Chapter 2: A Session
The tick of the clock is loud in the stillness of the room; a jarring irritation that grates on Shane's ears and sets his nerves on edge. More on edge, if that is possible, although his stomach was already in knots and his muscles tense before he entered the neat, well-maintained office. He tries to slouch down further into the armchair, as if by sheer will he could disappear through the cushioned back. The woman across from him keeps saying nothing, just watches with a calm, carefully measured gaze.
"This is pointless." Shane scowls, his focus moving restlessly from the clock to the books on the shelves, flitting from title to title without really taking in any of them, then to the window where the lake is just visible, glinting ice-blue between the evergreens. Everywhere, anywhere, to avoid eye contact.
"So you've said." Shane risks a glance and sees the corners of her mouth pulled up in a humourless smile.
"Well?" he says. "It still is. I don't know what you're trying to do here."
"As I explained when we first met, I am here to help you. You've had some trouble adjusting to civilian life and by talking through things with me, we can see about changing that."
"And as I said, I don't want to talk about the war," he snaps, the edges of his vision already starting to blur; the sense of panic rising from his stomach into his throat, chest constricting as the smell of hot dust and arid air threatens.
"So what shall we talk about then?" The woman's frown deepens at his shrug, pen tapping an absent tattoo on the notebook balanced on her lap. "Mr. Clarke, you have been at Wayward Pines for ten weeks now. I have seen you almost every day since you arrived and every day we have sat here for an hour in silence." She sets her notebook and pen aside, letting her glasses hang loose on the chain around her neck as she leans forward, hands clasped in front of her. "Now I don't mind silence, and I dare say you probably welcome it. But awkward silences are the worst sort, and after all this time, it would be nice if we could try something else today." A wry smile works its way onto her face, brow smoothing as she adds, "I get ignored enough at home by my cat; I'd like not to be ignored at work too. Perhaps for a change, we could have a conversation. It doesn't have to be anything deep or meaningful. It doesn't need to be about the war, or indeed about anything personal." She gestures towards the window. "It could even be about the weather, if you like. Let's try anything but silence, ey?"
Shane barely manages to hold her gaze, managing only a few, awkward blinks before he has to look away again; shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around his body. "I don't have anything to say," he mumbles.
The woman clicks her tongue with a shake of her head, voice firm but still kind as she says, "On the contrary, I believe you have a lot to say. You just don't seem to know where to start."
Shane's back stiffens. "Well doc, where do you suggest I start?"
It's a challenge, and the doctor — Dr. Rasheed, as she introduced herself to him on that bright, hazy summer afternoon when he'd arrived, unceremoniously dumped at the doorstep of the private not-hospital by his brother — refuses to rise to it. She merely smiles, the lines around her eyes crinkling. "I hear you had a visitor yesterday. Why don't you tell me about him?"
"No!" If the doctor looks taken back by the vehemence in his exclamation, it's nothing to how surprised Shane is in the strength of his instinctive reaction. He shakes his head, moderating his tone as he says, "I'd rather talk about the war than him."
He's proud of how not-bitter he manages to sound.
"So tell me about the war then."
Shane glares at her, ire rising as heat from the pit of his stomach as he bites out, "I went to war. It was crap, I came home again, then my parents freaked out and I ended up in this place. What more is there to say?"
"Mr. Clarke, you were sent here because your family were scared."
"I was fine."
The furrows on the doctor's brow deepen once more as she leans over the pile of papers on the side table to pick up a file, flicking through it. "Outbursts of anger. Night terrors. What sounds like panic attacks. And at least one documented occasion of, from what was described, appears to be a flashback, a hallucination… These are not the reports of a man who is fine. They are reports from a family — and friends — who are scared."
"They shouldn't be."
"Shouldn't be what?"
"Scared." Shane shrugs, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. Still military-short; there's safety in routine. Familiarity when all else is different. "I'm not going to- I'm not going hurt myself, or anything."
Dr. Rasheed is shaking her head. "You misunderstand. There is fear for you, true. But there is also fear of you."
You scared him.
Hunter's words come to him — unbidden, unwanted but refusing to be banished, as the blond's whole visit had been for the past day; lurking just beneath his consciousness, a hidden rock exposed by the slightest tremor to the smooth surface. And this conversation feels like an earthquake. It takes a moment for him to remember to breathe, and then he has to work the next words out around the thickness of his tongue. "He said PTSD... Is that... Could that be me?"
To give the doctor her due, she does not ask who 'he' is. Instead, she sets the file aside and leans towards him again, steepling her fingers. "What makes you think that's you?" Shane's silence causes her to sigh, but she only says, "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder requires a proper diagnosis, and for that you would need to engage with us. With me."
"And if I do, can you fix it?"
Fix me.
"There are treatments available. Therapy and medication, if suitable. Many things we can try." She pauses, meeting his indecisive gaze with firmness. "But I would need you to talk to me."
Shane swallows hard. "…I'll think about it."
"You do that. Until tomorrow, Mr. Clarke."