Engine of Repression
Christian fidgeted, avoiding the doctor’s eyes by staring at the word “Misfit” on his own wrist. Black letters and all capitals. He winced at a memory of being tied up in a damp basement, needles stinging his skin. The tattoo had not been voluntary.
“I’m not ready to talk, Doc,” he said. “I’ve only known you for a few weeks.”
Dr. Hall nodded. “It’s okay. Take your time.”
The doctor’s smile lit up his eyes, and Christian wondered if it were natural or if his expression was enhanced by so-called saint effects. It was legal for doctors to use them, right? Now eighty percent more trustworthy, a comedian had recently joked. Christian felt the air in the room change, a micro mist making it easier to breathe and relax. He inhaled.
“Jeremy told you correctly,” Christian s
