With a bump like Dr. Marjorie Giust has hidden under her cerulean pullover, she has to be pregnant or self-conscious.
It's only just there, a little pooch jutting out over the top of her khakis, nearly disguised by the creative way her hands fold in front of her flowered shirt, but it's the cardigan that gives her away. Bulky cotton fibers were not the way to go, and they cling to every curve of hers, unforgiving. The half-eaten muffin and the drained Dunkin Donuts cup on the edge of her desk make Gary think she's not experiencing morning sickness. The born and raised Christian in him eyes her empty ring finger and know she's got to just be wishing she could fit into that size six again.
She's new to this, it's obvious in her meticulous exercises that all the other ones have seemed to gloss over. She jots little notes - nothing new - but she does it on pads of yellow legal paper like this is some kind of amateur office. Gary wrinkles his nose at the Bic in her hands - her own name stamped on the tube, how narcissistic - and the angle of her papers, has been noting this for the last twenty minutes of this session.
It's their first alone. His mother sat in on the last two. This one's all about Gary.
Her pad's dipped downward. He can read every sketch she writes out. It's perturbing to see his issues scribbled out in psychobabble.
Everyone's just incredibly bothered by this entire practice. Gary overheard his mother on the phone, is all, all the talk about how much of a little monster he was. The behavioral issues, the talking back, the resistance to all things chores, decorum and discipline. It's gotten to be too much, hence the therapy. This is Gary's second real therapist. Two sessions into the last one, the Ritalin was subscribed. Three weeks later, the guy had apparently had enough. George Wilson, was his name.
He was black. He didn't stand a chance.
Marjorie is supposed to be a new side to things. Marjorie is kind, patient, and has shown great advances in children with cases of AD/HD as advanced as Gary's. Emphasis on new in her description, of course - Dr. Giust was the only one available in this field of cognitive therapy, meant to apply practices to deal with Gary's 'acting out' tactics, etc. etc. Long story short, she wasn't an actual doctor, not yet - she was just a resident.
She was cute. Short, cropped hair, light brown eyeliner, a flowered button-up shirt beneath that fancy blue cardigan of hers. She had black, buckled Mary Janes, black tights, and a knee-length skirt to match all that. She looked like what third graders would have had they gotten dressed in the sixties. When their mothers picked their outfits out.
Gary's been hoping for this. These moments alone. He's been nice for too long. He's been playing it up to make his mother look schizo and it's far too fun. All pleases and thank yous and thank you ma'ams when he's in this room, it's disturbing for everyone involved. Dr. Giust was expecting a caricature not unlike a Tasmanian devil, perhaps foaming at the mouth and twitching uncontrollably over his Gameboy, spiked collar, rock music blaring, something of the like. Instead, she got mild-mannered Gary Smith, hair meticulously combed.
He was wearing a sweater. And khakis. Stupid khakis.
This was too well planned. He was practically seething with glee. This poor woman. She had no idea. Here she was expecting the polite little boy that he'd been for weeks on end, hands folded in his lap. The hopeless wiggling in his seat had nearly given him away, but even 15 grams of Methylphenidate wasn't doing the trick, not quite yet - they were getting close to the right dosage, though, they knew it.
Dr. Giust was in her world for a moment. She did that. Debating carefully every little word that he said. She was in that stage at the beginning of therapists' job lives, where they grasped at straws, where they weren't entirely sure what iexactly/i was wrong with you, so they tried to diagnose everything from your parental woes to the colors of your shoelaces.
Gary's through with patience, hands still folded in his lap when he politely breaches the topic.
"Are you sure you should've had that muffin?"
Marjorie looks up with a soft smile, pen to her lips. "I'm sorry?"
"That muffin. It's over 500 calories, I read somewhere."
"Oh, no, it's fine," she offers, with a small laugh. "It's the reduced fat version!"
"Those are still 450 calories or something like that. I'm just not sure someone of your stature should have one, you know?"
"How do you mean, Gary?"
"I mean you're kind of a fat bitch and you could use the diet."
The pen drops from Marjorie's hand. Gary smiles sweetly and doesn't move from his spot.
"I-- Excuse me?"
"Although the muffin top goes with the food, I guess, but. Seriously. You should go to a gym. You must be like a size twelve by now at least. In size ten pants."
"Gary, I--"
"It's kind of disgusting, actually, having to look at this."
Dr. Giust is speechless.
"Shouldn't you be considering my needs? I don't want to look at some ugly fat lady while I'm trying to think about problems and stuff."
