Author's note: This chapter was really hard to write. I hope I pulled it off. I also cheated a little by having Brandan progress the therapy a bit faster than I think a therapist normally would, especially with someone like Danny, but I did it for the sake of moving the story along and so opted to sacrifice realism (same reason I had Brandan able to meet with Danny so quickly by saying he's typically "not busy" on Mondays).
Actually, it's crazy to me that it's still been less than a week since the initial incident. :b But again, I just want to keep the story moving along so that Danny's emotional level doesn't stall or wane. Gotta keep pummeling him. He gets no breaks! I gave him that one reprieve at the end of the last chapter (aren't I so nice?), but that's it for him until the end. Back to having his head forcibly shoved underwater he goes.
(after being) Disparaged
Danny walked behind Jazz through the front door of their house still feeling fairly light and happy. The weather seemed nicer. Colors seemed more vivid. Music sounded good again and not like a jumble of irritating noises.
And food tasted great, too. He had practically inhaled his lunch that day but not too quickly because he wanted to enjoy its savory flavorful excellence because he wasn't sure anything had ever tasted as good as that cafeteria cuisine.
"You seem to be in a really good mood," Jazz had noted on the drive home.
"You sure it's not an affectation?" Danny asked playfully.
Jazz shook her head with a smirk. "Yup, there's my normal bratty little brother." Without taking her eyes off the road, she reached over and placed a hand on his thigh. "But really, it's nice to see you like this again."
And it was so nice to feel this way again. He could pretend that nothing was wrong now, that he wasn't grounded and that he hadn't been almost killed by his mother—
HEY you're not supposed to think about that come on
And his arm still hurt like hell but it was manageable and he definitely didn't need to take anything for it because he did NOT have a drug problem he had just been going through a phase totally understandable considering what had happened so he was just fine and he was going to get through this.
"Danny! Jazz! That you?" asked Maddie from the kitchen.
"Yes," replied Jazz as she and Danny set down their school bags in the entryway.
Maddie appeared with far more make-up than she usually wore. Danny couldn't help but stare at her in confusion. Why was she looking so dolled-up? Seeing her like this for no apparent reason was strange, baffling even. Sure, he had always known his mother was an attractive woman possessing the kind of beauty that could bring men to their knees—
—she had certainly brought him to his knees—
—dear God hell no he did not just make that connection because even if he was in a good mood that joke could never not be sick and disgusting and—
ANYWAY…
He couldn't blame Vlad for still wanting her even after all these years.
Maddie apparently noticed the way he was staring at her. "What is it, Danny?"
Danny reddened. "Um…nothing. You just look nice."
"Well, thank you, sweetie."
She gently caressed the side of his face. Danny forced himself to allow her to touch him.
"You get your good looks from me, you know," said Maddie. She looked at Jazz with a secret smile. "Both of you do."
Danny and Jazz exchanged bewildered glances.
"And what about from me?" asked Jack suddenly, appearing in the kitchen entryway and wearing a jocular pout.
Maddie turned to him in slight embarrassment. "Oh, of course they get their looks from you, too."
"Aw, you don't have to say that. I completely agree that you've got the looks." He pulled Maddie in for a kiss, then flexed an arm. "But I've got the brawn."
"Well, Danny's certainly been bulking up quite a bit lately," observed Maddie, turning to look back at her son. "He probably does get that from you."
"Of course he does!" said Jack enthusiastically, also looking at Danny with pride.
Well, didn't this just seem normal? His parents embarrassing him in the way only parents could.
Yes, indeed. This all felt so wonderfully normal.
And he liked it. He had missed this.
He smiled to himself as he followed his parents into the kitchen.
"I have some spinach and artichoke dip here if you'd like a quick snack before we go, Danny," said Maddie. "We're leaving in half an hour."
Danny's smile faltered. He vaguely recalled the conversation from breakfast that morning. Where had she said she would be taking him after school?
Maddie creased her brow when he didn't reply. "You're meeting your therapist today. Remember?"
o…..h….
Danny forced his smile to return. "Right. Of course." All right, fine. No, he didn't want to talk to a therapist, but he wasn't about to let this ruin his good mood. This was the plan, after all: pretend he needed counseling for a drug addiction, go along with it as compliantly and obediently as possible, and by the end of it all, his ghostly identity would still be protected, his parents would no longer be so worried about him, and everything would be just as it was again.
Maddie pushed a bowl of dip toward him along with a bag of wheat wafers. "You like these, don't you?"
"I do." He definitely did. But his appetite seemed to have diminished. Earlier, he had actually been thinking about what he would eat as soon as he came in the door, but now, the desire was weirdly gone.
