"Mr. Lupin."
Patience. That's the key. Don't get annoyed.
"Mr. Lupin," I repeat, trying to keep my voice light. "I cannot help you if you don't talk to me."
He's just walking around, looking at the books along my walls. Slowly, he turns around, giving me a look as if to say, "you odd girl, I never asked you for help", before he continues looking. I sigh. There must be an easier way to do this.
"Alright," I say, throwing up my hands. "Just go ahead and look. But you aren't leaving this room for another…" I glance at my watch. "fifty-five minutes. I'm not getting paid to let my patients out early."
He is a very thin man. Too thin, I think. And his clothes don't fit, as if he has recently lost a lot of weight. It's a possible sign of depression. Well, it's obvious he's depressed. He's one of the rare cases I have where a man will come here against his will. And although I wasn't told anything, I'm sure those who sent him here knew exactly what was wrong with him. A doll that has its head ripped off, and the child thinks I can just glue it back on, simple as that.
So now I'm resorting to the most mundane method of psychological analysis: watching the subject just do everyday things and try to put the clues together from that. A method that I find next to impossible; people have to communicate.
He's picked up a book off my shelf and is flipping through the pages. I shift in an attempt to see what he's looking at. I cannot, so I lean even more, and soon I have toppled off the chair onto the floor. He looks around, surprised. A small, somewhat pitying smile forms on his face.
He comes and sits down in the chair across from mine, as I lift myself from the floor. I gather up my clipboard and pen (I find those quills impossibly hard to write with when you have to do so at a fast pace). His eyes follow the objects in my hands. I put my stuff on the table next to me and fold my hands.
"Are you ready to talk to me?" I ask.
He leans back and gives a small smile. And looking at him, I come to a realization.
"Am I correct in thinking that you find me amusing?" I ask, somewhat indignantly. "Is this why you won't talk to me?"
The smile falls and he looks away. I really do know nothing about him at all. Is it that he can't talk? Is he naturally dumb? He has this look in his eyes, as if he is eternally sad.
Yet in his eyes all the sadness of the world . . .
What has happened to him to make him look like this? I wonder, as I leave work that night. Snow falls gently on the ground. Why has he been brought to me now? It's a mystery I must explore.
Notes: God. I swore I'd never make an original character one of the lead parts again . Well, I suppose I can forgive myself in that she's nothing more than an analyst. No lovin' in this fic. Sorry.