"Gary Smith, you little--"
That didn't take long, the standing, the towering over him. Gary has to resist the urge to poke her in her belly fat, and claps a hand over his mouth, holding back the laugh. "You shouldn't say things so cruel, you could--"
"Aw, what, did I hurt your feelings? I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I mean it. I just--" Gary's hands move to grasp his head again. "My medications aren't really--" His voice hitches a little, as he looks up at her, all falsehoods and wibbles again. "I just-- I can't control--"
She looks reproachful at once, and gets down to one knee in front of him. "Gary, it's all right." Gary sniffs, and looks to her with a frown. "We'll fix you, Gary. We'll figure out what's wrong and fix you."
Gary's face breaks out into a little smile, a few missing teeth showing. He holds out his hand for her to take. "You really mean it?"
"I mean it from the bottom of my heart."
She takes his hand.
Gary draws back a sound in his throat and spits straight into her face.
Dr. Giust and Gary never finish their session that day - she quits before the end of it.
Gary's eight years old when he's moved onto his third therapist.
Gary wonders if the good doctor has been catching his subtleties, because he does really work incredibly hard on him. Like the British accent he's slowly been sneaking in over the course of their visits, a near-perfect mockery of her own that he's actually pretty damn proud of.
The name plastered onto her certificates on the walls reads Dr. Joyce Hibbard, but she honestly tells him to call her Ms. Joyce, as if there's anything more condescending for a ten-year-old than to have to call someone Ms. First-Name. This isn't kindergarten, he wants to bark at this new lady.
"Sure thing, Ms. Joyce!" he answers again, jovially.
She started off okay enough. She's kind of nice, right? She's a little controlling. He doesn't like controlling. Controlling starts to get to him after long enough. Even at ten, Gary's incredibly fond of falling into his own patterns and following them, damning anyone who happens to get in the way of these patterns. This Dr. Hibbard intends to change his life, and in incredibly drastic ways.
Drastic for a ten-year-old, anyway. Five minutes into their first meeting alone, she's taking his Gameboy straight out of his hands and setting it in a desk drawer of her desk. He needs to concentrate on the task at hand, she tells him evenly. It's rude to play these video games while people are trying to talk with him and spark conversation.
This isn't a conversation, this is a therapy session. Gary notes, with a bit of an irritated edge, that there is a very astute difference.
She doesn't seem to understand the concept of stubborn child, at least not to the level that Gary's approached. He throws the idea of that word, that 'stubborn', and he successfully throws it out the window. He, of course, follows it out the window, makes sure it's broken its back in the seven story fall, and proceeds to stomp all over its corpse, set its clothing on fire, and piss out the flames. To say Gary has made stubbornness his bitch is just such a gross understatement.
And nothing she says seems to be getting through to him. Perhaps because she's regarding him as though he's a semi-retarded four-year-old child instead of the ten-year-old that's far advanced beyond his age as it is. She informs him of this, this fear, that she's not getting through to him, while tiny ten-year-old legs dangle over the edge of this admittedly cushy armchair. It's his favorite part of these sessions.
"No, you're not, I shouldn't think," Gary tells her, in a crisp, Cockney British accent.
"I think you're a bit afraid of these meetings, Gary," she replies, earnest. "The change that comes with it. Are you afraid I'm going to be making too large an impact on your life?"
It's times like these when Gary's eyes twinkle with some kind of realization, and he shrinks a little in his seat, looking a bit perturbed by the situation. "It-- You don't think that's it, do you?"
"I do," she replies serenely, frowning a little. "You're not very happy with change, and you're feeling trapped by these meetings."
"I-- Wow, I guess you're right."
"Tell me how you're feeling, Gary."
"I guess, I'm-- Well, Ms. Joyce, I'm feeling confused, is all."
"Confused?"
"I'm confused-- why you're here."
"How do you mean?"
"Why are you a therapist?"
She looks a bit taken aback, if not wary of the topic change. "Well, I like helping people, of course. Children like you, who need someone to listen to them."
Gary blinks a little widely, sitting back in his chair. "Really? I would've thought it would be for some more personal reasons."
"Like?"
"Repressed pain, perhaps, from your childhood."
"Why, Gary, I had a rather nice childhood!"
"Are you sure? I mean, it's just surprising you would have, since you're so heavy."
"I-- True, I'm a bit on the larger side, but my family--"
"In fact, I bet they would call you names in the classroom." Gary's gazing off out the window, some kind of false nostalgia as he strokes at his chin in a mockery of debating. "Did they call you something with 'pork' in the title, Ms. Joyce? I bet pork's really popular. Since you're a Jew and dig for money and stuff."
"Beg pardon--"
"It's a rather unfortunate last name too."
"How do you--"
"'Hibbard', it sounds a little like... almost like 'hippo'. I mean, it's a stretch, but you know how kids are these days. It would've been so convenient."
"Gary, you--"
"Like that popular board game! Hungry Hungry Hib-bard! They could have fun with that!"
"What are--"
"And that's just the fat thing, of course. Porky Joyce Hibbard. I bet they had a field day with the Judaism part, though."
"What."
"Good ol' Campers!"
