I sat in a contemplative mood, trying to digest what I’d read. It was giving me indigestion. Messy. Incoherent. I didn’t want to make sense of it because the truth felt painful.
Not as painful as what was pending imminently.
Supervision.
The corridor to Supervision was hotter than usual.
Or maybe that was just guilt.
The motivational poster near the lift read:
“REFLECTION: Don’t dwell on the past. You had your chance. Now you will pay.”
I walked in. The supervision room was empty, which should have been a relief.
It wasn’t.
The chair still judged me. The air was thick with the acrid tang of whatever plague-ridden essential oil Pestilence had sold her.
Sandra’s notepad sat open on the desk. Resistance is futile.
The title?
“Podcast Listening List.” The dots over the i’s were tiny skulls.
I skimmed it, instantly regretting my own curiosity.
Jeffrey Dahmer – “How to Win Friends and Incinerate People”
Napoleon – “Short War Stories”
The Plague – “Catch Me If You Can”
Joseph Smith & David Icke – “Magical Milliners” (Trending on Impstergram)
And circled at the bottom:
“Mike: Potential Guest Spot?”
Jesus Christ.
I looked at the chair again. It looked back.
We shared a moment.
Its expression said: “Count yourself lucky. She doesn’t sit on your face.”
Then, like the chamomile-sipping horror she was, Sandra tootled in.
“Did you touch my notes?”
“Touch implies interest. I was mostly judging.”
“Well, don’t be surprised if Marketing reaches out. You’ve been flagged as a ‘relatable burnout icon.’”
“Me? Why me?”
“There’s a new podcast. The Mediocre Performers.
A platform for people with no self-awareness and too much confidence.
They want you as their first guest.”
I wasn’t sure what Sandra was getting at.
Mid-sip, possibly adjusting her lava throne angle to be more condescending, she barely looked at me.
“I need to ask you something,” I said, trying not to sound like I cared too much.
Sandra didn’t look up. She was sketching something in her notebook. A lava lamp, maybe. Or a soul slowly unravelling.
“I’ve got this client,” I continued.
“His inner demons are layered. Complex. Total emotional shutdown. I’m struggling to reach him.”
“Ah,” she said, still not looking up.
“A classic case of interior chaos masked by intellectual scaffolding.”
She underlined something, hard.
“He deflects with humour. Won’t sit still. Can’t engage with anything remotely real. He’s dead. But not in the useful, reflective way. Dead like... emotionally taxidermied.”
“Mm.” She finally flipped her notebook shut.
“Therapist?”
“Yes.”
“Overqualified. Under-equipped.”
She leaned forward slightly.
“You want to reach him?”
I nodded, slow and heavy.
“Start with the silence,” she said.
“Don’t fill it. Let him feel what he’s spent his life avoiding.”
Then she looked up, properly, for the first time.
“But be careful. Some silences echo back things people aren’t ready to hear.”
A long pause.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“Of course.”
She sipped her tea.
“Tell your client... I hope he finds what he’s buried.”
I left without saying goodbye.
Sandra didn’t stop me.
She just floated in her throne, sipping tea like she’d already won.
Back in my office, the lava lamp had reappeared.
Slightly bigger. Gurgling with judgement.
I didn’t sit down right away. Just stood there, staring at the scorch marks on the floor. The broken chair. The place that, somehow, felt more familiar than my house ever did.
Her words replayed in my head:
“Start with the silence.”
I hated that kind of therapist-speak. Always sounded like cod philosophy nicked from an social reel.
But this time, I didn’t reach for a coffee. Or check intake forms. Or crack a joke to no one.
I just sat down.
And shut up.
And for a minute, maybe two, I let the silence sit.
Let it echo. Let it remind me what I’d buried.
The memory.
The suitcase.
The sound of her leaving, louder than any screaming could’ve been.
It didn’t fix anything.
Christ it hurt.
And maybe that was something.
The silent reflection is reverberating loudly, prompting an unexpected visitor in Chapter 7, stay tuned for some heavenly advice!
All previous chapters are posted in this section: To Hell With Therapy
The Plague's podcast name had me dying 💜
Ooo, he’s finally facing his demons! Literally! 👍