Denial
"So this is your way to deal with it? Denial?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" growled Oliver, sucked back into reality.
"A psychological defense mechanism. To put it shortly, when a person is confronted with a fact which is too uncomfortable or too hard to accept, he or she rejects it instead and insists that it isn't true. Even when presented with overwhelming evidence. Does that sound familiar?" she asked calmly.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn't say anything. To his own surprise he sensed that his heart was beating a little faster and he was starting to get nervous. He rarely felt overwhelmed by the situation when he was out there, fighting crime. But it was one thing to face an enemy with a bow firmly in hand, and quite another to be examined like this. As if truly was something not right with him.
He knew he was paranoid. But it had helped to keep him alive for so long.
"Are you not going to say anything about it, Oliver?" asked doctor Pressnall.
"What's the point? No matter what I tell you, you will twist it to fit your theory," he said grimly.
"Oliver, please believe that I'm not your enemy."
He didn't comment on that. She wanted to break him down and pick through the darkest corners of his mind. Get inside his head and make him believe he was suffering from some psychological disorder. How could he regard her otherwise? Right now Doctor Pressnall, despite her ordinary look, seemed to be a much more dangerous foe than the Dark Archer and Deathstroke put together. They wanted to take everything from him, and in the end kill him. But what she intended to do was even worse. Deprive him of everything that gave meaning to his life and force him to live without it.
"Can you at least tell me why don't you want to talk with me?" asked Doctor Pressnall. She was quite persistent, he had to give her that.
"I'm not insane. But you claim I've lost my mind. Hard to assume that we will come to agreement on that matter," he said tartly. He paused for a while and asked sarcastically: "What you are going to do next? Show me some cards with ink blots splashed over them to determine my mental health or something?"
"You are talking about Rorschach test," she said, apparently undismayed by his mocking tone. "In fact psychiatrists never use personality tests. We talk with our patients. It's also rarely used by psychologists, sometimes in forensic assessment. In some cases it helps to determine mental disorders, but overall it's not easy to interpret the results. Technically an appropriate scoring system should be applied but some of the examiners make the mistake of using subjective judgment instead. Big Five personality test is proved to be much better method. However, it also requires some cooperation from the test subject..."
He felt a burst of indignation. Test subject! That was what he was now? An extraordinary case to be examined and then described in articles in the specialist press? Or perhaps she planned to write a book or two about him if she managed to do enough research? Label him with some fancy sounding term like "Robin Hood syndrome"?
"Funny that you are the one talking about subjective judgment," he said venomously.
"What do you mean exactly?"
"I'm pretty sure your professional observation hasn't changed since the first time we met."
"Well, then it may came as a shock to you that first and foremost, my diagnosis is going to be objective," she said, placing an emphasis on the last word. She observed him for a while, tapping the pencil on the table. "If your actions are all rational and justified and I'm the one who judges everything wrongly, why don't you convince me of that?"
He raised his eyebrows slightly, mistrustful. He knew that she was setting a trap. As a vigilante he had been hunted for so long, both by the police force and by his enemies, that he could recognize in at instant when a trap was laid before him.
"Explain what was driving you when you were putting on that hood and going out every night to mete out justice. Why it was worth putting your own life at risk and sacrificing everything for this cause," she persuaded.
He glared at her grimly. How he could explain? She wouldn't understand. Nobody understood. At first he intended just to ignore her. But then again, a chance to prove his point was just too tempting...
"I did it because I could. To stand up for those who couldn't do it for themselves. To right the wrongs which have been done to them. And there wouldn't be a need for me if the system worked fine," he said dryly.
"So you decided to work outside of it."
"I'm not an anarchist, if that's what you intended to write in those notes of yours." He pointed with his chin at the papers which were lying before her.
He turned his head slightly toward the window behind his back when he heard the loud wailing of sirens. He quickly estimated that they sent off at least three police cars, maybe four... Apparently there was a need of SCDP intervention somewhere in the Glades. Adding this to the forces sent earlier was enough to get the full picture. All the scum from the underworld who had been lying low up to this moment had crawled into the open. With the Arrow being held in custody, there was no one to be afraid of. No one who could stop them.
