This is a bit different than what I'm accustomed to writing. Usually, I write from some type of third-person limited-omniscient view (or whatever phrase my high school teacher would have said) of the main TV characters, but this story instead focuses on the thoughts of the therapist... It's rather limiting. So, please, let me know what you think.
Also, I'm aware that Beckett's therapist is a man. For the purposes of this story, the therapist is a woman. As hard as I tried to write this from a man's point of view, I realized that no one was going to find it sincere. I have two X-chromosomes and the style of my writing proves it. If anyone has tips on how guys write, feel free to share them.
Finally, I'd just like to make one thing clear: My other Castle story, The Morgue Has Ears, is complete. I keep getting story alerts for that and I have no idea why. It's a one-shot that I intend to let stand on its own. I do appreciate the interest, however, and plan to write another story of that style someday.
Confessions of an Underpaid Therapist
As a child, I loved to read the "Dear Abby" column in the local newspaper. Honestly, it was better than a Spanish soap opera.
"Dear Abby, I'm secretly in love with my best friend's husband. How do I get him to divorce her and marry me?"
Um, excuse me? Did you really just ask that?
"Dear Abby, there's a stain in my favorite pair of shorts, and it's completing ruining my life because I can't wear them! Help!"
Tragic. Please, allow me to put you out of your misery. Here's a loaded .45.
"Dear Abby, my father says that the voices in my head aren't normal, but I know that they must be. They give me the best ideas, and they always tell me when someone is following me. Or watching me. Or stalking me. Right now, I'm hiding in the shower because I know they're after me. What was I saying… Oh, right. How do I convince my father that I'm superior to him because the voices only talk to me and that he should leave me alone?"
Okay, perhaps I've exaggerated a bit. Often the questions are legitimate. Sometimes, though, I pitied that poor woman, forced to read such ridiculous tales and then hunt for a respectable answer.
But now mostly, I pity me.
You see, about ten long years ago, I decided to become a therapist. Psychiatrist. Shrink. Call it whatever floats your boat. I believe I made this decision out of a misguided desire to help people.
I was such a fool. As Elphaba says in the musical "Wicked," no good deed goes unpunished. I've paid dearly for this job. In reward for devoting myself to my work and spending long hours trying to fix other peoples' lives, my own life has turned into the soap opera. My husband is on the verge of asking for a divorce, my daughter is mixed up with "that" crowd in high school, and my son… Well let's just say that I didn't know anybody could get in so much trouble at such a young age.
But you didn't come here to listen to me and my troubles. You came here to hear about the catastrophic, heart-rending tragedy that is the love saga of one Richard Castle and Kate Beckett.
And, boy, are you in the right place! It's absolutely fantastic—their story, that is. If I didn't have to worry about trite regulations (such as the law prohibiting me from sharing their confidences), I could write a book and make millions.
But then again, I'm no Rick Castle. The best I'd get would be a ten-minute segment on Oprah.
I'd settle for that though. I'm not picky.
Anyway, about two years ago, I left my private practice in order to be an employee of the city. My luck being what it is, I got saddled with the cops and detectives of the NYPD. Fuuunnnn. On the bright side of things, at least their problems aren't quite as trashy as some of the Dear Abby articles. On the other hand, cops have a lot more problems than first meets the eyes. And they do NOT like to share them with a stranger. Or a friend. Or even themselves, for that matter.
Which is why my job is a bit like pulling teeth.
My own teeth.
Without anesthetic.
So I guess I'm simply writing this for myself. I think I deserve to complain, and if I can't complain to a living person, I'll simply have to resort to inscribing my words on pulverized, bleached, dead trees.
That came out a lot more morbid than I actually meant it.
"I bet you don't get many cops back in here after they pass their psych test," Detective Kate Beckett murmurs softly, hugging her knees as she looks everywhere but me. In an office as small as mine, this is a feat.
You're kidding, right? Cops voluntarily returning to see a therapist? Happens about as often as a snowstorm in July. In Texas.
