Henry left the building more-or-less emotionally unscathed. His mother was beside him, walking in that brisk way of hers; she always did when she was miffed, but the firm set of her square jaw made it definite.
"She could've let me stay in there. I would've been quiet. Doctors these days... Back when you were a boy, they wouldn't let me leave the room, now they can't wait to get rid of me! Granted, they were pediatricians, but... That woman's still a doctor, and I'm still your mother. … Of course, maybe she was just inexperienced. I didn't see too many plaques framed," she remarked disapprovingly, as if this whole thing had been Henry's idea in the first place. "Only a few."
"Only a few? Did you see how young she was?" he pointed out.
She huffed. "Then maybe she shouldn't have her own office yet, don't you think?"
"Sure," Henry replied meekly, not feeling like arguing any further. It would be a bit pointless for him to still argue with his mother when he was almost thirty, although relenting was equally sad. The doctor probably thought he was a downtrodden mother's boy now, and that was bad enough. Mainly because he hadn't seen his mother in close to four years to begin with, and suddenly she was barreling headlong into his life, taking charge all over again.
Oh, Walter. Your torment just never ends, does it?
"Could you drive me home? My arthritis is kicking in."
Henry sighed. "Of course, mom."
"I still live in the same house," she added.
"Right."
"The one you grew up in."
He didn't answer that one, knowing there would be more to follow. Instead, he just started the car and put his seat-belt on. Sure enough, he hadn't even put the car in reverse before she was off again. "You know, your father misses you. You never call. He thinks you're avoiding him."
Because phones don't work both ways.
"Does he?"
"Mm, yes," she replied, nodding sternly and fiddling with her handbag. "You never visit, either. Even after your little... Incident. And you never talk to that nice young lady anymore, Ellie."
"Eileen."
"Yes, Eileen. Whatever happened to her?" she asked with slight alarm.
"She moved out of state." Maybe I should've done the same thing. A break from South Ashville wouldn't hurt. Especially not after...
"You could call her."
"I don't have to. She calls me every so often. And there's always the Internet," he pointed out. She shook her head. "Oh, yes. The Internet. I remember back when the Internet never existed. Those were better days; back when a young man courted a woman in person, not through E-Mails."
Courted, he thought with a shake of the head. She really said 'courted'.
"Anyway," she continued, "I still think you should at least call the girl. ...What's that?" she asked suddenly, looking suspiciously at the slip of paper he'd set on the dashboard.
Henry glanced at it. "Oh. She gave me a prescription."
"Who did?"
"Doctor Roberts."
He sighed ever so slightly as she pursed her lips. "Hm. Less than thirty minutes in there, and she's already handing out drugs. I'm starting to wonder about just how good a doctor that girl is if she just solves every problem with pills..."
"Mother, I never wanted to see a psychiatrist in the first place. This was your idea," he pointed out. "Besides... She seemed to know what she was doing."
Henry was usually pretty passive, but his mother sure knew how to get under his skin… Even enough to make him feel like defending a shrink. Maybe he never grew out of that rebellious teenage streak after all, if only around his parents.
After dropping her off and getting back into his car, which he had left in her driveway that morning, he had a mental debate over whether or not he should actually get the prescription filled. He didn't even want to sit through another session, but he knew that he would end up going anyway. As for the pills... Maybe his mother had a point. She was young, how did he know she was qualified enough to give him proper meds? Not to be a prick, but... I don't feel like overdosing. Isn't there a lot of math and science involved? She didn't even look at that personal information sheet, doesn't she need to know my height and weight for a good dosage?
Henry sighed heavily, shaking his head as he slowed for a red light. "Listen to yourself. After all the bullshit you've been through so far, the idea of getting some medicine from your psychiatrist worries you."
So what if she's young, he thought suddenly. She did act professional. She was watching me like a hawk, didn't write a single thing down, didn't have 'He's lost it' written all over her face… She was genuinely listening, and she seemed to know exactly what was wrong with me. And despite "only" having two plaques, credentials are credentials. She knows better than I do if she's licensed to prescribe medicine...
He then realized he was in the right lane to turn into the local pharmacy anyway, and shrugged as he did just that. "I don't believe in coincidences anymore. Just get the meds, Henry, you're exhausted."