And he was sitting idle here, trapped. And could literally do nothing.
"Oliver." Doctor Pressnall's voice drew his attention back. He fixed his eyes on her again, although reluctantly. "Then who do you think you are?" she asked gently.
He didn't answer, confused. He had no idea what she was asking about. If she was going to start talking again about dissociative identity disorder or some other crap...
"Have you ever wondered how your actions may look from the outside?" she asked, cutting into his thought. "What other people think about you? People who you so desperately want to protect?"
"I don't care what other people think," he said indifferently. However, her next statement took him by surprise.
"Some view you as a hero."
"The Flash is a hero. I'm not."
He felt a little uneasy when she made a quick note of it, scribbling it with pencil on a document which was a personal file about him. As if he had revealed some valuable piece of information.
Was there really something significant in what he had just said? He was never under the illusion that one day he could become something other than a vigilante. It was impossible with such a bad reputation, after all the crimes he had committed. All those murders. After he had saved the city, the cops turned a blind eye to his doings and didn't really try to apprehend him. But it couldn't last forever. His arrest warrant was valid at all times and he was still a wanted man. Even his cooperation with Captain Lance couldn't help him in any way. It was much more likely that it would backfire on him one day.
"If you realize it, then you must be well aware that your actions are...questionable, to put it mildly," said Doctor Pressnall, making an attempt to touch upon a sensitive subject.
She didn't need to tell him that. He knew he had made mistakes he would have to pay the price for eventually. He had red in his ledger he knew he couldn't wipe out, no matter how hard he might try. But those were the decisions he had made, his choices, and he was ready to bear their consequences.
"I was only doing what I thought was necessary," he said with conviction.
"And you don't feel any remorse about what you did? All the people you have killed or hurt?"
"Don't tell me what I do or don't feel," he said with a hard edge in his voice. He was sorry for what he had done, but being sorry couldn't change anything. Couldn't return the lives he had taken too rashly in some cases. But then again, he was not able to feel too much remorse about the fact that he sent lowlifes like Count Vertigo or Cyrus Gold to an early grave. He broke his short-lived no killing vow because of them, but at that time he didn't really have any other choice than to dispose of them. Permanently. "All I wanted was to save my city..."
"It's perfectly understandable. But you have chosen the wrong path to do so."
"You don't know even the half of the story," he said grimly.
"Then pray do tell me, Oliver. Tell me what you think you achieved," she coaxed him.
"Another time, perhaps," he said, not even trying to hide hostility. He was not going to elaborate on what he was doing as Oliver Queen, using the remains of family wealth to support non-governmental organizations working in Starling. He could have done much more if he hadn't lost almost everything because of his own stupidity.
"You see, you are doing it again. Evading the answer when something doesn't go as you would like."
Perhaps she was right, but he had no intention of confirming it.
How he wished he was still a free man and could just run into the night. He always escaped into night from all he had. Or perhaps the night was all he had.
If only he could feel the chill of wind on his face and breathe in rain-soaked air. Look at the city's skyline from the top of the highest building, the hood down over his head and the reassuring weight of the bow in his hand... He didn't need it to be efficient in what he was doing; he shaped himself to be the most dangerous weapon. But still he viewed his mastery of archery as something to be proud of.
This was making it even more difficult to accept that the part of his life as a vigilante was over. And that he would never again hear the rustle of an arrow's fletching being taken out of the quiver, when the feathers softly rubbed against each other, or bowstring's ring when it was released. He loved being the Arrow, he couldn't deny it. When he observed people from the rooftops, living their normal lives, he knew that it was something he would never have, but accepted it as the consequence of the path he had chosen. It had not only given him the sense of purpose in his once dull existence. It had also provided him with a shot of adrenaline he craved.
"Care to tell me why when you had started your... career as the Hood, you were claiming that certain people had had failed this city?" asked Doctor Pressnall, trying to get his attention back.