NO! He was in charge of his feelings. He was feeling good again. That was the decision he was making, and he wasn't about to let his nerves take that from him.
He reached for a snack cracker with his right hand, winced, decided to use his left instead.
"Your arm okay, Danny?" asked Maddie with concern.
"Yeah, fine," said Danny as casually as he could.
Don't think about the pain. Don't think about therapy. Don't think about anything bad. Just keep calm and keep lying.
When it was at last time to leave, Danny noted the unfamiliar bag his mother was carrying.
"What's that?" he asked curiously.
"Oh. Just some ghost-hunting equipment." Maddie put a hand on Danny's back and guided him outside. "I just want to be prepared no matter where I go."
"Prepared for what?" asked Danny uneasily.
"For catching Phantom," Maddie answered in something of a singsong voice.
…a…..h…..
His good mood was slipping from him.
NO! He was still in control. He already knew she wanted to capture Phantom and hold him down and violate him—
NO!
He already knew that. Nothing new. He could still be happy because he wasn't going to ever let her capture him anyway. That particular nightmare would never play out.
And she would never know. He would see to that now by going along with this therapy and hiding his real secret under yet another layer of lies.
"You'll like this therapist, Danny," said Maddie as she drove.
"Oh?" Danny tried his best to sound interested. He had to do whatever he could to sell this I'm-totally-willing-and-wanting-to-beat-this-drug-problem-yes-ma'am-thank-you façade.
"He knows his stuff, and he's got this really nice full head of fluffy blond hair. He looks like he came straight from the eighties." Maddie sighed dreamily.
Danny eyed his mother warily as she continued driving lost in a reverie. "So…that's why I'll like him? Because he has nice hair?"
Maddie blushed. "Oh, uh…" She chuckled nervously. "He's just a really nice guy. Approachable. Knowledgeable. Easy to talk to. Suave." She sighed again.
Danny smirked to himself but resisted the urge to laugh. "You're still in love with Dad, right?"
"Oh, my God, of course I'm still in love with your father," said Maddie, putting a hand to her chest. "Nothing could ever change that. He's my best friend."
Danny smiled at the sincerity of her response.
When Maddie parked the car, Danny got out and looked around in confusion. "Wait, why are we at a pizza restaurant?"
Maddie laughed and pointed to a set of stairs. "His office is up there." She started leading him. "If you want, I could buy you some pizza after we're all done here."
Danny could hear something like hope in her tone, like she wanted to buy him something to eat.
"Um…yeah, sure," Danny said.
Maddie happily patted his shoulder.
In the waiting area, the therapist came out to greet them. "Maddie, hello again!"
"Long time no see, right?" Maddie's voice was higher pitched than usual, almost girlishly so.
Danny stared at the therapist. Despite his mother's description, he had still been expecting some stuffed shirt tweedy spectacled middle-aged shrink, but this guy…this guy was young and tall and fit and muscled and tanned and yes, blond. So very blond.
Now he knew why his mother was so gussied up.
"Danny." The man extended a hand, and Danny automatically took it. "I'm Brandan Cross. Great to meet you."
"Good to meet you, too," Danny managed to get out with practiced geniality.
"I'll wait out here," said Maddie, taking a seat on one of the sofas in the waiting area. She gave Danny a small wave.
Danny found himself waving back without thinking. He looked at his hand in amusement.
In his office, the therapist instructed Danny to take a seat on an admittedly comfortable couch. The therapist took a seat in an office chair and moved in so that he was at a polite distance from Danny.
Danny waited for the therapist to say something first. He himself certainly had no idea what to say.
"How's the temperature?" the therapist asked. "Too cold? Hot? Let me know. I can change it."
"It's good," said Danny simply.
The therapist nodded and paused for just a few noticeable seconds. "So, I guess we should get the awkward introductions out of the way. In case you've already forgotten, my name's Brandan."
"Is that what I should call you?" asked Danny. "Not Dr. something? Cross, was it?"
"No, no. Just Brandan, please. Mostly because I'm not a doctor, but also because I think it's better to be on a first name basis with my clients, even my young ones." Brandan raised a playful brow. "You're not used to calling adults by their first names, are you?"
"No. I guess not." The idea did seem kind of strange to Danny. He tried to think of all of the adults in his life. The only one he referred to by first name was Vlad, and that was because he had absolutely no respect at all for that crazed-up Froot Loop.
"Your parents taught you well," observed Brandan. "You've probably been raised to give more respect to those older than you, right?"
"Yes."
A short silence. Danny waited for Brandan to begin the real therapy.
"Well, Danny," began Brandan, "I'm sensing that you're a little nervous."
