She stares at the end of his white coat as it gently rides on the breeze of his fast pace. First impressions were, well, however they were, yet his seemed strangely excited by her presence. As they walk down the narrow, dark-carpeted hallway, she replays in her head the first impression of Mrs. Knoles.
With a firm, desperate clutch on her shoulder, her mother kept her walking faster than her heavy boots wanted could be carried, and they approached the assistant, all pausing outside of her door.
"Don't worry, Amy." said her mother in a preoccupied tone, "Just talk out your feelings."
Like the passing of a human torch, the assistants hand quickly took the place of her mother's and ushered her into the room. There was a few candles scattered around, and they brought the nose-crinkling smell of an unflattering mixture of each strange scent. All of which were entirely overwhelming. Her eyes scanned up the wooden chair, and quickly stopped at the skeleton-like leg that hung over the other and the long, stick fingers that stiffly folded atop her lap.
She took a quick glance and internally sighed that the only chair was facing away from the door. Reluctantly, she drifted near it, as her eyes seemed to be caught on every small thing before finally looking the leather-skinned woman.
"Please, sit." said the surprisingly quiet voice.
She absent-mindedly follows into the decently spacious room, and he pauses a moment to glance back at her blank face. He leans back in his chair, and watches her eyes drift thoughtlessly out of the shaded window.
"Please, have a seat."
She finally snaps back to reality and darts her head to him with a scared look on her face.
"If you wish, of course." He says kindly and then pretends to glance down at a scrap of paper on his desk.
She feels a bit at ease with him not looking at her, and she slowly sits on the small couch, doing her normal habit of glancing around the room to familiarize herself. She could always tell so much by the books they had in their bookshelves. Most of them consisted of the stereotypical "therapy" books stacked together with framed certificates and pictures of family photos. Qualified. Knowledgeable. Personable. However, their façade was always so obvious, yet she at least respected the dedication they had for their role.
Yet in the second she glanced around, and all that she took in, from all the odd doodads and knickknacks scattered around the idle computer and the bright polka dot socks that seemed rather itchy, to the framed picture of him and a woman who looked a few years his senior, her eyes pause on the strange cat pillow that sits crumpled next to her.
He seems to read her mind, "She was my sister's. The cat, I mean."
With an unemotional expression, she glances to him and then back to the pillow. It's one of those print-your-own things that she could hardly understand why anyone would bother smacking a personal picture on a blanket or t-shirt, yet she found the beautiful cat somewhat fitting on it.
"What was her name?" She hesitantly brushes her hand against the bright, blue eyes of the tortoiseshell feline.
He smiles as she takes the pillow in her lap and stares intriguingly, "Fate."
"I'm sure there's some ridiculous story behind that." She traces around the eyes with her finger.
"Of course, it's not a great name if it doesn't have a mad tale."
She gives him an inquiring look, yet he only shakes his head, "Ah, I'll tell you next time. To ensure you'll come back, yeah?"
"Well, that just makes it sound bad." She says quietly. "Do you always need to use a gimmick to keep your clients?"
He chuckles, "Actually you're my first and only client."
Almost immediately, she glances up and gives him a disapproving expression, yet he disarms it by scooping up his clipboard.
"First things first, Ms. Pond. Do you prefer going by Amelia or Amy?"
"Amy." She responds quickly and he nods knowingly to himself. "You don't seem surprised."
His bright green eyes glance up at her, "What's the big fish about a name? I was only being polite."
"Well, what's your first name?" She asks offensively, feeling the strange uneasiness begin to push her in a corner.
He speaks leisurely, "Matthew, or Matt. Whichever you prefer."
"Stop doing that." She clutches the corners of the pillow and bends them inwards in a faint fit of frustration.
"Doing what?"
"Coddling me."
"I didn't know that I was. I apologi—"
"Stop."
He sighs, "Fine. I'll stop talking, you start." She anxiously shuffles in place, "Tell me what you're angry about, Amelia."
Her eyes dart up to his face, and he smiles at the daggers, yet he motions her to talk.
"I'm not angry about anything."
"So you're just a natural biter." He utters quietly.
She scoffs, "See, I knew it. I knew you were just file-reading me."
"I don't even think that's a thing."
"Well, it is. When a case is passed to another psychiatrist, they include a detailed description of the client. What they react negatively to. What they react positively to. Basically your cheat-sheet to manipulate them for your favor, all the while they believe you actually get them."
"In the poor piece of paper's defense, it does note how distrusting you are."
"I'm not distrusting."
"Really? Who do you trust?" He leans out from his chair and rests his chin in his hand.
"Don't patronize me."
"I want to know, tell me."
She pauses, and stares at him. "I have a suspicion you already assume who I'll say."
"Ah, yes." A quick glance to the clipboard, "Rory and Mels, your friends."
As she looks back to the picture, he follows her gaze and smiles at her attempt to shut him out. It's riveting to him, how her desperation turns her on the offense and she almost knows he knows it, and perhaps it's riveting to her also. In some way. He isn't stupid, the way he talks, the choice of words, his body language. Her thoughts run so quickly she can't deduce what is paranoia and what is fact. Regardless, he dances with her. The others didn't and she misses that faint security and hates how he can read that.
"Who's the woman?" She asks flatly.
"My sister."
Her eyes unemotionally glance back at him, "So what happened to her?"
He tilts his head somewhat curiously at her, and slowly he leans over to his desk and fishes through the knickknacks and retrieves a post-it. "I think we're done for the day."
Amy scoffs at his forfeit, "It's only been like ten minutes."
"Less than that, actually." He admits distantly, tearing a strip from the paper and stretching it over to her. "No worries, first session is on me."
She swipes it from his hand, "What makes you think I'll come back?"
Intrigued, he leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head, "'Cause like me, you hated Dr. Duncan. I only met her once and what a bitter crow. You won't find another in this place who will actually admit what a conceited bitch she was."
"Unprofessional." She says, with a strong motion, she thrusts the heavy door open.
She hears the chair squeak in his turn, and she glances back at him as it shuts. "Truth."
Amy drags her feet down the dark-carpeted hallway, hearing the scolding words of her parents, "Don't scrape up your shoes", how the voices overlapped with the others. She sifts herself through the exit and hands the slip to Mrs. Albrite, who crinkles her nose regrettably at it.
"Well," she huffs to herself, clackering her plastic fingernails on some keyboard, and replaces every disgruntled expression with the fake smile. "Would you care to schedule another session, Ms. Pond?"
In the distance, Amy's eye catches on the large-moustached man, who she knew to be the head-man in charge, Mr. Reynolds, as he shuffles out of his office and purposely takes another man into conversation. It didn't appear to be anyone she knew, yet even so, it isn't until the white coat finally registers and he mouths, "See ya' later", that she glances back to Mrs. Albrite and utters thoughtlessly.
"Yeah."