Flippy sat mindlessly at a desk, fiddling with his bracelet of worry beads. He barely noticed as Dr. Thatcher - his main psychiatrist - sat down in front of him on the other side of the desk and shuffled a thin stack of papers. William Horris Thatcher was a pale brown cat, standing at five feet tall, his green eyes hid behind a pair of thin framed glasses, which he tended to keep chasing back up the bridge of his nose. Flippy's attention was drawn to William's presence when he cleared his throat, flipping through a few of the papers before stopping at one and placing the stack down on the desk. Dr. Thatcher slid the stack towards Flippy, and turned it around to face him. The paper was covered with small script, and Flippy squinted to read some of what it said. His gaze scrolled up the page to see the heading.
"Your release forms." Thatcher said, plucking a pen carefully from the desk and placing it beside the stack.
Flippy looked up at Dr. Thatcher, and removed his hand from his bracelet. He took the pen and wrote his signature in his scratchy handwriting. He looked away and slid the stack carefully back towards Dr. Thatcher, who he could hear shuffling through the papers.
"Flippy," He heard his name come in the same tone as always, the concerned, but commanding tone whenever he was about to correct him."you can't be holding your breath so much, it's not going to help your anxiety."
Flippy cracked open his jaw, letting go the air he was unconsciously holding, and sucking a deep breath in through his nose, holding it for three seconds before letting it drain out his mouth again. Dr. Thatcher slid the stack back, with a new paper on top of it.
"What are you thinking?" Thatcher asked, his tone calm. Flippy removed his stony gaze from the wall, where he was staring at the display of Dr. Thatcher's collection of PHDs and onto the doctor himself.
"I'm anxious about going back. I did such horrible things, what kind of life can I possibly expect when I go back?" He asked seriously, his hands gripping his lap tightly. Dr. Thatcher stared back, nodding slightly. Flippy took a deep breath before speaking again, trying to control his anxiety like he had been doing for the past year.
"They're terrified of me, and why shouldn't they be? I'm a monster, Thatcher." His voice cracked, and he averted his gaze, looking down at the new page turned towards him. He busied himself with signing everywhere the paper instructed him to, trying to occupy himself from his welling emotions. Dr. Thatcher spoke while he did so, his deep voice seemed to always be calm and understanding.
"I'm sure they'll understand what you've gone through. They received letter of your return a month ago, they'll be fine, Flippy."
Flippy's brow furrowed as he slid the stack back to Thatcher, who straightened the end against his desk and opened a drawer and placed them inside.
"You're all packed up, correct?" He asked, cleaning up a few little things astray on his desk before rising from his seat. Flippy followed suite, straightening his vest, which was ruffled haphazardly.
"Yeah, everything's ready to go."