"Gary!"
"Ooh, that's probably offensive. A lot of your kinds of people are still kind of butthurt about the Holocaust."
Joyce looks horrified. Gary almost giggles.
"Is Jesus-Killer something that offends you less? I mean, I just want this to be a real open discussion."
She doesn't actively quit there, not in front of him, and he's rather sad that he doesn't get the satisfaction of the storming out of the room. Respects her a little more for it! But, still, at the same time, when the next counselor's appointment he has is at a different time and day, when his mother drives him, tight-lipped, in a direction that's not the usual trek they make to Ms. Joyce Hibbard's office.
Gary ticks off another point on his side of the scoreboard.
Dr. Jolene Cope is 43, widowed, and probably hasn't been pounded in so long that her twat is going dry.
She's possibly the easiest to crack out of all the therapists that Gary can remember, though he does still view Marjorie with a fondness. There's just something about Jolene, how she sits at her chair. Her legs are crossed - not in a lewd kind of provocative way; in that regal way, with the ankles tucked together, underneath the chair. Her skirt goes down past her knees - a long, black pencil skirt - which would have been conservative enough, but then there were the black, opaque tights underneath. A lumpy black sweater to match and everything. A turtleneck.
And short, chunky-heeled shoes that Gary isn't sure, exactly, what brand, as he is a man and doesn't bother figuring out trivial things like shoe names, but he's fairly sure that they are the most un-sexy pair of heels that he has ever seen in his entire life.
She has a book. Dr. Jolene Cope has a book, which was probably a problem not entirely in her favor. As Gary read it.
Interesting insight that one could get from reading their therapist's book, even in the smallest of lines, reading between the paragraphs and figuring out their motives behind everything. They'd bitch about their mother - subtly! Somewhere within discussing the basics of children's thoughts behind... cheese or something, he didn't know psychiatric psychobabble. But he did know, clinically, how the mind worked, and Dr. Jolene Cope was one of the most conservative woman that Gary had met.
He'd spent the first three sessions sitting back in his chair, undressing her with his eyes and drawing out increasingly dark shades of pink from her cheeks as they grew more lewd and lingering.
It was just so easy toying with her. It was in her nature, he was sure. Sometimes he wondered if his mother even bothered to screen the therapists he was being sent to or if she just drew her finger down a long list of them and pointed at random. He'd read somewhere that it was easier for male patients to get on with male therapists, as it was for female patients to get on with female therapists. He didn't know how true that was, but considering his mother's constant recommendations were coming from middle-aged women with marital issues, he was supposing the most of these weren't going to end up the best of matches.
Dr. Jolene Cope had thick black glasses she constantly pushed up her nose.
Dr. Jolene Cope smelled faintly of mint julep.
Dr. Jolene Cope flushed an interesting shade of purple every time Gary used the word 'fuck'.
This was a horrible match and they both knew it, but if Gary was going to have his time wasted, he may as well have made the best of it in the meantime. That involved a lengthening of their time spent, but it wasn't as if Gary cared. So far as he was concerned, all of therapy was an entirely gigantic waste of his time in general. All of this was a waste of his time, but the therapy was particularly bad.
They've been together for seven sessions now. Gary's been gradually increasing his use of swear words as they go along.
He wonders if she has a whole closet full of those pencil skirts and sweaters, where she gets them and how much she saves on fashion choice - or lack thereof.
"I had a funny dream last night," Gary muses, idly. He's flopped over on her couch while she perches on her armchair across from him, ankles tucked as they always are, notebook turned very carefully away from him.
"What happened?" she prompts, bookish, pushing her glasses up her nose again.
"I dreamed you and I were in this office." Gary frowns, thoughtfully, steeple-ing his fingers on his chest and watching the ceiling. "I was wearing your glasses and a white fedora!"
"Interesting!" She sounds almost intrigued, like she's thinking they might actually be getting somewhere for once. "What were you doing?"
"Oh, I was fucking you over your desk."
He doesn't look over - he doesn't have to to know that her face is probably some interesting shade of magenta. "You had your pencil skirt all hiked up, around your hips, those tights pushed down, bent over your papers."
"Er--"
"And no shirt. Who would've known that you actually had nice tits?"
"Gary."
Gary grins, fleetingly, and far too devilish for something that's not planning a whole lot of everything. "I think about that a lot, you know," he offers, still not looking at her. On the contrary, his hand is slipping downward from his steeple, moving over his t-shirt and down to his black slacks. "Just imagining you, it's enticing. Always in here, your shirt off. I'm doing you from behind, your thighs are so creamy." He's palming himself now, and Dr. Cope lets out a quick, distressed noise. "And your tits bounce everywhere when I'm fucking you, it's hot."