Danny leaned back with a frown.
"And it's perfectly understandable. You've never done this before. You don't know what to expect." Brandan chuckled to himself. "Truthfully, I'm a little nervous, too."
Danny blinked but had no reply. Was this normal for a therapist to say?
"I'm always nervous the first time I meet a new client. I just want to be sure that we'll be a good fit, that my clients get what they want and need from me. But there's just no way for me to really know that until I get to know a client. So, yes, I'm nervous myself right now."
Hmm…okay? Danny simply looked at Brandan and waited for him to go on.
"So, here's how we'll start. I'll tell you a little about myself, and then I'll tell you about my approach, and then I'll tell you my one rule. You can ask me questions at any time. Sound good, Danny?"
"Sure," said Danny, though he wasn't sure he liked the way the therapist used his name so familiarly.
Brandan proceeded to tell Danny about his educational background, years of experience, and areas of expertise, making it clear that he specialized in treating depression, anxiety, and substance abuse in adolescents. And, well, didn't that just fit Danny to a T? But he swallowed his pride and let Brandan continue to subtly hint at his presupposed issues. He was resigned to accept this and pretend that he needed help.
"The technique I use is called cognitive behavioral therapy," Brandan was saying. "CBT for short. Have you heard of it?"
"Maybe from my sister. I don't know."
"Basically, I'm going to try to help you develop coping strategies and help you recognize and change any cognitive distortions—thinking errors—you might have. Truthfully, everyone has their own thinking errors. Even I do. But sometimes, we need a little more help to identify them, and only then can we start to correct them."
Danny wasn't sure what Brandan was trying to get at by admitting to having psychological issues of his own. Trying to come across as any normal flawed human being? But weren't therapists supposed to be perfectly emotionally stable so that they could properly treat the instabilities of their clients?
"I work on my own cognitive distortions all the time," said Brandan. "I'm not perfect at it, and I probably never will be. It's hard." He leaned forward a little. "But listen, Danny. It really is normal and nothing to be ashamed of. Really, all of these thinking errors just go to show how intelligent we as humans are."
Danny raised a brow.
"Here." Brandan turned and grabbed a calculator from the desk behind him. "See this calculator?"
"Yes."
"Would you say this is a simple or complex machine?"
Was this a trick question? "I guess I'd say it's simple."
"Right. How often do calculators break? How often do they malfunction?"
"Not very often, I guess. I mean, unless you drop them from a high height or spill water on them."
"But they don't typically just malfunction on their own, right?"
"Right." Where was this going? Danny had no idea.
Brandan replaced the calculator on his desk and pointed out a desktop computer. "All right, now what about computers? How often do they malfunction? How often do they break or slow down or crash?"
"Um…more often than a calculator?"
Brandan laughed. "Way more often. Sometimes for seemingly no reason. It'll work fine one day, and then you try starting it up the next day, and for some reason the operating system has been wiped out. Or your browser will just crash. Or you'll get a Blue Screen of Death."
Danny pondered this, all of the technological mishaps in his ghost-fighting alone. The more advanced technology certainly could be fickle at times.
"The more complex something is, the easier it is for something to go wrong. When something is that complex, even the tiniest error can cause a complete meltdown." Brandan pointed to his head. "The human brain is the most complex machine there is, Danny, so complex that we still don't even fully understand it. It breaks down more easily and more frequently than any computer. The smallest error can drive us insane, the tiniest crack can shut us down. Depression and anxiety and a plethora of other mental issues are rampant in this world because our complexity makes us so susceptible to such problems. We try to look through the coding, try to fix the bugs with medication or logic, but so often we just end up creating more lines of errors."
Danny lowered his gaze as he considered this analogy.
"Even the smallest change to something in our physiology or psychology can have huge effects on our perception and well-being. The smallest error can completely overtake us. And the big changes? Those can prevent us from ever going back to how we used to be."
A change to his DNA, a jolting shock from his parents' ghost portal that changed his molecules. Just how much had that changed him? Not just the physiological changes like his powers and appearance, but the mental and emotional ones? The new confidence and pride and strength but also the new stress and worry and fear? This one mutation, this one error in his chemical make-up had indeed overtaken him. He couldn't look at people the same way anymore. He was not the same trusting person he was before. Anyone and everyone could have ulterior motives. Anyone and everyone could just be wanting to use him.
And all this pain? Like this pain in his arm? That was all just a result of this one change to his system, right? He never used to feel this much pain before, physically or mentally. He now so often felt like he was hurting in some way and that he needed something stronger and stronger to clear it up because he was getting hurt more and more frequently and severely as he faced off against increasingly powerful enemies and—
Whoa ho, what? How was this guy getting him to think so deeply?
