you been?"
Theta takes a little bit to piece together their answer, looking down at the floor. They don't want to be here, but Alpha would've gotten in trouble too if they didn't…
"I'm okay," they finally answer, shrugging. "Um. I'm okay."
Scratching on the notebook.
"Are you telling the truth, Theta?"
They shake their head.
More scratching.
"Why do you feel like you need to lie to me, Theta?"
"I'm scared," Theta admits, picking at the skin around their fingernails. They don't like this. They don't like this at all.
"Why are you scared?"
Theta shrugs. "I don't know," they say, leaving it at that. But the Counselor doesn't say anything, and the silence stretches on too long, too heavy, and they sigh. "I don't know! I don't like this!"
The Counselor hums, and puts down his pen. "What about it don't you like?"
"I don't like you," Theta mumbles. "You're mean and you say mean stuff to me and Alpha and everyone and you put me in the dark even though it's scary."
"It's part of your therapy, Theta," the Counselor explains, his voice soft. Soothing. "I thought you understood? You accepted the treatment."
Theta remembers the first time they came to the front during a therapy session. It was two years ago — they had just been split off, new and vulnerable, and all they knew was that they were 10, the same age as Alpha at the time, and that they didn't like the dark.
Theta remembers the Counselor telling them that their name was Theta. And that didn't sound right, but they weren't going to argue. They were only ten, and even though they were new, they knew adults were supposed to be trustworthy.
Theta remembers accepting the exposure therapy treatment to help their anxiety and fear of the dark. The Counselor had said that their fear was affecting Alpha — that it was hurting him to have Theta be so scared whenever the lights were off. And Theta and Alpha were — are — friends. They didn't ever want to hurt him or make things harder for him.
That was two years ago, and their fear of the dark has only gotten worse.
"But it's not working," Theta protests. "I don't like it! It's just really scary! It doesn't help at all."
"Have you considered that you're not accepting the therapy? I understand that confronting your fears can be scary, Theta, but you must work with me. Simply participating in these exercises will not cure you of your anxiety."
Theta feels their face fall. They thought they were trying but maybe… "But. But I … I'm trying. I'm trying really hard."
The Counselor writes a few more things into his notebook before he responds. "Would you like to try again?"
Theta curls their fingers in the fabric of their jeans, but they nod.
Even still, the Counselor continues: "If you do not get better, we'll be forced to use more … extreme methods."
Theta furiously shakes their head this time. "No! No, I'll do it! I don't wanna … I'll do it."
--
It's a short walk down the hall from the Counselor's office to the isolation room. Theta stays at the Counselor's side, picking at the skin around their nails again. They don't like this. They don't want to do this. But they have to. And they have to try to not get so scared, this time. They really, really want to try.
The ring finger on their right hand is bleeding by the time they make it to the isolation room.
The Counselor opens the door, but doesn't usher Theta inside, yet. Instead, he turns to them, placing his hand on their shoulder. "Would you like to recite the rules, Theta?"
Theta doesn't respond. They don't like the rules.
"Theta?"
But they have to answer. They have to get better. "I can't switch with anyone. I can't - I can't dissociate. And I can't m-make any loud noise."
"Very good," the Counselor praises, gently pushing Theta into the room. It has plain, white tile flooring, and pale cream colored walls. There are no windows, no decorations, no furniture, no nothing. It's an empty, off-white room, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lighting.
Delta told him once that its purpose was originally intended to isolate children having a breakdown and who needed very little sensory input. But now it's simply Theta's worst fear.
They glance back at the Counselor, and they can feel tears build up in their eyes. But they don't protest, they don't argue, and after a deep breath, they walk to the middle of the room.
"I think twenty minutes will be a good goal to reach today, Theta," the Counselor says, his hand moving behind the wall to where Theta can't see. But they can guess at what his hand is pressed against. "The door is not locked, as per legal precedent. You can leave at any time."
Theta knows that that is an invitation for punishment. They tried to open the door once, to escape, but that — it didn't end well. For them or Alpha. But they nod their head anyway.
The Counselor shuts the door after Theta nods, securing their isolation. And then the lights flicker out, throwing them into pure, total darkness.
Theta screws their eyes shut, but it doesn't do any good. What they see behind their eyelids is the same as what they see in the room. Warped, distorted figures at the corner of their vision. Hands and shapes and everything that plagues their nightmares. They don't know which way is which, where up or down is, if left and right even exist. They know they should focus on their breathing, that's what the Counselor told them to do when they first started therapy, but they can't — they can't focus.
