Author's Note: I came across an interesting thing called Traumatic Incident Reduction while browsing This fic is entirely revival-based, for it takes place after the events of the musical. In this fic, an asylum staff member is helping Tobias through a TIR session. My thanks to Victoria for helping me on the phrasing of an integral line at the end of this.
Therapy
"Let's begin." I always say. This, I know he does remember, because he is never difficult when I pull the gag off his face. Fogg is rough when he strips the boy of the jacket that always makes him feel so safe.
"The tale of Sweeney Todd," I say wearily, dragging a chair across the floor and sitting in front of the boy. He watches me intently, but he will not move or speak, not until Fogg leaves me alone with him, and even then, he is reluctant. "You remember it, and you know why you have to talk about it."
He stares at me, blinking, processing, and then "No."
"Close your eyes," I instruct him, ignoring his response. "Think about Fleet street. Think about Mrs. Lovett, about Mr. Todd."
"I won't!" He screams, more terrified than he is angry.
I remember our previous sessions together and pull up a memory of his, something to help him get started. "Toby, love," I say, despite my discomfort, "Tell me, tell your Aunt Nellie."
He whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut, but this is good. Soon, he's muttering to himself and then he's talking about sailors and beggars.
"Anthony…" he says slowly, and then forms another name on his lips that takes him great pains to speak. Finally, "Benjamin Barker… Sweeney… Todd. Now."
He later whispers the name "Johanna" with fascination, at first, and then a sense of recognition.
When he is fully immersed in his memories, he is not gone. He does not lose himself as so many other patients do, however much I know he wants to. Instead, he does something else different as well; he incorporates me into his memories instead, in a way that is unique, since all of my other patients stay closed off inside themselves.
His eyes, while they are vacant and empty, often meet with mine, and I can't help but smile, knowing that he has made me a part of something.
There are lots of memories that scare him, and he rushes to me, clinging to my leg or waist and pleading for help. I can't help him, though, unless he directs me, putting my hands exactly where he needs them to be. This is, after all, therapy for his trauma, not for my loneliness.
Sometimes, there are rare moments of happiness, where the boy's face will light up, breaking open into a genuine smile, and he is genuinely at peace, and happy. These moments never last long.
Sure enough, he's scowling or flinching, twitching and whimpering again in no time, and I start to feel a strain on my back from sitting in the chair for so long. He makes broad, slicing motions with his hands, cutting through sharp and quick. He even runs his fingers across my throat.
I do not interrupt him. I do not even involve myself unless he requires it of me. His hands grip mine so tight, and then he is shouting about revenge and pies and Italians and he demands of me my attention, please.
Juicy meat pies, he tells me how to make 'em and bake 'em, and his tics become more violent. He has less control over himself, and sometimes stops dead and I start to lose him. I fear that the whole session will have been for nothing, so I snap my fingers and clap my hands, touching him and dragging him back into memories he wants nothing more than to escape.
The boy cowers behind his chair, circles the room approaches me with reluctance, has conversation with people that he imagines, and shouts vehemently at who, himself? Today, he vomits, and then screams for help. Instinct tells me to approach him and bring him back from wherever he is, and I almost do, but I remind myself that this is a therapy session, and so I remain in my proper place and he curls up on the floor, moaning and sobbing. "Fire…"
He always screams for Mrs. Lovett, and it even causes me pain to hear it. I have never seen the boy so distracted, in so much insufferable agony. His wailing goes on for some time, and I avert my eyes so I don't have to see the pain that his face shows. I stare at a corner in the wall until the boy goes off about a razor, the razor. He grows simple and childish, regressing back to… something. Perhaps today, I will find out where he goes.
His face is soaked with tears that are still flowing, and then he runs his trembling hand across his wrist. He stays like this, sobbing and whispering to himself, running his hand over his wrist again and again…
I approach him and take his hand, squeezing it; immediately, his eyes snap up to meet mine. A shudder runs through his body and he flinches, blinking furiously as he tries to reorient himself to his surroundings.
Now things should become clear for him. I let him get his bearings before I ask him, "Tobias, what happened on Fleet-"
"Three times!" He interjects brightly, cutting me off suddenly.
I sigh in frustration, already knowing that this is all I am going to get from him. Three times through the grinder,
"To make the meats juicy and tender. That's the secret!"
Defeated, I retrieve the straitjacket from the hook on the wall. I am always surprised when the boy obediently extends his arms and just lets me restrain him.
"Three times through the grinder…" he says directly to me. His eyes are wide and mad and his whole body shakes with the intensity of the moment.
"Three times! Smoothly… smoothly… smoothly…"
He won't ever stop, now - he never does, not until I gag him.
"Smooth-"
Shut up, I think. Only when he is fully restrained do I allow myself a glance at my watch. Over three hours have gone by. Even gagged, the boy is muttering pure nonsense, staring pointedly at nothing.
I slam the door behind me and am so angry that I leave the boy alone in the dark until Fogg comes to retrieve him.
We are making no progress.