He's not hard, he has no intention of getting hard here. She's just letting out these odd squawking noises. He chances a quick look over at her. Her knuckles are white on her clipboard. "Ooh, doc, the naughty things you could do with that mouth," he offers, and she stands up quickly, eyes dinner plates in light of all these new discoveries. "You think we could have a quickie, right now? My mother'll never know."
"Gary-- Gary Smith!"
"You gonna scream my name like that when I'm fucking you? Because I'll be ready and rearing before you iknow/i it, if you want." He lets out an exaggerated little moan, and pushes his hips up into his hand. "God, doc, your imouth/i, I'm touching your nipples and caressing--"
Dr. Cope lets out a tiny noise, not unlike a kitten being trodden on, as she opens the door. Of course his mother isn't sitting out in the lobby like she said she was going to be - she goes off while he's in these sessions, shopping, shows up five minutes before they're over in the hopes he won't notice. He does notice.
"Get out! You little monster! Get out now!"
Gary literally skips down the hallway out of the office, and spends a good half hour in the plaza across the street. There's a pretty sweet arcade there, and it's a far better way spending his time than anything can start building for him.
White Falls Academy was Gary's favorite.
It had been his last resort before Bullworth academy, some kind of last-ditch effort before That Freak School With Its Reputation, and it had been such an ordeal bigger than everyone had meant it to be. A six week boot camp in Connecticut, turned into a full psych evaluation in Connecticut, turned into an eighteen-month program in Utah. Even Gary hadn't been able to follow where what bled into what else - saw his mother jump from cloud to cloud, the more she made her calls and did her tried and true internet research.
This guy, this Jude Nelson that she'd gotten a hold of, whom Gary was absolutely certainly positive (a) had stolen his name almost directly from that Breakfast Club guy, and (b) had it in for him, had twisted her around his finger without even really a need to try too hard. Janice Phinney was, at face value, an incredibly gullible person. She threw salt over her shoulder when she spilled any, she believed two glasses of Gatorade would fix a headache (and barring that, any amount of aspirin, of course), and that electroshock therapy was a legitimate form of mental health treatment.
It was a glorified, therapeutic boot camp, in the middle of the wilderness so as to dissuade kids from running away. White Falls helped problematic children - boys, specifically - "realize his self-worth, his significance, his dignity and his responsibility to himself". They taught sons to do the right thing for the right reasons, to see the stress and pain they caused by their poor choices. "Your son," the website stated, "will realize that something worth having is worth working hard to get."
All of these were given to parents as a promise.
Gary saw them as personal challenges.
The flight was eight hours. Eight goddamn hours with nothing to entertain him but the in-flight movies, an iPod and his Gameboy. He honestly felt a little bad for the woman in the seat next to him. He'd been jumping up and down like a crack-addicted howler monkey or something, knees bouncing, fingers drumming. And of course he hadn't been able to get a wink of sleep, that would've been far too easy.
Three white polo shirts, three pairs of khaki slacks, three patented White Falls sweatshirt zip-up hoodies, and the laundry was done every other day. Fantastic. He imagined he'd just as much originality as to his clothing choice in prison as he did here. He had one tiny room, with two tiny roommates, each with their own tiny bed and equally tiny bedside table. They weren't bad quality, per se, it was just-- very mashed, very close in. Which was undoubtedly the worst part. Because fuck all if he wanted to hear Bart fucking Taylor whack off every night while whispering sweet nothings about his girlfriend back in Missouri.
Gary, was his therapist's name, and he entertained thoughts about punching himself in the face with a coffee mug when the irony was first brandished in his face. Gary Anderson had been at his job for fifteen years, had sat the Smith variety one into that chair in his - tiny, buggering, fucking - office, steepled his fingers and smiled at Gary over photo frames of his wife, daughter, and two equally hideously nerdy sons.
Gary remembers that day incredibly clearly, folded hands and all, when The Other Gary, Gary Anderson, Doctor Anderson started speaking.
"This is a safe room. Nothing leaves this room. Gary, isn't it?" That same stoic smile that Gary wanted to punch off his face. If only he'd a pair of brass knuckles. "I'm a Gary too. We have to live for the Garys, right? Think it's in the definition of our name and all. Sticking up for our name!"
"I thought Gary meant 'spear'," Gary shot back, arms crossed, foot up on this Imposter Gary's desk. "Does that mean we're going to gouge the competition with pointy steel objects?"
There was a frown and a determined look in Imposter Gary's features that clearly stated that while this was a safe room, this was a no-nonsense room, and he plainly informed Gary that he wasn't going to congratulate Gary for bad behavior, nor encourage it.
What a dump. This was worst than East Shore, with the no-high-fiving, no-handshaking policy.
The guy held out longer than expected! Working at a self-confessed boot camp hardened a guy, Gary guessed, despite his darnedest he worked to fight the guy off. The school had an eighty percent success rate, and a two percent expulsion rate. Gary was determined to fit into the latter of the two categories - it was just harder than he'd suspected from the beginning.
