Dark Therapy

5–Essence

I leave his office telling myself I’m not coming back next week. I tell myself that twice in the elevator, once in the lobby and again when I step onto the sidewalk and the cold air smacks me in the face. I’m not coming back and I don’t need a damn therapist. Especially not one who sits that still and looks at you like he’s peeling back layers you didn’t give him permission to touch.

But the whole walk to my car, all I can hear is his voice,“You’re angry at yourself for being here.” “Needing help isn't a weakness.” “Tiredness is a human emotion.”

I hate that some of it made sense. I hate even more that it made sense enough that it's stuck in my damn head. My phone buzzes as soon as I get in the car. It's a text from my supervisor, ‘we need to discuss your tone in today’s meeting. Can you stop by tomorrow?’

Tone, it’s always about my tone. I could say the sky is blue and someone would call it aggressive. I start the engine and pull out, my grip tight on the wheel. It takes twenty minutes to get home, and in that time I get, a driver cutting me off, a woman staring at me at a stoplight like I stole her parking spot, and a voicemail from my aunt asking why I haven’t come to help her yet. Not to mention a notification about a late bill which has a headache creeping behind my eyes.

By the time I reach my building, I’m simmering. I park in my usual spot and hop out, only to find my neighbor, Curtis, standing right behind my car like he was waiting for me. Great, because this is exactly what I need right now. Curtis lives on the second floor and thinks every woman who breathes near him owes him a smile or a conversation. He's harmless in the way a mosquito is harmless—annoying enough to ruin your night.

“Hey, Essence,” he says, grinning like I asked for it. “You didn’t return my text.”

“I didn’t see it,” I lied, pushing past him toward the stairs.

“Well, you could at least say hello,” he chuckles, stepping in front of me again. “Ain’t gotta be so mean.”

I stop, take a deep breath and count to three. “I’m not mean,” I say evenly. “I’m tired. And I don’t feel like talking.”

He scoffs. “Man, y’all women are always so damn angry. Smile sometimes.”

There it is. That word, angry, like it’s a personality trait or a flaw stamped across my forehead. I keep moving and he follows me much to my displeasure.

“You act like you are too good to talk to people,” he says, louder now. “Always got an attitude. Maybe that’s why you keep—”

“Curtis,” I warn, stopping short. “Walk away.”

He laughs. “See? This is what I mean. Angry as hell. Over nothing.”

Nothing, that’s what he thinks this is. My hands clench at my sides and I feel my body go hot while my vision slips into that too-bright tunnel where everything in me wants to snap. He steps closer. Too close.

“You don’t gotta be such a b***h abou—”

I don’t remember deciding to move but suddenly I’m in his face, eyes narrowed, teeth clenched so tight my jaw aches. “Say something else,” I whisper. “Go on.”

He blinks, startled. For the first time, he looks nervous. And I feel it, that old familiar edge, the one that drags me toward doing something I’ll regret. My pulse kicks and my breathing goes sharp. I can feel the explosion rising and I can’t stop it. Not alone.

I step back, reach into my pocket, pull out the card he gave me yesterday. Dr. Aiden Blackwood, His number printed in neat black ink. I stare at it. I shouldn’t call him, I won’t call. What kind of person calls a therapist because she’s about to go off? But Curtis mutters something under his breath and I feel that pressure snap again. I dial the number. I don’t think about it. I don’t breathe too deep. I don’t look at Curtis.

The phone rings once. Twice. Then, “Essence?” His voice is calm, too calm, almost like he already knew I’d call. I swallow, trying to speak but my chest is tight. “I—I’m about to do something stupid,” I finally say. “And you told me during our first session to call if that ever happened.”

“I did,” he says evenly. “Tell me where you are.”

“In front of my building.”

“Are you alone?”

I glance at Curtis and he’s backing toward the stairs now, hands up like he didn’t just start all this.

“Not… exactly.”

Dr. Aiden’s voice lowers a fraction, almost imperceptible and controlled. “Essence,” he says. “Step away from whoever is upsetting you.”

I already did, but hearing it from him steadies something inside me. I close my eyes, breathe slowly and try not to shake from rage.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, I’m trying.”

