CHAPTER TWELVE
The office was warm. Too warm, probably, but clients seemed to like it that way.
Oak paneling on three walls, and the fourth dominated by bookshelves stacked with texts he'd never actually read.
Jung, Freud, Rogers, all the names people expected to see.
Classical music played from a speaker hidden behind the desk.
Chopin, tonight. Nocturne in E-flat major.
The fire in the corner hearth popped and crackled and lit up the two leather armchairs positioned opposite each other.
He'd designed the space to feel safe. In this room, people could unburden themselves.
With two mugs of coffee in hand, he returned from the kitchen. His client sat in the chair closest to the fire with his hands wrapped around the armrests. The man was always nervous, and had been since their first session six months ago.
'Your usual,' he said, handing over the mug. 'Sweetener and cinnamon.'
The client took it with both hands, like he needed the warmth. A thin film of sweat covered his forehead. 'Thanks. I’ve left the cash on the table.’
They always paid in cash. He insisted on it. ‘Appreciated.’
'Sorry, I'm late. Got stuck at a work conference. Ran long.'
'Don't worry about it.' He settled into his own chair, crossed one leg over the other. Sipped his coffee and waited.
The client drank. A small sip, tentative, like he was testing the temperature. His hand trembled slightly when he lowered the mug. 'Perfect, like always. I know it's boring. Same order every time.'
'Nonsense. Routines aren't boring. People say familiarity breeds contempt, but I think it breeds comfort. And comfort's underrated.'
The client nodded in agreement, then took his coffee again. ‘I wish I had time for rest. It’s non-step. Relentless. Work, home, kids.’
‘Overwhelming.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘It’s been two weeks since we last met. How have things been?’
‘Better,’ the client said. ‘Longer times between medications. The pain isn’t as bad. I’m sleeping, four, five hours a night.’
‘Sleep is the silent healer,’ he said. ‘And it’s your dreams that wake you up, correct?’
‘Every time. Every night. Sometimes I feel like things might be okay, but the dreams keep coming back. I can’t escape them. When I wake up, that’s when I reach for the pills.’
'The mind, in its slumber, dances on the edge of awareness. It combines the yearnings of the subconscious with imagined extremes. It works through trauma, stress, and unresolved conflicts. It's not always pleasant, but it's necessary.'
The client’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. He looked down into the steam and said, ‘Exactly. I think about my wife and daughter, and I know they’re safe, but…’
'You imagine something happening to them.'
'Yeah.'
'Intrusive thoughts. It’s the mind testing boundaries and running through worst-case scenarios. It's actually a sign of a functioning survival instinct. Do you know what I'm talking about?’
‘Sort of. Do you get them?’
‘Of course. Everyone does. Those flashes, like the mother holding her baby near a staircase who suddenly imagines throwing it down.
Or the driver on a bridge who pictures jerking the wheel into oncoming traffic.
They're common. Most people just don't talk about them. Rational minds recognize them as tests, but those with less control…’
‘Act on them,’ the client interrupted.
‘Sometimes. What is it you imagine?’ he asked. Ask a simple question, let them fill the silence. He’d perfected the art of listening, of giving just enough space for the other to unfold their deepest secrets.
The client cupped a hand over his eyeballs as though shame kept him from speaking. 'It's always the same thing. Every time.'
He already knew. They'd circled this topic in previous sessions, but the client had never fully committed to describing it. Now seemed like the right moment to push. 'The pit.'
The client put a hand over his eyes. Embarrassed, maybe. Or ashamed. ‘Yes. We’re trapped in a hole.’
'How does that feel?'
The client jerked his head and cracked a joint in his neck. Words began to form on his lips, but refused to come out. 'I'm… not sure I want to talk about this.'
‘Helplessness is a primal fear, but perhaps this pit you speak of is metaphorical. Trapped in a predicament you can’t escape. Work, stress, family obligations, things like that.’
'No. It's real. It happened to me.'
The therapist clasped his hands together and let the silence do the talking. People usually did anything to fill awkward gaps in conversation.
‘I was about twelve,’ the client continued. ‘Me and my friends were playing in a junk yard. There was this… hole.’
‘A hole?’
‘Yeah. We were just kids, you know, exploring. We found this old, abandoned pit. It was deep... scary, even in the daylight. We dared each other to go down.’
He stayed quiet and tried to read every microexpression on his client’s profile. This was the moment he was waiting for. The unveiling of a deep, dark secret that had been buried for years. Even he hadn’t been privy to this pearl of information.
‘I went down first. I was always the brave one, or at least I pretended to be. But that day... I slipped. Fell to the bottom. It was like falling into another world.’
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, fully attentive. This was new information. The client had mentioned childhood trauma before, but never the specifics. 'What happened after you fell?'
The client swallowed. 'My friends tried to help. Threw down a rope, but I couldn't reach it. They were kids, you know? They didn't know what to do. Eventually, they left to get help.'
'But they didn't come back.'
'Not for hours. I was down there alone. Couldn't see anything.
Could barely breathe. I kept thinking I was going to suffocate.
' The client's words were starting to slur slightly.
He blinked hard, like he was having trouble focusing.
'I passed out eventually. Woke up when the fire department pulled me out.
They said I'd been down there for six hours. '
‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Children don’t get traumatized because they’re hurt. They get traumatized because they’re alone with the hurt. You can spend a lifetime trying to forget a few minutes from childhood.’
There was a moment of silence as the client clutched his stomach and suddenly leaned forward.
The therapist watched with a keen eye, curious himself about the oncoming effects.
He had carefully orchestrated this moment, but wasn’t completely sure how it would play out.
Luckily, he had the pistol beneath his armchair for insurance.
‘Sorry,’ the client said. ‘Stomach pains. I don’t usually get them in the evening.’
'That's the anxiety,' he said calmly. 'Just breathe through it. It'll pass.'
The client tried to respond, but his eyelids fluttered closed, his head nodding forward as consciousness slipped away.
Now he had the client at his mercy. He observed the man’s limp form, then crossed the room and placed his hands on his now-former client’s shoulders. Now, trapped in a chemical-induced stupor, the poor man was oblivious to the predator that loomed over him.
‘There’s no greater illusion than fear, Mr. Barker, and tonight we’re going to embark on a journey of discovery together.’
The client, now lost in the abyss of unconsciousness, remained oblivious. As the therapist restrained the lifeless man’s hands, he said, ‘Come with me and face the pit one more time.’
Barker would wake in three hours. Maybe four.
And when he did, he'd be twelve years old again.