It was just glorious, was all, being pointed out the door that day the good doctor had finally cracked - after Gary had made one too many comments about abusing children and puppies and dreaming up whatever crackpot craziness he could come up with, finally got onto something or other about his daughter. Gary'd been sitting there, grinning a little too cruelly down at the family picture, the five Andersons in matching sweater vests and smiling back at the camera. The picture had been yanked straight out of his hand and he'd gotten told to march his bottom straight to Jude's office, where he'd gotten his prompt expulsion.
Too much for White Falls Academy's hands, they'd told his parents on the phone, gravely, he'd been shipped back home the very next day.
He'd made Imposter Gary cry that morning. He probably should have felt a little badly about that.
Instead he slept soundly, all eight hours of the plane ride back to Connecticut.
What's worst about Dr. Jeffery Barnard is that he's a genuinely good, old guy.
He's just-- Gary doesn't have an adjective for him that's not 'nice', at the beginning. Everybody likes Jeff. The stoners, the schizos, especially the down syndrome freaks. Even Gary has a begrudging kind of respect for the guy, because he's the only therapist Gary's gotten in this godforsaken place that actually seems to give two shits and isn't wasting his time.
He's a sociopath too, or at least he claims. It's oddly comforting.
Two and a half years, is the time frame they give him, the hopeful departure from the nuthouse that they're trying to aim for here. Two and a half years for a sociopath who takes over his school, apparently. Which is minimum, they're figuring, if therapy and meds take their course. Gary thinks back on eight years of medication and ulterior treatments, how none of them have worked so far and how he doesn't know how on Earth they're going to help later on, then.
There's just this gut feeling, is all, this twisting sensation in his stomach that he's going to be a resident of Happy Volts for a while, permanently. It's-- concerning.
Femme-boy visits, at least. It's nice, though Gary won't dare admit it, that someone's remembered him. His father certainly hasn't, his aunt and his grandfather haven't been to visit. It's not like he's boasting too many friends in his life right about now. His mother claims it's all too strenuous for her, over the phone. Something about stomach ulcers and she's going on a new pill now that's supposed to help with it. She cries over the phone, too. Gary doesn't like that. It's annoying.
But Petey's there, and Petey sneaks in comic books and candy time to time. They're stupid comic books, and shitty half-melted chocolate bars, but Gary feels some kind of gratitude that's far too big for him, that he can't really express and never bothered learning how to before. So he doesn't say anything, just grunts and asks Petey if he's hit puberty yet.
It's a pattern, and they've fallen into it. But it's one that Gary's strangely okay with.
Except patterns don't seem to like Gary. Patterns laugh in his face and start to huck spitballs at his head, for years of his having done so to patterns in the first place. It's a long rivalry between the two, a fight to the death, perhaps, and Gary's not entirely sure who wins out.
He was in a good mood that day and everything. He hadn't had the comic confiscated, from him yet, even a week later (Batman, little stupid Femme-boy had brought him something with the fucking Joker in it), and he had Petey visiting later.
Of course something was bound to fuck up. Things had just been going so well.
How are you feeling?
What's new this week?
Any problems with your meds?
Half a milligram of Triazolam gets Gary drowsy before his therapy sessions, always, but just enough to slow him down ever since that accident report was written, involving Gary, Dr. Schuster, and a plastic spoon/fork.
"Tired," Gary answers foremost, like always.
And then, "Nothing, because Stan got put in isolation, and who else am I going to throw spitballs at?"
And finally, "The Alprazolam. It's making me ill."
Jeff nods, then he grins despite himself. Then's the concern.
"Lift your shirt," he offers, presses careful fingers into Gary's abdomen. "Been eating regularly?"
"Yeah, shit cafeteria food."
"Well, there's your problem," Jeff grins, and undoes Gary's blue hospital scrubs enough to probe gently at the line of his stomach, just underneath his belly button.
"Nausea is a side effect, of course."
Gary nods, as his eyes slip shut momentarily. He fucking hates sedatives.
"I should make sure there's no other problems first, maybe prescribe you--"
"Not more--"
"Yes, more pills, if necessary, but an antacid. It's just the medical equivalent of ginger ale. Don't worry. You can handle it."
Gary doesn't worry, because he, dare he say it, he kind of trusts Jeff, and he full expects him to do the right thing. If he says Gary needs more pills, he might very well need more pills. Right?
What he gets instead is a hand on his dick.
There's an awkward little embarrassing squawk that Gary knows his lets out, then, unfortunately. His eyes jam open, his toes curl, and when he moves to sit up, Jeff places a soothing hand against his chest.
"What the hell are--"
"Relax, Gary, standard procedure."
"Standard procedure, that doesn't include a--"
"A what?"
