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"Morning, how are you today? Any more Wade issues?" he asks.
Liam is a part owner of this private clinic and has become a great friend. I can't say the same about me. I’ve been avoiding him for the past couple of weeks, not wanting to talk about the shitshow that is my failed love life. However, he and his wife, Jane, took me under their wing when I started here two years ago. It wasn’t long until they became like family to me. Let’s just say I’m short on friends, as in, they’re my only friends.
"Yep, eleven texts this morning and too many missed calls to count. I need to change my number," I say, followed by an exhausted sigh. I don't know how I’m going to stay awake. I just want to sleep and forget the world exists for a few days.
"I’ve been telling you to do that since the breakup. You need to cut contact, or it will drive you insane," he says, walking me towards my office, which is now in view at the end of the large corridor that’s adorned by large green plants and serene abstract paintings. The combination gives the office a distinctive zen feeling, which is what I need right now.
"Believe me, I'm already there. I'll go get my number changed tomorrow, if I remember. How is Jane?" I ask, wanting to change the subject. His wife recently beat breast cancer and has to have regular scans. It’s always a nerve-wracking time for them.
"She’s good, you know, positive, and should have the results by the end of the week," he says, and I nod.
"She'll be fine, I know it," I say, hoping to make him feel a little more reassured. We arrive outside my office, where I unlock my door and walk in, turning the light on and moving towards my desk to get my notes out.
"Yeah, I know she will. She has to be," he says with a soft smile, scratching at the impressive full brown beard he has grown. I’ve never been able to grow much hair anywhere besides my head, and I’m a little jealous. He looks like he belongs in a lumberjack magazine. "Anyway, I just wanted to see if you wanted to get lunch today. Been a while since we caught up," he says.
"I'm not sure I can today. I have a new patient this afternoon, so I need to review his notes. Tomorrow instead?" I ask.
"Yeah, sure, no problem. See you later, Chase, and remember, we’re here for you."
I look at him and smile, which he returns and leaves my office.
God, I really need to get my brain out of this funk. I really don't want to be here today, but I don’t have a choice. Life doesn’t stop because your ex is an asshole and now won't leave you in peace.
I gather my folder of notes for my two patients this morning, nothing I need to go over. Then I retrieve the folder from my desk for the new guy coming in this afternoon. Noah Bryson. The surname sounds familiar, and I confirm after a quick internet search that he is the son of Mitchell Bryson, the commercial property developer who’s originally from New York but has lived here in Seattle for nearly thirty years.
So, he comes from money, but that’s not a shock. Most of the patients at this private clinic tend to be wealthy. Let’s just say NDAs for all staff are the norm. Looking at his notes, I see he lived in California before moving back here. There isn't much information on his condition, employment, education, orfamily, which is unusual. Only that I need to report my findings on his mental health to his lawyer within two months. Again, that's odd, but it's not like it's the most outrageous request we've gotten from wealthy patients.
Placing the folder back into my desk drawer, I decide I’ll deal with it later. There is a knock on my door, and I realize it's already time for Cassie's appointment.
"Come in," I shout, and the door opens. Cassie walks in. She tucks her red hair behind her ears. She’s so timid, but I do think she can make significant progress with her anxiety. "Hi, Cassie. Take a seat, and then we can start," I say with my therapist hat back on, giving her a reassuring smile, which she returns.
I walk over to the seating area in my office, which comprises two oversized comfortable chairs, and take my place across from her. I already wish it was time to leave.
CHAPTER 2
NOAH
Standing in the corridor of this lavish clinic, I feel like I’ve stepped into my equivalent of hell. Watching patients arriving and leaving their self-indulgent therapy sessions makes me want to gag. The current form of humanity is pathetic. It's a never-ending cycle of weak people producing more weak people and then cheering on other weak fuckers. We should be like our fellow animal kingdom, roaming free in the wild. The strong are able to kill off the dead weight, giving into our primal instincts. Natural selection.
I find people mildly fascinating. All of them are so highly emotional, overly attached to “things” that serve no purpose, debating issues that don't fucking matter. They're such an embarrassment to the human race. I know I’m human too, but I fortunately don't process thoughts and feelings like others, and I'm fucking thankful for it. I find it all so tedious. Tedious, like this counseling session I'm about to go to.
I’m only here because it was a stipulation in my late grandfather's will so that I could access the trust fund at twenty-five. So dumb, but because of my fucked-up upbringing andbehavior, he wanted to make sure I was of sound mind to inherit such an obscene amount of money.
However, I think that reason is bullshit. I’m sure this is my father’s doing, that he convinced my grandfather to do this. He was never happy about that trust fund and wanted it for himself, even though he is rich. Fucking hate that dick. I hate my whole family. I’d prefer to lock them in their obnoxious mansion and set it alight while listening to their screams and watching them burn to ash. It's a fantasy I plan to make come true.
I know my father won't be able to let go of trying to gain control of me, to use my lack of empathy and emotion to benefit him when he needs to “convince” someone to sell their properties or land to him. He's a pathetic old man, and what's hilarious is he thinks he is safe from me. I find his confidence that I would never hurt my family amusing. Human life equals shit to me. I can kill with no problem, and I don’t give a fuck who you are. So when he thinks he’s immune to my ways, it’s baffling. I think of nothing else. I have zero intention of participating in this therapy session to try and “help” myself, but I can manipulate when needed.
The alarm on my phone goes off, reminding me of my appointment with a Mr. Chase Blackford. No doubt, another stuck-up therapist thinking they’re more important than they are, like they actually make a difference. It's a means to an end, though.
I start making my way to Mr. Blackford’s office. Strolling down the overly polished oak floors of this disgustingly upper-class clinic that reeks of money. I find myself at what I assume is his secretary's desk. A large lady with graying hair tied back and glasses with oversized-frames. She has the stereotypical resting bitch face of someone who works on the public frontline. The miserable witch glowers up at me from her computer.
"Can I help you?" she asks in a bored voice. She wants to be here as much as I do.
"Noah Bryson, I have an appointment," I say, returning the same level of indifference.
She curtly nods.
"Take a seat, and I will let Mr. Blackford know you have arrived."
