Second Session
1205 Words
The rain had stopped, leaving the city draped in a dull silver sheen. Ethan sat behind his desk, the notepad angled just so, the mechanical pencil resting like a quiet promise. He told himself he was prepared. That this was just another session, another patient. He didn’t believe it.
The door opened with the soft click of Mrs. Collins’s hand, then closed again. Vivienne stepped inside.
Different again. Today she wore fitted dark jeans, a cream blouse knotted at the waist, boots that made no sound on the carpet. Hair loose, a shadow of color on her mouth. Not loud. Calculated.
“Doctor Hale,” she said, her tone laced with a brightness that felt… chosen. “Am I late?”
“You’re on time.” He motioned to the chair opposite him. “Please.”
She sat like someone who’d studied the architecture of ease—back against the chair, legs crossed, one hand trailing along the armrest in idle patterns. But her eyes—calm, pale, watchful.
“How have you been?” he asked.
“Well enough,” she said, the words echoing her first session. But her smile tilted differently now, like it had a question folded inside.
Ethan flipped to a fresh page on his pad. “I’d like to focus on your childhood today, if that’s all right.”
“Childhood?” She drew the word out like tasting it. “How nostalgic.”
“It helps me understand patterns,” he said. “Your relationship with your mother, for instance.”
Vivienne’s lashes lowered, then lifted. “Complicated. Isn’t everyone’s?”
“In what way?”
“She wanted a daughter who matched her reflection.” A small shrug. “I was… not that.”
“How so?”
“She loved dresses and porcelain tea sets. I loved climbing trees and bruising my knees.” Vivienne smiled faintly. “It didn’t make me charming in her circles.”
Ethan wrote a line. His pulse ticked slow but heavy.
He turned a page. “And the dolls?”
For the first time, something in her posture changed—fractionally, but enough. The easy line of her shoulders stiffened, the light in her eyes shuttered a degree.
“Dolls,” she repeated, no warmth now. “What about them?”
“You collected many,” he said evenly. “And… opened them. Is that right?”
Vivienne stared. Then, softly, like glass sliding: “You spoke to her.”
“Yes,” Ethan said. No apology in his tone—professional honesty, but his chest felt tight.
Vivienne’s jaw flexed once, then stilled. She leaned back, her expression smoothing into something deliberate. “Of course you did.” A pause. “Let me guess—she told you I was a freak? Dangerous? That I kept trophies under my bed?”
Ethan didn’t answer. Silence was safer.
Vivienne gave a small laugh with no mirth in it. “Here’s the truth, Doctor. She forced those dolls on me. Pink boxes, frilly skirts, perfect smiles. I hated them. I wanted cars, guns, Lego castles. She wanted tea parties and tiaras.”
“So you…” Ethan prompted.
“So I opened their heads.” Vivienne’s gaze held his, steady as a blade. “Because it was a game. A rebellion. Plastic skulls and painted eyes—it was nothing. A child’s way of saying stop stuffing me into your pretty cage.”
He noted the words. The tone. Calm again. Controlled. But her fingers tapped the armrest once—fast, sharp—and stilled.
“It wasn’t cruelty?” he asked.
“It was anatomy,” she said, almost amused now. “Don’t surgeons do the same?” Her lips curved. “They just get paid more.”
Ethan let a second pass. “And the jars?”
Her smile widened a millimeter. “Decoration. Creepy? Sure. Effective? Definitely. My babysitter refused to come back.” She tilted her head. “Do you think that makes me a monster?”
“I think context matters,” Ethan said, his voice even.
“Context.” She rolled the word like wine on her tongue. “Fine. Here’s more context.” Her eyes glimmered now, bright as cut glass. “Undressing the male dolls was the best part. Ken looked so smug until you popped his head and peeled his perfect little suit off.” She laughed lightly, like sharing a joke. “They never complained.”
Ethan’s pen froze mid-word. Heat crawled up his spine before he caged it under breath. He turned the page too fast. Professional. Stay professional.
“Let’s talk about the arrests,” he said, his tone clipped back to clinical.
Vivienne arched a brow, lazy, curious. “Oh, that pivot was graceful. You sound nervous, Doctor.”
“I’m not nervous,” Ethan said. The lie tasted metallic.
“If you say so.” She uncrossed her legs slowly, then recrossed them the other way. The sound of denim brushing leather was loud in the quiet. “Yes, I had a few… misunderstandings with law enforcement. Does that thrill you?”
“Two bar fights,” Ethan said, ignoring the bait. “Police reports.”
“Women throw drinks, men throw fists.” She shrugged. “Sometimes you throw back.”
He wrote: deflects responsibility. Normalizes aggression. Then paused. “Have you ever been arrested for anything else?”
“No.” She leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, her voice dropping to something almost intimate. “What about you, Doctor Hale? Ever been arrested?”
Ethan blinked. “This isn’t about me.”
“Everything’s about you eventually.” A smile flickered, feline. “Come on. Confession is good for the soul.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Once. In high school. A fight.”
Her eyes lit with interest like a match flaring. “You? Fighting? I’m… impressed.”
“It wasn’t impressive,” he said. “We were kids.”
“Still.” Her grin sharpened. “And they call me dangerous. Seems halos slip off everyone’s head sooner or later.”
“Even priests,” she added softly, leaning back again. “Even doctors.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was charged—like the air before lightning breaks the sky.
Ethan closed the notebook with deliberate calm. “That’s enough for today.”
Vivienne rose smoothly, her movements unhurried but humming with an energy that brushed the edges of the room. She adjusted her blouse, slung her bag over one shoulder, and looked at him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Same time next week?” she asked.
“Yes,” Ethan said, though something in him whispered no.
At the door, she paused, turning just enough for the light to catch in her hair. “For the record, Doctor,” she said softly, “I like our talks. You’re… different.”
And then she was gone, the scent of her shampoo lingering like a secret, leaving Ethan alone with the echo of his own pulse and a question he didn’t want to name:
Was he still in control—or already playing her game?
- Writer