"A-- A fucking--"
"Just settle down, Gary, are you all right? The Alprazolam, it increases anxiety--"
Gary's head flops back, his nails dig into his shirt.
"It can cause panic--"
Sexually uninterested or not, he's fifteen, and he's going to get a stiffie.
"Panic, this isn't goddamn--"
"Hallucinations are rare, but sometimes people see things they shouldn't be."
Crazy, he's not that fucking crazy.
"Short-term memory loss, sometimes users will replace details they remember wrongly."
God, burning in his--
"All common side effects."
Jeff pushes his glasses up his nose with the hand not wrapped around Gary's cock. Gary gasps back a whine and hates his own fucking skin for betraying him. He's just tired, is all. There's this place, this fucking hospital, there's two days without sleep and med names he has to concentrate on a moment to pronounce. He tangles his hand into Jeff's shoulder and pushes, hard, but even Gary fucking Smith gets tired of fighting, sometimes.
Gary seems more disgusted with the fact that he's just come in his pants like a common teenage boy than anything, and when he sits up real fast, the Triazolam makes his world spin.
"Some time next week?" Jeff asks, calmly. Like nothing happened.
And for a few long, panicked moments, Gary wonders, honestly, if nothing idid/i happen.
He can't think the entire time stupid Femme-boy's there an hour later, or at least not correctly. His train of thought whizzes and clicks, even more than usual, and by the fifth time he loses track of the conversation and Petey asks if he's okay, Gary snaps, unnecessarily, tells him to quit being such a faggot and let his testicles descend already. It's not like it's the first time he's heard the insults, but head boy's given Petey a back bone, and with-holding visits is the only way he knows how to keep Gary in line.
Petey cuts this visit short, but promises he'll be there again before the end of the week.
Gary snarls that he's not sorry anyway, even if he is, a little.
This isn't an every week thing, with Jeff, thank fuck, or else Gary would have taken far more drastic measures, earlier. It's not like he follows Gary either - Jesus Christ, Jeff's not the Trent to Gary's fucking Jimmy or something - but it's just the once, and then the twice a while later.
He's not even sure what it constitutes as, but his habits are definitely suffering. He's picking at his food, he's not sleeping, he's restless and twitchy during recreation times. He jumps when people say his name and he thinks, not pleasantly, of that schizo Dan who'd spent a week with his ass to the wall, muttering about St. Bernards.
"I hate Jeff, Jeff's a jerk, Jeff's a demon," he'd hissed conspiratorially, when Gary had tried to poke some fun out of him.
"And you're a fucking nutcase," Gary had informed him, kindly.
He watches Dan now, over his tray of mashed potatoes, rubbery ham and something that could possibly have been defined as Jell-o. Dan peels skin off his ham that probably shouldn't be there, and Gary starts getting why the hell the guy got a therapist transfer.
Gary slips his spork into the hem of his johnny, and he waits.
What the problem is here is that Gary's too stubborn. He could have easily requested a change of therapists - he had two others a week, what was one shift change? But that would've been too easy. That would have been admitting defeat, and Gary did so sorely hate to lose.
Four times, their little therapy sessions have gone south, pun definitely not in-fucking-tended. Gary eyes Jeff's filing cabinet of patients and wonders, bitterly, who else, if anyone else, or if he's just that fucking special. There's a way that Jeff runs his fingers along Gary's chair when he moves to shut the office blinds that makes Gary gag a little, and unroll the hem of his shirt.
He tongued his sedatives today.
And he's pissed.
Gary makes his move the second the blinds are closed, jumps from his chair and grabs Jeff by the back of the shirt. He doesn't feel bad when he hits the desk, when papers go sprawling, but what else is new? Jeff is at least seventy and Jeff is weak. Jeff isn't exactly fighting back when Gary twists his hand the wrong way, plastic spork, of all things, to his eye.
"Gary--"
"Silencio, Barnard, or I scoop one out."
Gary's panting with the adrenaline, trembling with that edge. "Here's the deal, old man. You're going to quit. No two weeks' notice, no severance bullshit, you're just going to skedaddle on out of here, and never come back." He hates that he can still see that pop in his eyes, that kind old Jeff that Gary knew from the beginning.
"If we can just--"
"Don't you dare say to talk about it, I'll cut your eyelids from your face. Wanna know how effective that is with a plastic spork? We can find out."
"No one'll believe you," Jeff croaks, panicked, "the--"
"The Xanax I've been skipping for weeks now?" Gary supplies, words biting. "Got the whole istash/i hidden for proof -- like I'll tell you where."
"Bluffing, you're bluffing."
"Care to test how far I'm willing to go?" Gary seethes, and sharp prongs jab into Jeff's cheek, threatening. "You're gone by tomorrow. Or so help me fucking God."
Petey's thoroughly confused by the warm welcome that next day. Gary's still jittery as he's been the last couple months, but not nearly so cross or so short-tempered.