"Does that make sense, Danny?" asked Brandan.
Danny nodded. "I think so, yeah."
Brandan reached for a pen and notepad from his desk. "I'd like to give you an opportunity to talk now. Do you have any questions? Is there something you'd like to say?"
"Um…I don't know." Danny looked down and crossed his arms. "I don't know what I should be saying, I guess."
"That's quite all right," said Brandan. "I don't mind steering our conversation. I just have one rule, okay?"
Danny looked up and waited.
"It's a rule I adhere to strictly myself, and I just ask that you do the same." Brandan paused. "Whatever you say, I need you to be one hundred percent honest. You are more than welcome to decline to answer a question. You don't have to confide something in me if you don't want to. I will never force you to speak. But Danny, if you do choose to speak or answer a question, whatever you say must be the truth." Brandan looked at him seriously. "Okay?"
Danny frowned. "How will you know if I'm telling the truth?"
"I'm going to trust you," said Brandan. "And like I said, if you don't want to tell me something, that is absolutely fine. Just tell me that you'd rather not answer. I won't pressure you, and I won't judge you. But I'd rather you not answer than lie."
Danny made no reply.
"I don't expect you to be an open book. It's not my goal to make you tell me absolutely everything that is troubling you. My goal is to help you recognize your own personal thinking errors that are hurting you and help you find ways to overcome them so that they are no longer preventing you from being productive and happy."
He had been feeling happy just a little while ago. He didn't need therapy for that. He could figure it out on his own.
"And I want you to know that anything you say here will be kept confidential. I want you to feel safe here. I want you to know that whatever you tell me is not going to get to your parents or anyone else."
Danny looked at him skeptically.
"I've already talked about terms of disclosure with your parents, and they've agreed to only get general reports about your progress and well-being. Any personal or specific things we talk about here will be strictly kept between you and me." Brandan raised his right hand. "You have my word."
"Okay," said Danny, unsure how else to respond. This guy was an unnerving enigma to him. How to interpret him? He was nothing like what Danny thought a therapist would be like. Intelligent and composed, stylish and modern, attractive and youthful, down-to-earth and just so human.
But perhaps the most unsettling thing to Danny was that he could not discern what was really going on in Brandan's head. After about a year and a half of ghost fighting, he had become pretty good at determining motives and trustworthiness and agendas from ghosts and humans alike, but he could not figure out what Brandan's game was here.
"Ultimately, my role here is that of a facilitator," said Brandan. "Your success is mostly dependent on you, Danny. If you want to improve, if you want to find healthy coping strategies, if you want to regulate your emotions, then you'll be able to. But you are the one who will have to put in the most effort here." Brandan raised his hands. "I'll do my best to help you. I will be right here for you when you need me. Your family and friends will be there for you, too. But you are in charge of any progress you make." Brandan smiled. "For many, that can be discouraging because so many just want their therapist to fix them. But really, Danny, it's quite empowering. You have control over how you approach the obstacles in your life. No one and no thing can bring you down unless you decide to let them bring you down. I'm just here to help you find the best ways to deal with your obstacles."
Oh, jeez. This guy. This guy.
Danny had to turn away. What even was this guy? Looking like some bronzed Greek god from a George Michael music video and making him think this much? Making him think that hmm maybe he could use some therapy after all and maybe this guy could help him out somehow?
"Danny?"
"Hmm?"
"What's on your mind?"
Danny turned back to face Brandan. "Um…nothing."
"Danny, you need to be honest with me," Brandan reminded him somewhat sharply.
Danny flinched at the disapproving tone. "Fine. I'd rather not say."
Brandan nodded and wrote something down. "All right. Is there anything you would like to talk about, or would you prefer I choose what we talk about?"
"Um…" Danny shrugged. "I really don't know."
"Okay. That's fine. We can start out easy. Can we talk about your family?"
His family? His father, his sister, his mother—
"I'd rather not," said Danny quietly.
A frown. Another note. Brandan tried again. "Okay. Well…if it's not too forward at this time, would you be at all willing to talk about why you're here?"
Danny waited for Brandan to elaborate.
"Danny, I know that you're not here because you want to be here," said Brandan gently. "Teens don't typically seek therapy on their own, after all. Their parents are almost always the ones pushing them into it. Would I be correct in saying that you're only here because your parents are making you come here?"
Danny nodded.
"But as I talk to you, I don't get the sense that you're completely closed off to me. You're not being snarky or avoidant or difficult. Your attitude is…pleasant." Brandan chuckled. "It's refreshing, actually. It's not something I normally see from a boy your age in this situation."