Theta backs up until their back hits the wall, and it's such a shock, such a comfort, such a landmark in a sea of darkness, that they let out a small, choked sob. They keep their eyes closed, and they move along the wall, trying to find the corner. It's only a few steps away, a couple feet at most, but it feels like a mile. It feels like the distance from here to somewhere safe. A long, long way away. But their left shoulder touches the wall, and they let themself slide down, pressed into the corner with their knees up to their chest, their arms hugged around their legs.
It's enough of something to orient themself within the black room, and it's — it helps. It helps a little. They can do this. They can do this. For the whole system. If they don't get better, they'll all just keep getting hurt.
But soon enough, Theta's grip starts to slip away, and they start to feel the walls press in on them. The comfort of the corner is replaced by the thought, the feeling of getting caught in a vice grip, and it's going to crush them, it's going to — they can feel their bones snapping, and, and—
Theta feels themself start to cry, and they scramble out of the corner, heading for the new safety of the middle of the room. Where the walls can't reach them. Where they can't get crushed between them.
They get a moment to relax, a moment to let themself just breathe. Four in, hold two, six out. That's what the Counselor said. Four, two, six. They get through three cycles before they start to feel hands grabbing at them, cold and ethereal and terrifying. Theta whimpers, and they close their eyes again, feeling hot tears run down their face and drip off their chin. They curl up on the floor in the middle — or what they think is the middle — of the room and sob, trying to ignore the feeling of the hands irritating their skin, of the cold tile burning into them, of the monsters that are surely waiting for them to open their eyes again.
The rest of their time in therapy is spent like this: Theta curls into a tight ball a few feet from the corner, crying and wishing for it to end, for the lights to come back on, for someone to come in and help them, for someone to hold them close and tell them that it's okay, they're safe. They wish they were brave, like Omega, or Gamma, and that they could be strong enough to do this. To help themself, and Alpha, and all the others. But they can't get better. They're not trying hard enough. They're not good enough. They're doing it wrong, they're not trying, they're not trying and they're going to get punished and, and, and.
They can't stop feeling hands touching them, running up their thighs and over their chest and down their stomach, and over — and they can't stop hearing voices whisper to them — unintelligible words that they can't make out, but they know that the voices are mocking them, laughing at them, telling them that they're not good enough. That they're not strong or brave enough to handle this. It's just a dark room, Theta, what do you have to be afraid of?
After an eternity, the lights come back on, a click and a hum and bright red light burning through Theta's eyelids. Theta shifts, uncurling themself, and they lift their head, opening their eyes and squinting. They see the Counselor, and they see the disappointment on his face.
"Come here, Theta," the Counselor says, cold and clinical, but not harsh. His voice is soft, and it's a comfort enough to them, forcing them to scramble onto their feet and close the distance between them. They latch onto the Counselor, their arms wrapped tight around his waist.
The Counselor allows them a moment, but then he's prying Theta's arms away. "I see that you have not made any progress from our last session. Maybe we will have to pursue … alternative methods."
"No," Theta chokes out, their voice rough and broken. "Please, I'll do better! I-I can do better! I promise! Please, I was just scared!"
But the Counselor simply shakes his head. "Theta, that is enough for today. I would like to speak to Leonard again."
--
Alpha's sitting on his bed at home a few hours later, his legs crossed under him with a book in his lap, picking at the hole in the thigh of his PJs. He has a headache, and he's taken three Aspirin like Carolina told him to, but it hasn't helped. It never helps. He knows he should be doing his homework, and he knows that dad will get mad at him if he doesn't, but he can't focus. He feels nervous, scared, restless. The others are talking, a hum in the back of his mind, and that's not a bad thing — he likes the noise, he likes their company — but it's distracting. He wants to listen to what they're saying.
He picks out Delta and Theta's voices, and he thinks he hears Epsilon a few times, but when he closes his eyes and focuses, trying to talk to them — tries to ask what's wrong? — they go silent.
It's like when his friends at school tell him he's being annoying. But it hurts more, because his alters, these people in his head, they're — they're his family. And they're hiding stuff from him. He doesn't get it. He doesn't know why Theta's so scared, or why Delta is so nervous all the time, or why Omega's starting to pick fights.
Maybe he'll talk to Price about it.