"One of my therapists is quitting," he explains, for Petey's strange looks.
"That's too bad." Bless the little Femme-boy, sounding genuinely concerned.
"Not really - I fucking hated him," Gary replies, jovially. Petey doesn't question, and instead hunches like he thinks he's going to get hit. What he gets is a headlock and a noogie before Gary demands his smuggled candy, and he informs Petey of the tunnels that lead straight to Happy Volts' front gates during the school year, while he licks milk chocolate off his thumb and Petey listens carefully as if this is English class.
For his first time here, Gary feels something in his chest un-tighten, and takes a good, hard breath.
Dr. Alana Mayton wasn't an ugly girl, but she wasn't an attractive one. She wasn't thin, but she certainly wasn't fat. She wasn't particularly witty, she wasn't particularly brilliant, she wasn't particularly stupid, but she was new. Not new like new to the job - her weathering in this job showed in her bags under her eyes, how she could rattle off medications and dosages without having to consult a handy dandy little medication book guide.
She had long brown dreadlocks that she tied back at the base of her neck, a scarf she tied around her head. She had a labret piercing, a nose piercing, and two tiny eyebrow hoops directly next to each other. She had faint self-made tattoos skritched across her fingers, the hint of some celtic lines that showed from under the sleeve hems of shirts when she chose to wear the shorter-sleeved ones.
She was recommended by Sadie at the yacht club, his mother had informed him, much to the surprise of both of the Smiths. Gary hadn't known what to expect when he'd stepped into the classiest of buildings in the shittiest part of town, but it certainly hadn't been Dr. Mayton. She wore floor-length hippie skirts and bangles. Gary bet she owned at least three articles of hemp clothing.
"I don't like her little," Janice had started to explain, gesturing towards her face once they were out of the room. "Piercings," she'd finally spat, as though the word were a swear. "I'm not sure how I feel about her!"
"I like her," Gary'd replied, firmly, probably for the sole reason that his mother seemed to despise the woman.
That had been five months ago, when the second his mother had left the room, to give Gary and the doctor some minutes alone to evaluate, Gary had automatically breached the topic of her makeup habits - or lack thereof. "You're not wearing concealer," he offered, bluntly.
"I don't feel the need to," she'd shrugged, amused.
"Bad choice," Gary had clucked with a shake of his head before she'd changed the topic.
Five months later, she still hadn't a speck of makeup adorning her face. Gary admired that.
It's been a gritty day in the first place, and neither seems to know why. Dr. Mayton is tired. Gary is more irritable than normal and lashes out at her with everything she doesn't even have to say. His meds never seem to work out lately - bad combo after bad combo, and spending the week on a diet of ginger ale and toast to keep them down isn't agreeing with him, he barks, far too sharply, but she has the decency not to flinch when he really digs in, not anymore.
Gary's perched in that easy chair, and it's a dark maroon sort of shade, stark against his pale skin where he sits at his seat, at his throne. One leg is crossed, slung haphazardly across the other, a hand is on either arm rest, and his nails are dug in like it's his territory and his only. "I don't get what you're saying," he's getting out, now, a little too cruelly, even if it's just a mere question. It's because everything she tries to explain, he insists on not understanding, merely for the amusement of hearing her explain it in new ways. He's playing with her, and they both know it.
"I'm talking about your biggest motivator," she says, very plainly. Gary's nervous, it's easy to see - his fingers are drumming, his teeth are gritting. The foot is waggling about a mile a minute.
"Which is?" He spits when he talks, always, like he's got something to prove, much territory to defend - a cat's hiss to keep the other invaders at bay. He sounds mildly interested when he answers, if not wary, careful to tread such waters in search of the golden chalice of an answer. "Enlighten the class."
"Fear, of course," she adds, and as she leans forward onto a knee, chin propped on that besotted hand, he simultaneously goes absolutely and completely still - the nails and the drumming, the leg and the bouncing, the teeth, the eyes, all focused very suddenly and intently on her as though she is the prey across the room. The bigger predator that's sought him out.
"Excuse me?"
She sighs, scrubs a hand over her hair. "I didn't want to get into this. Fear, Gary. You might act all tough and rude and don't interrupt me," she shoots off, quickly, when Gary's mouth starts to open and shove in some fast remark before she can go too far on her spiel, "because it's true and you know it, and that right there, you were going to fight that. Hear me out.
"Fear, it's something that's a part of everyone's lives. Teachers, friends, co-workers, your mother and father. Me. I'm afraid of change - I like things very staid. I'm afraid of elevators, got stuck in one when I was a kid." Her eyes brighten a little, daringly. "Look, this is free ammo, I'm handing it all off to you. I'm afraid of supermarkets because the lights are too bright, I'm afraid of gas stoves exploding, I'm afraid of spiders like any other girl. I'm afraid of that Jewish woman who lives next door to me who keeps trying to hook me up with her son."