Danny faltered. "Thanks?"
"Danny, do you know why your parents want you to talk to me?" Brandan's tone became more sober.
Danny didn't say anything. But neither did Brandan. The therapist was clearly waiting for him to answer, and he seemed content to stay silent until Danny made some sort of reply.
He soundlessly nodded.
"Do you think you need any help?"
Did he? He had already admitted to himself just how much this had affected him, just how much this had torn him down to a low he had never thought was possible for him to reach. She had buried him so deep, and he was just now starting to climb out from the chasm she had mercilessly thrown him into.
But did he need help climbing out?
"I don't know," said Danny.
Brandan said nothing. The silence was horribly uncomfortable, but what else was he supposed to say? He honestly had no idea and he really didn't even want to talk about any of this with a total stranger anyway and—
Wait, wasn't he supposed to be going along with this therapy? It would all be over so much sooner if he just surrendered and told the therapist what he wanted to hear, right?
"Yes," Danny said. He looked Brandan straight in the eyes. "Yes, I think I need help."
Brandan held his gaze. "What do you think you need help with?"
Danny closed his eyes briefly and gathered his courage. He described his problems since starting high school, relentless bullies and unforgiving teachers and low grades and trying hard but still failing and being regarded as a loser who could never possibly be anyone significant and being overshadowed by his sister's genius and just so much pain and misery and sadness that he thought he could drown it out with drugs that were designed to kill pain and that he just kept seeking more and more and something stronger and stronger and at first only took them sometimes but then started taking them weekly and then sometimes daily and at maximum dosage and when that was no longer enough he tried out narcotics and liked them and that was the point he was at now.
At the end of his narrative, Danny exhaled and waited for Brandan to weigh in. But Brandan was not looking at him. He was writing something down on his notepad and was quiet for a long time, too long as Danny grew increasingly uncomfortable.
"And is that the entire truth, Danny?" he finally asked, meeting his gaze.
Danny balked. "Ah…yes." He shifted his position, flexed his sore arm, swallowed, waited for Brandan to answer.
"Please forgive my frankness here," said Brandan, "but it's part of my job to challenge you a little, and while I believe everything you've just told me, I think that there's more you're trying to hide, more that you don't want me to know."
Danny inhaled through his nose and tried to keep his composure.
"Would I be correct in thinking that, Danny?"
"What exactly makes you think that?"
"The way you told me all that just now seems curious."
"How so?" Danny asked quickly, anxiously, irritably.
Brandan smiled at him and held up a hand. "Hang on. You've done nothing wrong. Just let me tell you what I'm picking up on before you say anything more, all right?"
Danny leaned back and crossed his arms.
"Your parents told me a lot about you. They gave me an idea of your personality and how you'd likely behave when you were here with me. Now, of course, I try not to form actual impressions until I meet a client in person, but just meeting you now for the first time, even in the short amount of time we've been here, I could see that the description they gave me was more or less accurate." Brandan glanced down at his notes briefly before meeting Danny's gaze again. "I won't go over everything they told me now—we can discuss that later, if you'd like—but I mostly gathered that you might be very quiet and hard to get to open up and talk. And in the first, oh—" He looked at his watch. "—twenty-ish minutes, you were indeed very quiet and not very talkative at all. You only spoke if I asked you something, and you typically responded with clipped answers, or you'd decline to answer altogether.'"
"Is that a crime?" asked Danny somewhat snappishly.
Brandan did not reply right away, only gave him the most infuriating cordial smile. "No, Danny. It's okay, really. Let me stress again that you've done nothing wrong."
Danny tapped his fingers against his crossed arm but said nothing.
"You were so quiet in the beginning, but you weren't quiet out of defiance or moodiness. It seemed to be more like lack of trust and comfort, which is completely fine and totally normal." Brandan paused, pursed his lips as he thought. "But then all of a sudden, you started telling me everything. All about your personal issues and everything that your parents wanted you to come here for."
"Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"
Brandan once again did not reply right away, almost looking amused at Danny's interjection. "There's nothing you're necessarily supposed to do, Danny. But it is curious to me that you would suddenly divulge and speak so much when I had the most difficult time getting you to say anything at all in the beginning."
Danny deliberately stayed quiet now. Out of spite? Or was he just proving Brandan's point? Ah, this was so frustrating.
"As I said before, I think everything you told me is true," continued Brandan, "but I also think that you want me to accept and believe that that is all there is."
Danny stared at Brandan.
"Telling me everything so quickly like that, things that I wouldn't have expected us to get into so soon considering how closed off you were in the beginning, leads me to believe that you're hoping I'll focus on all of that right now and that whatever is really troubling you won't ever come to light."
