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You've never had a patient like this before, but that's just what makes the job worthwhile, getting to learn something new about the uniqueness of the world every day.
“How do you feel… now that it's been three months?”
Kris looks down at their lap and frowns, remaining silent for a while.
Then, they look back up, signing, “I think I regret ever wishing my mom and dad were back together.”
Your lips form an apologetic smile on their own as you stand up from the desk, walk up to them, and set a hand on their shoulder, letting them make eye contact when they deem it adequate.
Which — considering you've tended to their needs for the past six months — isn't very long.
They look at you, bright red eyes glinting with warmth as they pull you in for a hug.
They've oftentimes commented hugging you feels ‘like hugging Ralsei’, and that's when you learned of the Dark World and all the things that compose it.
“...Soft,” they mutter, inhaling your scent. "Hair's so fluffy. Like a cloud."
They've — also — oftentimes commented you smell just like the pies their mother bakes, so you've made it sort of a mission to always keep a full stock of the perfume you use.
If it brings them comfort, it beats the ruder comments your (potentially ex) boyfriend makes about you always dressing the same and using the same perfume all the time.
The irony of the situation dawns on you, but a couple of things are different. For one, he's still only your boyfriend. And you don't have children that'll be affected by your decision.
When Kris lets go, they're smiling, but you know your next question will erase that happiness.
“Why do you regret having your mom and dad back together?”
Kris sighs, then sets their hands on their knees and clutches them, their frown returning twice as strong.
It takes a while to loosen up and push on forward, and that's why your sessions with them are sometimes an hour and a half, or two hours long instead of one.
“They still fight like they used to, but…”
They stop signing to chew on their bottom lip harshly, almost drawing blood.
Their actions mask the trembling uncertainty of their mouth, and they wipe away the single tear that slips past an eye.
“...But?”
“I…”
You walk back to your desk and fetch a notepad and a pen, then return and offer it to them.
“You can write it down, if you'd like.”
Kris nods and takes what you hold out.
There's the sound of the clock ticking and tocking — a sound you have to turn off for specific kinds of patients — the bubbling of the big tank with a small number of fish in it, and the distant gurgling of the coffee maker, preparing the decaf for their weekly dose of mocha with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.
When they're finished writing, they avoid eye contact, but still hand over what they've written.
You stare at the words for a while, then catch your breath.
“Would you like me to read it aloud?”
You started to ask that question two months into them coming to visit, seeing positive results from having them hear their own thoughts out loud.
Kris hugs themself and nods, still avoiding eye contact.
“Okay!”
You smile and sit down next to them when they scoot over.
“Whenever mom gets into an argument, she always blames dad,” it reads. “And whenever dad gets into an argument, he always tries to make me choose who's right and who's wrong.”
They tense up, so you take a pause and wait for them to follow the breathing technique you taught them.
When they nod, you carry on.
“It’s not always THAT bad, but…” You set a hand on their shoulder again when they make eye contact. “Last week, a day after I came here, it was… not great. They got into a bigger argument this time, and they BOTH asked me who was right. I felt trapped, but they wouldn't let me go until I said something. And I DIDN'T want to say anything. I just…”
It stops at that.
You swallow the tension in your throat and meet their eyes, now undoubtedly wet and shiny, awaiting the rainfall.
“I wanted to run back here and ask for help,” they sign, and then…
They break into tears and shove their face into your stomach, hugging you tightly.
Their once quiet and rare voice breaks into wails and sobs, and you have to bite back the pain their firm embrace brings to your body.
They've never been too gentle with… certain objects.
They admitted to slashing their mother’s tires back when you only first started seeing them.
They've confessed they felt anger at witnessing their drunken mother dancing with a stranger, to the point of wanting something bad to happen to the latter involved in the situation, and most recently…
They've confessed to having secretly stomped on one of their father's flowers when he wouldn't stop being so ‘obsessed’ over how pretty it was, then they regretted the act when seeing him all sad the next day.
“Kris,” you mumble, wheezing when their hold grows tighter. “Have you told… anyone else about this?”
Kris shakes their head and lets go, allowing you to gain a good gasp of oxygen, muscles soothing on par with your freedom.
“Only you.”
You haven't yet set anything in stone, as anger issues may or may not seem like an appropriate diagnosis, but…
It's more like they're unable to express themself completely — as if something holds them back.
“You waited until today to speak with me about this,” you state, walking back to your desk and sitting down, hands resting over the surface. “Would you consider it favourable… having video calls when something concerning like this happens again?”
Their frown intensifies as they appear to give your question some thought.
“Won't my parents be able to hear and see it?”
“I can set up a meeting application on your phone, and I can offer you some earbuds, so long as I have your parents’ permission. It would be a service meant for emergencies only.”
Kris crosses their arms and takes a deep breath, kicking their feet while they stare at the floor.
They let out that breath and uncross their arms, a small smile twitching in their mouth.
“What will you say if they ask what's wrong?”
“I believe I told you I’m no snitch, dear. Everything stays here, right where we left it.”
You check the time, counting thirty minutes remaining.
“As long as your life or anyone else's isn't at risk, you'll have my confidentiality, as always.”
Kris's smile grows as you stand up from your desk and offer your hand out, a sticker of a starry sky on your palm.
“Take the sticker while you think about it,” you explain, waiting for them to walk to your desk. “And if you want me to ask for your parents' permission, then bring me a sticker back for our next session. It can be anything you want.”