Again he chose to remain silent. Looking on the matter from a few years' distance, he had to admit that it was not the best catchphrase. His father's notebook, focusing on punishing one-percenters who didn't see anything wrong with raising themselves up by stepping on other people's throats... The beginning of his crusade and him crossing names off the list seemed to be almost a lifetime ago.
"Or perhaps you can explain to me why over time you focused more on fighting street-level crime?" she tried again after a while. She turned a pencil over in her hand, apparently wondering how to get another piece of information out of him.
After a longer while, when there was still no response from him, Doctor Pressnall broke the silence again.
"It may came as surprise to you, but I personally knew one man you killed," she said unexpectedly.
He looked at her suspiciously. Who did she talked about? Hard to expect that a respectable doctor had acquaintances among arms dealers or paid assassins ...
"Does the name Doctor Andrew Webb sounds familiar? He was a psychiatrist at St. Walker's, in case you don't remember. You shot him in the heart." She paused for a while and then went on. "We were all shocked when it turned out that he was behind flooding the city with a new version of Vertigo. Seems financial problems drove him to it..."
"His drug killed two people in the span of a few days," said Oliver harshly. "As a medic he knew exactly what he was doing and how deadly it would turn out. He made it look as if the Count escaped from the asylum and even pretended to be him to cover his tracks...So sorry to say, I don't care what his reasons were to turn to crime."
"His son has cystic fibrosis. Did you know that? There is no cure and the treatment prolonging life is very expensive."
He narrowed his eyes. He had never wondered what Doctor Webb's reasons were. He had just assumed that he was another greedy person who used an opportunity to make money.
"And your point is...? That a wish to pay for antibiotics for his kid justified his attempt to kill other kids?"
"No, I'm not suggesting that by any means," she said, shaking her head. "And I won't tell you that he was once a kind-hearted and friendly person who suddenly changed for the worse once he was faced with personal problems. He was always hard to get along with, to be honest. But he was also a parent who was forced to watch his son slowly die. While one might find some understanding for his motives, it's hard to show any for what he did to get the money he so desperately needed. Still, you didn't need to murder him. He could have faced justice in court."
Maybe it was true, but he'd still had little choice back then. Doctor Webb discovered his secret identity. He had to go. Not to mention that the doctor wanted to get rid of the vigilante, making it look like he overdosed on the drug. That gave Oliver enough justification to dispose of him.
He was not sure if his decision would be the same today, if he had known what Doctor Pressnall had told him. Not to mention that passing judgments didn't come to him as easily as it used to. He avoided taking lives if he had another choice.
Her next statement took him completely by surprise.
"Out of all types of crime, you seem to despise drug dealing the most. Is it because your sister had an addiction problem and nearly died because of it?"
"Leave Thea out of this," he snapped instantly.
"Where is your sister, Oliver?" asked Doctor Pressnall, immediately latching on the topic. She sensed that she had apparently hit a bullseye, even if it happened by chance.
When he didn't answer she went on.
"She is your closest living relative. Do you keep in touch?"
Oliver still remained silent. The last thing he wanted was to give the cops a lead on where to find his sister. They phoned each other quite frequently and met from time to time. Rather often, if one took into consideration that Thea lived in London now. She said that she couldn't come back to Starling. Not after what had happened to Mom. There were just too many memories.
"You never let her in on your secret, did you?" It sounded more like she was stating a fact than a question. It was almost as if she were able to look through him and read his very soul.
Was it really that obvious? — wondered Oliver resignedly. Although he kept still, the mere thought of his sister made him feel disturbed. Of course he didn't tell her. He couldn't. Not after how badly it ended up with Tommy when he had found out. Oliver was afraid he would lose her as well. He had very little doubt that she would hate him for lying to her for so long.
How would she react now, when she learned about him being arrested? About him being the Arrow?
All he felt was a hollow, sinking feeling in his chest. She would never forgive him, he knew her too well. Now he had lost her for sure.