…what?
This guy—
How did this guy—what!—no—
Danny fumbled with his thoughts. Had he just sabotaged himself by trying to game this therapy system?
"Danny, we don't have to talk about whatever else is really troubling you," said Brandan gently. "We can talk about all of these surface issues first if you'd like. But I just want you to know what I'm perceiving. You don't even have to tell me if I'm right or not, okay?"
"That really is it," said Danny firmly. "Look, I just want to get through this as quickly as possible, okay? That's why I went ahead and told you all that. My parents aren't going to get off my back unless I do what they want, so I just figured I might as well tell you everything up front."
"I understand that, Danny, but—"
"Would you stop saying my name so often, Brandan?" Danny shook his head. "God, you're as bad as my mom."
Brandan was quiet. He didn't even write anything down.
"My apologies," he said at last.
Neither said anything for some time. Danny focused on the pain in his arm, flexed it out and massaged it. Anything to get his mind off of where he was now and how much longer he was stuck here.
"Is your arm okay?" asked Brandan.
"It's fine," said Danny in a low voice, promptly setting it beside him.
"I've just noticed you flinching whenever you move it."
"Just a little sore. From working out."
A few seconds of silence. "Are you sore often? From working out?"
"Sometimes," said Danny warily.
Brandan nodded to himself. "And what do you usually do when you're sore or in pain?"
Danny glared at him. "I take whatever drugs I can find, of course."
"Sorry, I didn't mean—" Brandan held up his hands in surrender. "Do you mind if we talk about this right now? Or would you rather we talk about something else?"
Danny only shrugged.
"I just want to go back to those thinking errors I was telling you about. We'll talk about them more at length probably in our next session, and I'll probably give you an assignment, but for now, I just want to get you thinking about something." Brandan leaned forward. "You told me yourself earlier that you were struggling with a lot of pain, a lot of physical pain. You said that is why you started taking painkillers. Did I remember that correctly?"
Danny nodded.
"But you didn't really tell me what causes that physical pain. You mentioned depression but didn't give any specific examples of physical pain. Can you tell me about that?"
"Just—ah—" Cuts and bruises and sprains and breaks and stinging throbbing burning injections that flared up constantly reminding him of how they had gotten there in the first place.
But he couldn't tell Brandan about any of that.
"Headaches," stammered Danny. "Um…just, I think, maybe…from being so down all the time, maybe?"
"Depression can cause headaches, yes," confirmed Brandan. "Is that all?"
"Um…" What else could he say that wouldn't be indicative of his moonlit battles? "Muscle soreness from working out."
"And is that all bad enough for you to feel you need medication to control it?"
"I…" Danny swallowed. "Yes."
His temperature was rising. He could feel blood rushing to his face and neck. This guy. This guy. Something about his tone and pointed questions was setting off all his alarms.
"How do you feel when you have pain medication in your system? Narcotic or over-the-counter, whichever."
"Well, better," said Danny. "Of course. That's what they're supposed to do, right?"
"Yes," said Brandan. "How do you feel when you don't have any painkillers in your system?"
How to answer this? What answer was correct? What was Brandan hoping he'd say? "Um…" Danny shook his head to indicate his confusion.
"Let me make it simpler. How often are you in pain?"
"Often," said Danny softly.
"And when you take something, you get relief from that pain, right?"
Danny nodded.
"And when you don't take something, the pain remains, right?"
Another nod.
Brandan paused, looked down at the floor briefly before looking up at Danny again. "Do you ever feel you're not in pain?"
Danny blinked. "Yes. Of course."
"When you take medication? You're not in pain then?"
"Yes." What was this guy's point already? He was just saying the same things over and over.
"Do you ever feel you're not in pain when you haven't taken any medication?"
Danny furrowed his brow.
"Without any painkillers in your system at all, do you ever feel fine and not at all in pain?"
Well, not lately. Not since that night. Something was always hurting. Something always needed to be dulled with medication so that he could concentrate sleep breathe think—
But what about before that? He hadn't needed so much pain medication before all this, right?
But he was definitely in pain a lot even before that incident. Injuries from so many ghost battles that kept him awake at night, pain so bad that over-the-counter painkillers couldn't always quell, pain that required something stronger which was why Sam had helped him out by stealing narcotics for him.
"Sometimes, when we become dependent on something," said Brandan, "our brains will trick us more and more into thinking we need it when we don't. In the case of painkillers, someone who tries to relieve all of his pain with medication might start feeling as if he's always in pain unless he has taken something."