“Good,” he says. “Now tell me what happened.”

And for the first time in a long time, I actually want to. “I didn’t do anything,” I say into the phone, pacing a tight line in front of my building. “Not yet. But I wanted to.”

“You called me before you acted,” Aiden says. “That matters.”

His voice is steady, low, the kind of calm that feels like stepping into a room where the lights are dimmed and no one is yelling. It pisses me off how grounding it is.

“I don’t usually call anyone,” I mutter.

“I know.”

“How? You don’t know s**t about me.”

“I know you don’t trust easily,” he says. “And calling me required trust you weren’t ready to give.” I stop pacing and my throat tightens. He’s not wrong, I hate that.

“That man outside,” he continues, “what did he say to you?”

I run a hand over my face. “Enough.”

“Enough to trigger a reaction?”

“Yes.”

“Did he put his hands on you?”

“No.”

“Did he threaten you physically?”

“No. Just… verbally. And he wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“How are you feeling right now?”

“Like choking someone,” I snapped before thinking.

Aiden doesn’t miss a beat. “Where is he now?”

“Gone,” I whisper. “He backed off.”

“Because of your reaction?”

“Because I got close enough for him to see I wasn’t joking.”

A brief pause but it wasn't judgment, more of an assessment. Then, “Essence, listen to me. You’re not wrong for feeling angry. You’re not wrong for defending your boundaries. But when your reactions start to overpower your intentions, that’s when we slow down.”

I lean against the brick wall of my building, closing my eyes.

“Slow down,” I repeat. “Sounds easy enough.”

“It’s not easy,” he says. “But it’s possible. And you called, which means some part of you wants control more than you want release.”

“I want both,” I admit quietly.

“Good. We can work with that.” His tone softens—not warm, just precise. “Tell me what your body is doing right now.”

“My heart’s beating too fast. My hands won’t stay still.”

“And your breathing?”

“Short… I think.”

“Then take a breath with me.” I almost hung up, this is bullshit but I don’t. He waits, silent and patient, until I finally inhale slowly and shaky. “Again,” he says.

I do it again and I feel my pulse steady, not completely but enough. “You’re doing fine,” he says.

“That’s debatable.”

“It’s accurate.”

I exhale a shaky laugh—barely there. “So why does it feel like I’m losing my s**t over nothing?”

“It wasn’t nothing,” he replies. “You were provoked.”

“Still shouldn’t have gotten under my skin.”

Aiden doesn’t respond immediately but when he does, his voice is quiet. “You expect yourself to be stronger than a normal functioning human.” My throat tightens again. I hate how this therapy s**t makes me feel. Before I can answer, he asks, “Are you inside your apartment yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to go in angry,” I admit. “I didn’t want to take it inside with me.”

“That’s good awareness,” he says. “Once you’re calmer, you should go in, drink some water, maybe sit down. We can process more in your next session.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.” Another silence. “Thank you,” I add, reluctantly.

“You’re welcome.”

I breathe out, preparing to walk out— “Essence?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t second-guess calling me. That was the right move.” I open my mouth to argue, and froze when I hear footsteps behind me.

Not fast or loud, very steady. Purposeful. I turn slowly. My breath catches. Dr. Aiden Blackwood stands at the bottom of the stairs, phone still in hand, wearing the same calm expression he uses in session. Except it looks different here, under the buzzing hallway light.

He isn’t smiling or frowning. Real. I stare at him, stunned. The phone still pressed to my ear. He clicks his off. “You said you needed to talk,” he says, voice even. “So I came.”

I look at him, at the phone then at him again. “What—” My voice cracks. “How the hell did you get here so fast?”

“I was already nearby,” he replies.

That may or may not be true. I don’t know. And right now I can’t even find the part of me that cares enough to question it. All I can say barely above a whisper is, “You weren’t supposed to come.”

He steps up the first stair, not closing the distance fully. “I know,” he answers. “But you needed someone to stop you from burning the whole building down.” His eyes meet mine. Calm, unshaken and dangerously steady. “So,” he says, “I’m here.”