Kate admittedly didn't think about Henry Townshend even once after he left the building. She focused on each patient that came in afterward, and even when she was leaving, she didn't think give him a second thought. In fact, she didn't even intentionally take his file home along with the others; his just happened to be in the same bundle.
She left work not long after it first got dark outside. As usual, she was one of the last employees to leave; only three lights were on in the building's numerous windows as she drove out into traffic. Kate got Chinese take-out on the way home, and almost before she had even turned off the car, she could hear the shouting. She sighed heavily, having momentarily forgotten what time it was. It was around eight o'clock, which meant they were arguing again.
She had yet to know their names, but there was always a couple who fought on her floor– the fourth floor – every night, like clockwork. The windows were always open on the third through fifth floors as the air conditioning was notoriously faulty, so there was no avoiding their nightly performance. As the woman continued to cuss him out in Spanish, making him respond in mixed English explicitly enough to make even Kate flush, she practically dove into her bag to find her keys, dropped them twice, and eventually got the door open. She slammed it shut, knowing they wouldn't get the message but feeling better nonetheless, and immediately locked her lock and deadbolt. "I'm not paranoid, just aware," she commented to herself, setting the Chinese down on the kitchen counter. Kate wandered to her bedroom, which didn't take long; she lived in a one-bedroom, two-bath. Once there, she changed into a baggy t-shirt that had once belonged to one of her better-smelling exes and collapsed onto the bed.
Unfortunately, she forgot she still had her bag of junk on her arm, so it hit her smack in the cheek when she went down. "Oof!" she exclaimed, nearly throwing it to the other side of the room before thinking better of it. She had to record tonight.
She did it almost every night – go through files of her patients, record herself rambling about them, and see if she could think of better solutions or diagnoses. "I'll need my Chinese for this. ... And some rum and Coke," she decided with a single nod, jumping off her bed and dashing for the kitchen.
Some people (on the rare occasions nowadays that she went out with friends or colleagues) remarked that she was on the verge of being a full-fledged alcoholic. She insisted that she drank all the time because she worked all the time; alcohol seemed to help her think more clearly. And it wasn't as if she drank a lot in one night... Usually. Four glasses was her limit, depending on how strong the alcohol was.
After watching some random sitcom while she ate Chinese, she eventually decided to go through her mountain of files. It was around the middle of the stack when she thought of Townshend again. "Lisa Munier still claims the medicine is helping her remember more clearly, but I don't think it's helping much. Of course, medicine can only do so much... I think deep down she's scared of remembering, despite how tormented she is by not knowing. Her stepmom already told me – and it's mentioned in her medical records – about her abuse at the hands of her biological father. Physical and otherwise. She's clinging to her classic Repressed Memory case because the truth is she can't decide what's worse: remembering, or reliving what little she can remember... And all the reassurance in the world goes only so far to someone carrying that much trauma. The rest has to be their choice, fully and truly."
That was when her mind trailed off, staring down at the file before looking over at the pile of unread ones. Which was getting smaller and smaller, but it still looked huge to her exhausted vision.
"... Repressed memories. Just like Mr. Townshend. Note a shift of subject… Yeah, let's shift to a different subject. Henry. The new patient. The one who thinks he saw Walter Sullivan, right?" she asked herself thoughtfully, rummaging through the manilla folders until she found the one labeled "Townshend, Henry".
"Right. ...I didn't write much down on him, he seemed hyperaware. But I remember it pretty well, it was a weird session in itself. Let's see, Henry Townshend… He came in with his mom, Amy – I definitely remember her. She answered all the questions for him, so I had to ask her to wait outside. He seemed very shy, I'll have to take it slow with him. Try and get him to open up little by little," she decided, pausing to slurp some more noodles.
"Ahhh. Anyway. He mentioned that he was trapped in his apartment a few months prior. He said it was... Locked from the inside? I'm still not sure if that was a real incident or not. I'm starting to think he may have PTSD, and if so, the locked apartment may have been a manifestation of some sort of trauma. Perhaps abandonment at an early age… Judging by his mother's demeanor, however, it's highly unlikely. Unless, of course, his biological father was the one doing the abandoning. That's a subject for another session. Or three.