These words were familiar. Danny remembered his mother saying something similar just a couple days ago.
"And so it can become difficult for that person to decide if he really is in pain or if that pain is imagined."
This headache: was it really pain in his head, or was it all in his head?
"Do you know for sure that your pain is always real, Danny?"
Ghosts are not capable of real, human feelings. Any feelings they have are artificial—
I can show you what real pain looks like on a real person—
His arm hurt so much.
I don't remember you being sore after trying to duplicate before—
Well, he was sore this time, okay?
No, Danny. You're not. You're just an imitation of a person, so your pain isn't real.
I can show you what artificial pain looks like on a ghost—
You're a ghost. Your pain is artificial. You're only imagining it.
"No!" yelled Danny. "It's real. I'm real. Don't you dare tell me I'm an imitation."
Brandan frowned. "I didn't say—"
"My pain is real. It's not artificial." Danny jumped up and started moving to the door.
"Danny, where are you going?" Brandan remained in his chair.
"I'm done," said Danny simply. He was done with all of this, done with this guy this guy and his galling hail-fellow-well-met. "I'm not going to keep talking to someone who is going to accuse me of just imagining how I feel."
"I didn't mean it like that," said Brandan. "Come sit down. Let's talk about this."
"No." Danny put a hand on the doorknob.
"Danny, we still have ten more minutes."
"Brandan, I don't care. What are you going to do, tackle me?"
"No," said Brandan. "I can't stop you from leaving. I won't even try. Not physically, anyway."
Danny started turning the doorknob.
"But if you leave, I cannot say what your mother out there might do."
Danny halted, stopped, froze.
What his mother might do—?
What would she do—?
What would she do to him—?
Oh God what had she done to him what more could she do to him what was she still doing to him what would she do to him if she got her hands on him—?
Was she just lying in wait out there for him—?
He slowly let go of the doorknob with unfocused eyes.
Someone was calling him, saying his name way too many times.
"Danny?"
Danny turned his head to look at Brandan. The therapist seemed tense and alarmed.
"I meant that there might be consequences for leaving now," said Brandan carefully. "Consequences imposed by your parents. Privileges taken away like use of your phone or seeing your friends. Or your parents might opt to put you in a program which would place even more limitations on you."
Danny breathed, blinked, calmed himself, waited.
"I'm only saying that leaving now isn't going to solve anything for you," continued Brandan. "There are alternatives to talking to me, but they may not be alternatives you like."
Danny kept his focus trained on Brandan in silence. Yes, of course Brandan wasn't trying to imply that his mother would harm him in any way. It seemed he was always jumping to that conclusion when thinking about her, but he had to stop, had to retrain his mind to see her the way he used to because she was his mother and would never hurt him and that incident was all in the past and besides she didn't even know it was him so it didn't really mean anything.
"Danny, will you please sit down again?"
Tranced, Danny returned to the couch.
Brandan didn't say anything for a long time. Danny could feel the therapist studying him, but he kept his eyes downcast.
"Can we talk about your mother?"
His mother? The woman who almost—?
"No," Danny rasped in a whisper.
A pause. "Do you mind if I say something about her?"
"I'd rather you didn't." Don't do this to him, please, please, please.
"I'd like to talk about her," said Brandan. "You don't have to say anything. You can just listen."
Danny's fists clenched and clutched at the fabric of his jeans.
"Your mother loves you very much. That is very apparent to me. The way she talks about you is so affectionate and glowing. You mean the world to her."
Danny made no movement in response.
"Her career is certainly unusual, isn't it? Ghost research, ghost hunting. That must've been something for you and your sister to grow up with."
Right. He had always dreaded bringing his parents to school on career day to discuss their work. Other kids had parents who were doctors and lawyers and engineers and journalists but he just had to have parents who were frenzied about something most people didn't even believe in at that time. The teasing was relentless.
"And she is very invested in it, isn't she? She has such passion for her work. I've seen that not only when I talked to her earlier today but in the speeches and lectures she's delivered to the town about ghost safety and protocol."
"Both of my parents are passionate about it," murmured Danny.
"I know, but I'm just talking about your mother right now, okay?"
No. Not okay at all. But would pleading with Brandan only raise unwanted suspicion?
"She's apparently set on one ghost in particular. I'm sure you know about it living with her. Phantom? Danny Phantom? Same first name as you, coincidentally."
Danny shuddered slightly. Where did this come from? Why was Brandan suddenly asking about something so specific as this?
He wanted to talk about his ghostly alter-ego even less than he wanted to talk about his mother. Talking and hearing about himself in the third person was rather dehumanizing, and he really didn't need to feel like less of a person right now.
