Dark Therapy

10- Aiden

Monday morning starts with rain. Soft at first, then steady. It fits the mood in my head too well, hushed and secretive. I sit at my desk before the first client arrives, reviewing files I don’t need to review. Pages I already know by memory. Notes I could recite without looking.

Today is my mandatory therapist session. An occupational requirement. A formality. A checked box. Board-certified practices mandate it as self-monitoring, they call it. A safeguard against burnout, projection, or ethical erosion. When you spend your days holding other people’s pain, you’re supposed to ensure your own doesn’t leak into the work.

It sounds logical, and I’ve never found it particularly difficult. The therapist assigned to me, Dr. Reynolds, is competent. Neutral. Experienced enough not to be intimidated by colleagues, careful enough not to overstep. We’ve been meeting quarterly for years. She knows the version of me I allow to exist in that room.

I arrived on time. I always do.

“How have you been since our last check-in?” she asks, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

“Stable,” I say. “Busy.”

She nods. “Any incidents at work?”

I consider the question for exactly the amount of time that reads as reflective without inviting concern. “Nothing out of the ordinary. High caseload. Some emotionally taxing situations, but manageable.”

She studies me. “Any feelings of irritability? Detachment? Intrusive thoughts?”

Here it is, the inventory. I answer the way I always do. Calm. Measured. Accurate enough to be believable, incomplete enough to be safe.

“Some mild irritability,” I say. “Which I attribute to volume, not emotional dysregulation. No intrusive thoughts. No impairment in judgment.”

None of that is technically untrue.

“And outside of work?” she asks.

“Routine intact. Sleep consistent. No substance use. No risky behaviors.”

She makes a note. The pen scratches softly against paper. Rain taps the window behind her, steady and unremarkable.

“Last session,” she says, “you mentioned increased vigilance. Has that subsided?”

“Yes,” I answer smoothly. “I identified the source.”

“Oh?” she prompts.

“A trigger response,” I explain. “An interaction that mirrored earlier experiences of boundary violation. Once contextualized, the response was resolved.”

She tilts her head slightly. “Earlier experiences?”

I give her the version I’m prepared to share. “Men who mistake entitlement for authority. Situations where intervention becomes necessary.”

“And how did you feel about your response?”

“Reflective,” I say. “But not distressed. Understanding restored equilibrium.”

She studies my face, searching for something I’m not offering.

“And the client involved?” she asks.

I don’t hesitate. “Unrelated.”

The session ends on schedule. No flags raised. No recommendations made. No follow-ups required. I leave with the quiet validation of having passed another inspection. By the time I return to my office, the routine slips back into place easily. The structure holds. Whatever imbalance lingered over the weekend has been categorized and filed under, resolved.

Curtis wasn’t a deviation, he was a trigger. A familiar one. I understand that now. Men like him have always existed in my periphery. Loud. Entitled. Careless with other people’s space. I didn’t react because of Essence. I reacted because Curtis mirrored something older. Something I don’t indulge in naming. Understanding that restored order.

By the time my afternoon sessions begin, my patience has returned. My tone is even. My posture is correct. Whatever crack appeared last week has been sealed. Essence Clark is scheduled for four o’clock. That fact registers no differently than any other appointment.

When she arrives, she doesn’t burst in or test boundaries. She enters calmly, closes the door behind her, and takes her seat without commentary. No armor today. No aggression. That alone is notable.

“How have you been since we last spoke?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Fine.”

I wait because in my experience, silence is useful. She studies the room instead of me. The bookshelves, the window, looked at the clock. When she finally speaks, her voice is casual, almost thoughtful.

“I walk a lot at night now.”

I nod. “Walking can be grounding.”

“Yeah. That’s what I figured.” Her foot taps once, then stills. She inhales.“I like patterns. Routes. Habits. Makes the world feel less… random.”

I made a note. Hypervigilance framed as control. Familiar.

“I noticed something interesting on Thursdays,” she says.

My pen pauses, not consciously, reflexively. “Go on.”

She finally looks at me then. Not confrontational. Not afraid. Just… steady.

“You don’t go straight home after work,” she says. “Not every night.”

The room doesn’t change but something inside me recalibrates.

I meet her gaze evenly. “What makes you think that?”

She tilts her head. “Because I saw you.”

I don’t react, not outwardly. Not in any way that would reward the statement. I don’t shift in my chair or alter my tone. I don’t rush to fill the space. Silence, used correctly, invites clarification without surrendering ground.

“You saw me,” I repeat evenly. “Where?”

“Outside,” she says. “Not here. Not in the office.”

I nod once, as if this is mildly interesting. My clients see me all the time. I don’t hunt recklessly. I don’t leave evidence. I don’t blur lines.

“And what,” I ask, “do you think you saw?”

The question is clinical. Curious, even. I’m already cataloging possibilities, misinterpretation, coincidence, projection. The human mind is excellent at constructing meaning where none exists. She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she leans back, crossing her legs, studying me with a patience that feels deliberate.

“You didn’t notice me at first,” she says. “Which makes sense. You weren’t looking for anyone.” That gives me pause. Not alarm. Interest. “I was walking,” she continues. “Trying to clear my head. And then I saw you come out of a place I’d passed a hundred times and never really noticed.”

“A bar,” I supply calmly.

“Yes,” she says. “But not just that.” Her eyes stay on mine. “You were different.”

“Different how?”

She considers the question carefully, as if she understands the weight of answering it wrong.

“You weren’t… performing,” she says finally. “You weren’t listening. Or managing. Or absorbing.” A beat. “You were watching.”

That lands closer than it should.

Still, my voice doesn’t change. “I people-watch all the time. You said yourself that I do it here during our sessions.”

“Not like that.” She shakes her head slightly. “You weren’t therapist watching. It was… scanning. Like you were deciding something.”

I study her now, not defensively, but precisely. There’s no fear in her posture. No accusation in her tone. If anything, she sounds curious. Grounded.

“What was the conclusion you think I drew?” I ask.

The question is measured. Neutral. I don’t lean forward. I don’t pull back. I’m still operating from certainty, people misread situations all the time. Projection is common. Especially with clients who already feel hyperaware. She doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifts, not evasive, just thoughtful, like she’s deciding how much truth to offer.

“I think,” she says slowly, “you were deciding who was safe to release an inner beast with.” Her lips curve faintly. “There’s something dark in you, Dr. Blackwood.”

I don’t correct her. Not because she’s right but because she’s close enough to warrant precision. I rise from my chair. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just enough to shift the balance. I step closer as I speak, my voice still calm. “An inner beast,” I repeat mildly. “That’s a dramatic interpretation.”

She shrugs, unbothered. “It's an efficient language.”

“Or projection.”

“Maybe.” Her eyes lifted back to mine, steady. “But I don’t think so.”