"Hm… He mentioned dreams, too. Something about fog, I think...? I prescribed some medication to help with his sleep and to try and regulate the frequency of his dreams. I'll be seeing him every other day for a few more sessions until I can figure out whether or not he's stable. I don't think he's suicidal, although he's ragged – like he can't quite recover from his last fight with whatever it is that's troubling him. ... I remember he said something odd before he left. He mentioned Walter Sullivan, a deceased serial killer. The one mom always talks about. If he's serious about seeing him – which it seems he is, he described him perfectly and with signs of clear emotion – I suppose it's possible he may have schizophrenia. The question then becomes, however, finding a connection… To have hallucinations of a specific individual is strange if you've never encountered them, but Sullivan had to impact his life in one way or another."
She sighed, looking at the personal information he had filled out. She knew he wrote it – the handwriting was undeniably male.
"Henry, I can tell you're gonna be a challenge. Have I said that already?
WEDNESDAY.
"Hi, Henry. No mother this time?"
He shook his head. "No."
She waited for any additional information he might share, but he didn't continue, so with a sigh she kept going. "Have the pills been working since I last saw you?"
He nodded.
"You're a man of many words," she commented simply, glancing down at the personal information sheet he'd filled out a couple days ago. It was at this point that she began breaking in a new patient, gauging their demeanor and quirks – their tolerance to her own demeanor, so she would know what to emphasize and what to avoid in the future. "So, since I never got around to it yesterday, I'm just going to ask about the things you filled out for this sheet. Just to make sure it's all correct. Sound good?"
Another nod.
"Not married, never have been, right?"
"Correct."
"No girlfriend. ... Or boyfriend. Again, judgment-free zone."
"No."
"And you still live here in Ashfield, too, huh?"
"Yes."
"You're obviously Caucasian... Although you still look kind of ashy. The circles look lighter already, though, that's very good. And... Lemme see... No handicap, not a veteran."
He shook his head, and she felt like ripping her hair out in frustration. She didn't know any other patients that gave consistently short syllables for every answer. "Your emergency contacts look to be your parents, is that right?"
"Yes."
"And do you prefer Internet porn or cable porn?"
"Ye – wait, what?" he asked suddenly, and she snapped her fingers before pointing at him.
"Just making sure you're still awake. And a bonus three-syllable answer, just for me. ... Careful, looks like you just might quirk a smile," she added with a smirk before putting his personal information back in his manila folder. She then folded her hands on top of her desk, tilting her head slightly as she watched him continue to look awkward and uncomfortable; the sad part was that her curveball question had hardly been the cause of this demeanor, if it had even influenced it at all beyond mild surprise. "You're very quiet, you know that? Have you always been this way?"
"Yes," he replied after a moment of thought.
"Anything else to add to that?" she prompted, desperate for some further explanation. As his psychiatrist, she more-or-less relied on what he had to say.
He thought about that. "… Why I'm shy?"
"If that's what you're thinking about. Or anything that pops into your head about your shyness."
"... I don't have too many friends, I guess. It's probably because I'm so shy. Well, maybe not shy, just..."
"Reluctant to initiate?" she suggested gingerly, making him frown slightly before sighing.
"... I guess so."
Kate nodded. "Seems that way. How about this? Pretend I'm one of your friends. Don't you say whatever you feel like around your friends?"
"For the most part."
"Then say whatever you feel like around me. Help me help you." She frowned when he didn't seem to catch it. "Jerry Maguire? No? ... Never mind, then."
An awkward silence then ensued. "Do you like sports, Henry?"
"They're okay."
This prompted her to abruptly stand up, which seemed to startle him even more than the porn question; she dropped her pad and pen ceremoniously onto her desk, pulled out her chair, wheeled it rather loudly until it was right in front of him, then plopped into it, arms crossed as she stared at him. Kate pretended not to notice Michelle's head poking out from behind her desk to observe through the window beside the door.
"Henry Townshend, by the time I either release you with a seal of approval or you decide I'm a quack and take your troubles elsewhere, we're gonna have a give-and-take system here. You give me more detailed responses, and I'll take them into account as I try to understand what I can do to help you. I can only understand you as much as ya let me, is that clear?"
He nodded briefly, seemingly flabbergasted by her little display – were psychiatrists not supposed to be constantly calm and collected? "… Alright."
"That was two. You can do better. Try again."
"Okay, I'll... Give you more to work with from now on," he said after pausing for thought. "It's only fair."
She grinned. "There. That was a ton of syllables."