"Phantom really is an interesting ghost, isn't he? Other ghosts seem to want to do us harm, but then Phantom doesn't seem to have that inclination. Rather, it seems he wants to—"
"What does Phantom have to do with me?" interjected Danny, trying his best to conceal his irritation. "Why are you talking about him?"
Brandan scrunched up his mouth for a small second, glancing down briefly. "I am trying to connect my observations into something coherent. Bear with me, all right?"
Danny waited.
"Your mother appears to be quite, hmm…fixated on him. Would you agree with that?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Well, she brought ghost hunting equipment into my office so that she could be, as was the implication made by your father, prepared for him whenever he might happen to show up."
"What does that matter?"
"I am just wondering how all of this fixation and passion permeates—pardon, affects the rest of her life." He gazed at Danny. "And how it might affect you."
"Why would it affect me at all?" asked Danny cautiously.
Brandan sighed. "I'll be honest. The way you reacted when I mentioned her before was alarming to me. I just get the sense that she…is easily obsessed with whatever catches her interest." Brandan crossed his arms. "And I wonder if you've been feeling like she's been—I'm trying to put this as delicately and simply as possible—obsessed with you?"
Danny could only stare at Brandan in utter disbelief. Had he heard this guy right? This guy this guy this guy? Did those words really just come out of this guy's mouth in that order?
Was his mother obsessed with him? This guy couldn't even begin to understand the gravity of that question because well hmm let's see she had made it clear she wanted him as a trophy as the culmination of all of her efforts and he was seriously the only ghost she ever talked about these days and whenever there were any news or footage of him on TV she'd immediately stop whatever else she was doing and turn up the volume and she was now bringing ghost hunting equipment with her wherever she went for the sole purpose of capturing him and the way she had toyed with and humiliated him in that alley when she never played around with other ghosts in such a fashion—
"Let me clarify," said Brandan. "She told me that she only just recently started investigating your apparent troubles and essentially didn't let it rest until she figured out what seemed to be the problem. Did you feel that at all, Danny? Did that make you uncomfortable? Does it make you uncomfortable now all of this intense focus she's putting on you? And the way you implied that she says your name too often. Are you feeling as if she won't leave you alone?"
She was relentlessly hunting him because of what he was and not anything he did, simply because he was there and she wanted him.
"And do you feel as if there's no reasoning with her when she's this determined, this set on something? Like you have no control or power to change her mind? Do you feel you have no power in your relationship with her?"
His eyes were stinging, his throat was sinking.
"Do you ever feel afraid of her? Afraid of how she might react or what she might do? You seemed afraid a moment ago."
What to say? He was wary of the direction this could take, of the possibility that Brandan might conclude his mother was hurting or abusing him—
—wasn't that exactly what she was doing—?
NO she wasn't abusing him—
Then what had she been doing if not—?
She didn't know. She was hurting Phantom, not him, as far as she knew. She had no idea, and that wasn't her fault.
Not her fault then whose—?
It was his own fault. He had brought this on himself by not telling her before, and this was the consequence he had to live with. It was too late to tell her now. He just had to keep reminding himself that she just didn't know and that he couldn't hold that against her because she just honestly didn't know.
"It's not what you think," Danny finally managed to say. He looked up and tried to blink back his tears. Brandan handed him a box of tissues, but Danny swatted it away. "No, it's not—it's not that. Can we not talk about her anymore, please?"
Brandan studied Danny in silence for some time. Danny looked anywhere and everywhere but at him.
"Our time is up anyway," said Brandan softly.
Danny promptly got up from the couch.
"I can't make you talk about her."
Danny stood by the door and turned to Brandan in anticipation of whatever final thing he had to say.
"But she's a large part of your life, Danny. And, from what I've gathered about her, she's the type of mother who likely always will be." Brandan focused on him with grave, serious eyes. "You can try to avoid the subject, ignore and deny what's going on between you two, but I'm afraid you won't get away from her so easily."
The trembling resonance of Brandan's words nearly stopped his heart and stole his breath as his vision diverged.
Outside in the waiting area, Maddie jumped up from the couch she was on and greeted him enthusiastically. Danny could only stand apart from her and wonder how long he could continue to outrun her before she finally caught him.
(Danny's addicted to painkillers, and Maddie's gonna have to face it: she's addicted to her son.
/RobertPalmersongreferenceforthosetooyoungtogetitalthoughI'mtechnicallytooyoungmyselfsinceitcameoutbeforeIwasbornbutIjustloveeightiesmusicanywaysorryIamusemyselfImeanIhavetofindhumorsomewhereinthisstorytokeepmyselfsanewhilewritingit)