Death. A strange word, is it not? Most of the children I see have come in to deal with it, in one way or another. A way of their own. But that is not why they come to me! They must deal with it my way. And usually, it hurts them. See, children are like eggs. If they're cracked, they must be completely broken before being restored. And it is my job to break them. And, as a psychiatrist, I try to do the best I can. I see how close to the edge they teeter, how long it takes before they fall. And once they are broken, they are in my power. They will agree completely. And that is when they are cured.

I have a new patient, by the name of Fred David Jones. He is here, in my office. Appears to be dealing with the death of someone close to him, a girlfriend. Her name? Katie Marie Brown. Apparently, it was suicide, and he blames himself. His best friends are Zachary Joseph Mooneyham and Summer Anne Hathaway. I have written down our first interview, with a few case notes.

"Frederick. Come in." He stood. I ignored him. I like to see what happens when they do not get the attention they crave.

"Should I sit down?" No answer. "Ok, I'll stand up." Still no reply. "Look, lady, I thought you were meant to talk to me?"

"So," I reply. "You want to talk about this?" He still stands, clearly confused. I motion to a chair. "Sit." He does so. "So, your girlfriend died?" He shudders, not liking the matter-of-fact voice I use. "Well?"

"Yes," he replies, in a low voice. "She did." I make a note. Subject is past the first stages of denial. Is already into acceptance.

"And how do you feel about that?" He rises, takes a step towards me.

"My girlfriend is dead! How do you think I feel?"

"Mm-hm." Subject seems to rely on threatening behavior whenever 'Katie' is mentioned. "Angry, I take it?" He started to move towards me, then stopped, and slumped back in his chair.

"Yeah." Subject admits defeat.

"And do you ever still see her?" He colors slightly.

"Of course not! She's dead!" I give him a piercing look, and he colors even more. "Yes," he mutters. "I do. I see her laughing at me, her hair waving in the breeze of the dead. I feel her ghostly fingers stroking me, touching my neck, or arms. But they're cold, so cold..." I neatly jot down what he said, then look up.

"So, you see dead people?" I say it dead-pan, no trace of humor in my face, but he still suspects I am laughing at him.

"YES!" he screams, standing up. "I do! I see her everywhere, and I wish I didn't, but I do! She's dead, dead, and I know I shouldn't, but I DO! She's still mine, still here, with me!"

"Ok." I say, making a final note. "That will do for this session."