Granted, there have been a couple… A very very few. See, among cops as with everyone else these days, the overwhelming impulse is to "be strong and independent." People ought to know by now that humans are capable of incredible feats, but that no one—absolutely no one—can do it alone. Those who say otherwise are stupid. Those who avoid therapy just so that they don't appear weak to others are ridiculous.
Perhaps I'm a little too outspoken about this, but it's what makes my job so painfully difficult. This mentality makes it so that I'm trying to help people who refuse to help themselves. And cops are often more stubborn than the average person. In the NYPD, you almost have to be.
"Everyone is different," I reply, diplomatically. I'm rather proud of that response, even if I do say so myself.
She doesn't appear to notice my eloquence. "I lied before, about the shooting," she admits.
Crazy girl say wha-at? I'm usually so good at ferreting out these little lies. This is, well, rather humiliating.
Kate Beckett continues, completely unaware of the inner turmoil raging within my devastated soul.
See? I really could make a go at this whole writing a book thing.
"I remember everything."
Great, so you remember getting shot. Makes for a great conversation starter. Frankly, I'm a little less concerned about the fact she lied to me than the tiny little matter of the approval I signed for this woman to return to work. Can't have a bunch of severely traumatized people with a badge and gun running around NYC now, can we?
Now, I know there will be some of you out there who will disapprove of my inner commentary. Perhaps you find me insensitive and uncaring. That's not true. I care deeply for these people. Still, I'm human. I have the right to my own thoughts here.
"Tell me about it," I say smoothly.
She chews on her the inside of her lip for a minute. "I… don't really know where to start."
"From the beginning."
Really? We just did the I-don't-know-where-to-start-so-start-at-the-beginning line from the cheesy, clichéd movies. WOW. But I digress.
"Well… you remember Castle?" she asks.
Super-famous, handsome mystery writer who follows around a beautiful NYPD Detective? Nope, never heard of him.
Seriously lady. What do you take me for?
"I believe so. You mentioned that he's been working with you and your team for the last few years, consulting on cases and gathering information to write his book about you."
Kate bristles immediately, "It's not about me."
Not fair. She doesn't notice my brilliantly-constructed sentences but chooses to focus on a single shoddy phrase.
Ah, well. C'est la vie.
"Of course; it's fiction, right? What does Castle have to do with your shooting?" You have NO idea how often I have to remind patients of what they were just ranting about. You'd think they'd be invested enough to actually focus on their complaints, but no…
"Castle…" she sighs, "Well, my mother was murdered about a dozen years ago. It's probably in that file," she motions to the manila folder in my lap. Incidentally, her background happens to be the majority of the papers in the file. Not like she needs to know that. She continues, "Anyway, Castle… See, I had manage to put it behind me, but he reopened the case." There's a slightly bitter twist to her face, and she's suddenly on a roll, detailing their past few years with each other until my head is swimming in facts.
It's fascinating, really. They could make a movie about themselves.
I think she still resents that he opened her mother's case against her wishes, but I would be surprised if she actually blames him for that. Think about that for a second. It makes sense.
I think.
"Then, at the funeral…" Kate's demeanor has been calm up to this point throughout her narrative, but now she crosses and uncrosses her legs, runs her fingers through her hair, and shifts uncomfortably. Suddenly, she seems to notice her body language and forces herself to remain still and relaxed. It's frankly impressive how casual she looks. If I hadn't seen her twitching before, I would never have guessed.
"I don't really remember the bullet. It didn't even hurt at first. The next thing I remember is lying on the ground. Castle was there," there's a faraway look in her eyes and she speaks hesitantly, "sliding in and out of focus. Then, just… black."
"Did he say anything… do anything?" I'm totally fishing. She's holding something back. It's annoying.
Kate glances quickly down at the watch on her wrist. "I'm sorry," she replies warmly, "I completely lost track of the time."
It's about ten minutes past her time slot. So what? This is important. My next patient can wait. His primary concern right now is the way that his ex-wife's daughter's friend is attempting a hunger strike to convince her parents to buy her a car. Very odd and a bit sad, I'm sure, but I still haven't figured out why it's so devastating to him.
She continues, "It's a long story, so I'll have to finish next time." She smiles, "Next week?"
"Of course," I nod and smile.
Lame. Sooooo lame.