It was not a case Angharad should be working on. Personal circumstances aside, there were complexities to it that required experience she didn't yet have. There was no budget for anyone better, though. The others assured her it would be okay. She, at least, cared. It was the best these poor people could hope for. Facing Furiosa's thousand-yard stare, Angharad was not so sure.
Gang violence had left upon her less subtle marks as well. Her left arm had been ripped off a few inches below the elbow. According to the records, Furiosa was a member of the Citadel Gang, and a clash with a rival group ended in the death of several gang members from both sides-and in the loss of her arm.
The wound had healed since her apprehension and trial, but due to her high-risk profile, a prosthetic had not been provided. Angharad had been given a list of the painkillers Furiosa needed from time to time. Useful information if psychotropic medication became necessary. That would take a few sessions to determine if that was needed. With luck.
Like many prisoners with a background of gang violence, Furiosa reacted with suspicion to the psychoanalytic tests. She outright refused to engage past the first two images of the Rorschach Inkblot Test. Perhaps she was aware of how disturbed her perceptions may appear to an 'outsider'—especially one who held sway over her future inside the penitentiary.
It was a complicated dynamic. The inmates knew Angharad had the final say on the parole board, and often attempted to manipulate her, pretending to engage, to be honest, and unaware that she was trained to spot these attempts. Others, however, picked a more defensive approach and simply refused to engage at all.
In a perfect world, another psychiatrist would be in charge of parole decisions, allowing Angharad to remain neutral. But there was no budget for that, they said. It was three psychiatrists to handle all of the inmates. For all that was needed. So she had to make sure to do her job right.
"What is this for?" Furiosa grumbled when a paper and a crayon were provided to draw a tree, a house and a person.
"Just to explore how you are feeling, and your thoughts. We can skip this part, if you want. We could just talk?"
Furiosa stared at her for a long while. Angharad just smiled and waited.
"I…why? Would you not want revenge too?"
Yes. She would. What Dementus had done to Furiosa's mother had no name. It had to be one of the most gruesome things Angharad had ever read, and it was hard to make peace with the reality of it.
But she was no stranger to abuse and violence. She too had felt the searing need for vengeance. Life had been kinder to her though. It had given her love, normalcy. And over time, with the love of those around her, she had come to understand that Justice and Vengeance were not the same. Ultimately, revenge was self-destructive.
"What do you believe revenge will give you?"
"...how is it fair that I am stuck here and Dementus is out there?"
"I understand that it feels deeply unfair, and I can see why you'd want him to pay for what he's done," she said quietly. "Revenge might feel like the only way to get justice, but it often doesn't ease the pain as we hope. It usually leaves more scars. Do you believe that revenge will be enough to make things fair?"
Tears welled up in Furiosa's eyes and her lips pressed into a thin line. She swallowed, hard, her breathing hitching. Angharad gave her time to get a hold of her emotions. This was a person unused to giving anything of herself. Her silence and reticence to engage were walls set in place to keep a cruel unforgiving world out.
These walls would come down when Furiosa felt ready. Angharad would give her all the time and space she needed.
The thought almost made her slip too. It was a thing with such a profession, and such a place of work. To address the faces behind the news and reports. Acts of horrific violence that to most were just tales, become as real as a person struggling not to cry.
"I want to help you get through this." She said earnestly, not sure if it was proper or if her emotions were getting the better of her.
Furiosa looked down. Her arm moved, and the chain linking it to the table rattled unpleasantly. Angharad wished she could call the guard in to remove it, but doing so now could interrupt something important.
The silence dragged on for quite a while. The sadness in Furiosa's eyes slowly faded away, replaced by that dull apathetic look. She sat half-sprawled in the chair, her hand playing with the chain. Angharad was really resenting that thing.
It had felt necessary to put it on at first. There was an intensity to Furiosa's gaze that frightened Angharad. The way she walked, each step an assertion of power despite the chains on her feet and the guards flanking her, was intimidating. Angharad just knew that if Furiosa felt like killing her, she very well could.
What if she knew who Angharad was? It was unclear if Furiosa was loyal to Joe, or a simple victim forced into compliance by circumstances.
Things were a bit clearer now. But…the cuffs would have to remain until the end of the session. Awful as it was. A cruel imposition. Tyrannical. Enforcing…
"What am I supposed to say?"
Angharad started at the sudden question. Fortunately, Furiosa was still looking at her hand, and didn't notice.
"Whatever you'd like."
Furiosa's eyes darted back up. The intensity blazing in them once again.
"What's with the scar on your face?"
The question was jarring. It shouldn't have been. Inmates asked it often, or stared at it. But not on a first session, and not so abruptly—or from someone who might already know the answer and was prodding to confirm.
"...an accident when I was young." She offered, trying to breathe evenly. "I can understand being curious about someone's scars. They're stories we carry with us. Would you like to share any of yours, when you're ready?"
They continued, a back and forth. Furiosa asked invasive personal questions, and Angharad answered those she could, delicately leaving unanswered those she couldn't. Each time, she attempted to redirect the focus to Furiosa, using open-ended questions to give her as much freedom as possible.
Angharad felt a line was tugged. Either in the tone of her voice, or a subtle body signal Furiosa may have picked up. Because, suddenly, Furiosa switched tactics, and started speaking of inconsequential matters. Motorcycles and trucks. Mechanics, and power tools.
It was a clever strategy to claim acceptable middle ground. Silence was broken, so perceived demands were met, yet Furiosa's barriers remained through deflection and by sticking to inconsequential subjects.
"Mechanics—it takes a steady hand, doesn't it? And attention to details. Would you say you find that same clarity in other parts of your life?"
Furiosa stared at her, profoundly unamused. Angharad, on the other hand, was relieved. Despite Furiosa's obvious attempt to 'play the system', it was a form of engaging with it. It gave her an opening. And that was essential.
A soft knock on the door.
Furiosa flinched violently, her head whipping around briefly, hand jerking against the cuff that linked it to the table. She had been startled by the noise. Immediately, she settled back down, glancing briefly at Angharad before fixing her gaze on the wall.
"It seems we went over time by ten minutes," Angharad said, signaling to the guard peeking in from outside. "They're very strict about the schedule here. Next time, I'll make sure we wrap up on time so you'll always know what to expect. If you ever need to talk, just let them know, and I'll be here for you. Otherwise, we'll meet again on Wednesday?"
"Mmm."
As the door closed softly, Angharad let out an explosive sigh and leaned back on the chair. She wiped sweaty palms on her dress. Her misgivings about taking Furiosa's case were very much present still, but now, there was also a flicker of hope.
She even allowed herself to indulge a little. How wonderful it would be to focus all her efforts on Joe's creatures. To heal all their wounds, and break them free of his sickness. That would be Justice.