How can I decide what's right
When you're clouding up my mind?
I can't win your losing fight
All the time.

-"Decode", Paramore

I'm not exceptionally new in this profession, therapy. Two years out of school, but enough case reports to fill a walking closet. In a short amount of time, I'd seen every human study and sociopath characteristic there is to see, from brat kids who refuse to do homework, to future serial killers in the making, locked up on criminal charges suited for the most hard-earned murderer. I was sure nothing could shock me.

Then he walked in.

Raven black hair, unwashed, spiked in a matted, lasting way. His eyes were sky blue, but clouded over with irritation. They were sunken in, dark circles making him look wary. He very clearly didn't want to be there.

I wrote it down, despite the lack of professionalism in the observation. It seemed important.

He sat down, his arms crossed, looking small compared to the couch. His sweatshirt was old and baggy, though by the guardian's name on my clipboard, I knew he could probably afford much better.

I put a smile on, and ask him how he's doing.

I think it was the first time I've heard such language come out of a nine year old.

I write it down.

"Why do you think you're here?" I ask, waiting for my go-to therapy questions to run out.

He sinks into the seat, glaring at the door behind me, "I'm troubled."

I think of saying something condescending, or encouraging, but I can't. The kid's got the system down. He knows why and where and who, and everything I say will pass through his ears like white noise.

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

He raises his eyebrow, "You: Therapist. Me: Patient."

I find myself staring him off, his irritated look turning to one of amusement. This is clearly a joke. Duley noted.

"Why did you punch your classmate?" I ask.

"He's a jerk."

I look at him over my glasses, "That's not a reason."

"Is too."

This goes on, and, finally, time is up, and he leaves with a scowl on his face, and I look down at my clipboard, above the chicken scrabble notes I'd have to transfer to case report tonight, and read,

Patient: Richard Grayson

Age: Nine

Parents: Deceased

Guardian: Bruce Wayne