She smiles, a bit jovially, it was obviously meant as a joke, to lighten the mood. Gary's not smiling. "I'm afraid she doesn't know I'm gay. I'm afraid I entrusted that knowledge with one of my crudest, most homophobic patients I've had." She shoots him a look, still leaning on her hand, and at once softens, watching him carefully for any and all reactions. Gary's features are unreadable, if at once hostile and cautious. "I'm afraid I'm not getting through to you."
"What, you want to go home and cry about it? Save it for your own shrink. What's it got to do with me?"
Alana sighs, gently again. "Well, there's your peers, for a start. You don't want them getting too close to you, or have to explain yourself past 'sociopath' to any of them. Petey seems to be the only one you refer to in any sort of a positive light, and don't, I'm talking, close that mouth right now. But then he's the only one you seem to regard as remotely understanding you. It's convenient; he sees you as something more than a nutcase. It's also terrifying he's going to start understanding you enough, see just what's in that head of yours and maybe get scared off by it."
She's not stopping, and Gary's shoulders are getting more ratcheted by the moment, drawn into a straight line, making him look not unlike a deer, poised and ready to bolt at any given moment. He looks dumbstruck. He looks horrified.
"Happy Volts. You're definitely afraid of Happy Volts, but who the hell wouldn't be? I've heard horror stories out of that place, yours just the tip of the iceberg. You're afraid of a tiny little cell, being restricted to that much of a schedule. Having your day mapped out down to what you get for breakfast. ECT, you're definitely freaked out about. Going back is possibly the worst one, and that's the only reason you're keeping your nose clean as of right now, why you haven't tried any big, great schemes since the takeover. And then Jeff--"
"Who I still to this day regret telling you about--"
"Who I haven't told anyone about--"
"Because I would deny any such knowledge and they would call you a schizo and a child endanger-er or something."
"Exactly the only reason I haven't said anything, despite protocol. That's putting my ass on the line, but you're too stubborn to acknowledge that."
"Damn fucking skippy."
His hands tighten on the arm rests. "Keep going, I didn't tell you to stop."
"Really?"
"Go."
She rubs at her eyebrows, looking a bit distressed now. "Your parents. You're afraid they don't pay enough attention. That they don't see you beyond that either. That you're just this glorified family pet that's got this brand of flea they can't quite get rid of just yet."
Gary bristles. Dr. Mayton winces. "That was crude. I'm sorry."
"Oh, no, entirely necessary. Twunt-y, but necessary."
He stands, though she was fully expecting him to, and sits up, finally, not following suit. Just watching. "You want to leave."
"I want to punch you in the fucking mug, is what I want to do, but seeing as how I'm just a scared little bitch who wants to keep his record clean just so a few tactless orderlies don't start sticking him like a pincushion again."
He's looming over her, fingers twisting at his sides, unsure whether to ball into fists or not.
"Session's got ten minutes left."
"I don't care," he snarls at once, snatches a black peacoat off the chair and moves straight for the door.
"Gary--"
"What?"
He's jerked open the handle, stands a bit hunched, spine jacked into a straight line as he swivels back to look at her, eyes impossibly harried. It's the most intimidating she's seen him. There's real hatred in those eyes.
"You're never going to get better if you keep firing your therapists. I'm just saying."
"You know," when he laughs, it's short and barked, it almost makes her flinch, the degree of ire in it, "that's the problem with all you head-shrinkers, isn't it? The fixing? It's like I'm your goddamn clock radio that's not getting the right station in tune. Get it better, you just have to fix everything, I'm just the broken toy that's got to be fixed."
He swings his coat on, jabs his hands into the sleeves real fast, without losing her gaze. "There's only one problem with that assessment. I'm not your toy, and I'm sure as shit not fucking broken."
The slammed door does make her jump, and the sound goes straight through her head when it echoes in the tiny confines of her appointment room.
He doesn't speak until they're out in the parking lot. Jan writes a check for the co-pay and the two wordlessly make their way down the stairs, Gary bringing up the rear and irritably doing up the buttons of his coat. He's trying to stave off the cold, but it doesn't do very well on a day like today. The wind's biting through his sleeves, but the jacket's Moschino, so he's not supposed to complain.
"I don't like her," he says, flat and even and dangerous as his mother disengages the car alarm from across the lot. "She's a fucking dyke, did you know that?"
"Watch your mouth. I didn't know that."
"I don't want a dyke for a therapist. I want a new one, and I want a better one, that's not going to have some bullshit degree off a shelf at Wal-Mart." He jerks open his car door as she does, slams it much harder and a few seconds before hers follows suit. "Do better next time."
He has a new one within the week, and she's just as shitty and corporate as all the other ones.