Work Text:
During my time as a therapist, all my clients have been, well, dead. Souls to be exact. We would sit down on a run-down couch with two cups of jasmine tea, not that they could drink it anyways, they just like the smell. My husband had been one of them, (not to be rude) but dead people. We were at the supermarket, and I was holding his pills in one hand like it was a pastry. He fainted while the receipt was still rolling out.
A few people stepped forward, ready to perform CPR while others called 911. On his wrist was a bright orange wristband that screamed, "Wait! Don't touch him! Let someone drop their rotisserie chicken from the shock of it all!" That night, while the ambulance dragged him away like he was simply a delivery being made to the hospital, I sat on the couch playing wii sports. That's what was supposed to happen after we were done shopping. I imagined him sitting on the couch with his cracked lips and heavy eye-bags, not even being able to stand up without his cane.
Now that I think about it, I'm a pretty selfish person 'cause my first thought was "I'm gonna die alone." I was scared that when I grow old, I was gonna get sent to a nursing home where the water there burns more than your divorce. When someone dies, their soul gets sent to small individual booths with a therapist in order to find peace and pass on. Their way of "finding peace" was the therapist absorbing all your bad memories so you can pass on while they're left alone suffering 'cause of your mistakes. I thought working there meant I would get another chance to see my husband, so I applied.
The people in charge of this organization don't actually care about our budgets or mental health so they give us booths with sofas that looked like a toddler could break it with one jump. Everyday for 18 hours, I would see soul after soul, with tea after tea on the tables. It really wasn't a good idea helping someone through their problems when I couldn't even get through mine. Who knows if I would even see him again. The one at the front desk probably sent him to another booth with chai instead of jasmine tea.
The day I walked into those small booths, I had nothing with me other than my cloths since everything I owned he had touched before.
The first soul I talked to was an overworked dad. He had lost his wife and had depression while taking care of two kids. They had only been 5 and 12 years old when he died of suicide. That was when i realized some people have it worse than me. That one-sided conversation lasted 2 hours.
I felt his emotions slowly seep into me, and out of him. His faceless head relaxed while he faded away. Although the pain hurt worse than his death, I still stayed. I stayed for the thank you's and that calming tea smell I loved so much. I stayed and waited for him for 36 years.
That was when the pills and alcohol caught up to me. So... yeah. Sorry to dump all those emotions on you. And, thank you. Truly, thank you.
Therapist: Hurry. Go. Your husbands waiting for you too.
In the darkness, two souls, stretching through the weight of hopeless dusk. Their hands find each other—and light pours, a flood of gold, spilling sunlight into the night.