A/N: No beta. All mistakes are mine. This is an experiment of sorts. Rated for implied themes. May or may not continue; please do leave a review.
He hears them. Footsteps on the stairs; that familiar thump-thump that seems to mock the pounding of his heart. It slows and dulls as it reaches the carpet outside his door, and for a fleeting moment he hopes that perhaps tonight will be like before, before this escalated into something entirely beyond his control, when his father used to tuck him into bed each night – sometimes with a story, sometimes with a hug – leaving him safe and warm and protected.
He feigns sleep as his door opens softly, but not for long. And it's not the pain that banishes all rational thought and freezes him in place. It's the fear.
He holds his breath, savoring those last few peaceful moments as he tries to sink into the mattress. He feels the breath on his face, hears the whispered words, tries to go numb; when that proves fruitless he tries to convince himself that really – there's no reason pain should hurt. Eventually, he finds himself repeating the lyrics of some song that he memorized an age ago, over and over and over. The distraction lessens the sinking feeling.
False promises ring in his ears, their softness betraying them. And then – just as it's almost, almost over –
She feels the tears on her face as she wakes, fists clenching the blanket as she sucks in lungful after lungful of air. Deliberately concentrating on unclenching her hands (one thing at a time, after all) she rolls over and buries her face in her pillow as she just breathes.
Eventually, her muscles relax. The tears slow, then stop. The knife in her chest, however, remains, even as she begins to sort it all out.
She is a shrink, after all, and it's not unusual for her to be dreaming of that little boy. The one even she couldn't fix.
The one whose iron grip on adrenaline and addiction and control and her had never slipped. Because of her. Because she couldn't help him. But she won't give up, because there's still hope.
She'd fixed herself, hadn't she?