If Henry had been questioning her professionalism before, he wasn't once she turned serious and delved right into the tough questions, dark features unflinching even as they emanated a certain kindness.
"So. You told me yesterday you were locked in your apartment, from the inside. That must've been a hellish situation… Would you mind elaborating on it?" she asked, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in her chair a little. "What it felt like once you processed it?"
For some reason, Henry found it odd – and a relief – that she asked that. Not about why he thought he was trapped, or how it happened, but what it was like. He supposed it was a reiterating of the typical "how do you feel about that," but even so, it altered his state of mind. He genuinely thought about it, trying to put it into words. He'd never been too good with words – especially not around women.
"… Pure hell. There were chains all over the door, but only on the inside. I just woke up one morning, and... There they were. No warning or anything. Of course, the first thing I did was try to pry them off. I had some tools, but none of them worked. So I tried to use my phone to call for help, but it was unplugged, and there was no dial tone."
"Who were you trying to call?" she asked suddenly. This left him wondering yet again about what kind of psychiatric tricks she was attempting to use.
"... I'm not sure. Maybe the police, but... That wouldn't make much sense. I guess I was going to call anybody."
"Okay. Proceed."
"... After I checked the phone, I started banging on the door and the windows, shouting for help, but no one could hear me. I was stuck in there for what seemed like forever," he concluded, shaking his head.
She nodded slowly. "That's... That's good, I've got a lot more detail now. But you misunderstood."
"Misunderstood?"
"You just told me what happened to you, and what you did to try and fix it. I wanna know why it devastated you. Why did it make up your idea of a 'pure hell'? Why did it scare you so much?"
He thought even longer about that, and she waited. And waited. And still waited. It was making him squirm a little under her unwavering gaze.
"... Well, isn't it a little obvious? I was locked in my apartment... From the inside... Left with whatever was still in my refrigerator to eat… With no way to get people's attention outside. And eventually, when the hole showed up, I wasn't even safe in my apartment anymore, there were monsters there, too! ... And everyone I met was dying, sometimes right in front of me. I was alone and hopeless… No one should have to feel like that."
She nodded. "Alone. Even the most withdrawn human being never wants to be truly alone. Isn't it possible, then, that you – wait... There was a hole? And monsters?"
He winced slightly; now she was really going to think he was crazy. "... Yeah. A hole appeared in my bathroom wall. And every time I crawled through it, I found myself in a different world. Although the first time, I ended up in the subway right by South Ashfield Heights – that's where I met Cynthia."
She stared at him for a few moments, then shook her head. "You're locked inside your apartment, a hole of unexplained origin appears... And you crawl through it? Henry, I'm beginning to question your sense of self-preservation. ... Although, I guess if I were trapped in my apartment, I would jump at any chance of getting out as well, but still... You know what? I digress. Who is Cynthia?"
"She was a woman I met in the subway. She thought it was all a dream. I tried to help her, but... She ended up being the first person I met that Walter murdered," he replied, his tone growing quieter towards the end.
Kate clicked her tongue. "Walter again, huh? I was thinking about this the other night… Mind me asking if you had ever heard of Walter Sullivan before being trapped in your apartment?"
He shook his head. "No, I hadn't."
"How did you find out Walter Sullivan was allegedly the one who murdered Cynthia?"
He didn't like the way she said "allegedly," but answered anyway. "I kind of just… Put two and two together with some help along the way. But I know it was Walter. He even left me a note the very first time I took a good look at my apartment – after being locked in."
"What did the note say?"
"It said, 'Don't go out!' and was signed 'Walter'."
She sighed before hesitantly asking, "Henry, would you agree that there are quite a few Walters in this world?"
"... Yes."
"And that a few Walters could be living in South Ashfield?"
"Yes."
"And that maybe someone was playing a cruel joke on you – and maybe even seriously murdering these poor people – but assuming the name 'Walter Sullivan'? Because I remember the police investigating copycat murders a while back…"
"... Yes," he replied somewhat grudgingly. "But..."
Her brows shot up on that one. "But what?"
He squirmed again, but he supposed she already assumed he was either crazy or lying anyway. He disliked the turn this session had taken. "You don't understand. I saw him. I talked to him. I saved one of his victims, as well as myself. It was Walter Sullivan, dead or alive."
Kate let out a breath slowly, nodding slowly. "Well then... We'll just have to look into that."