Session 1: The Shell
The first time I meet James Buchanan Barnes, he is twenty minutes late.
Not that I blame him.
I'm told by the state-appointed liaison that he's being forced to attend therapy sessions as part of his pardon. It's not a recommendation, not a friendly hand held out in support—it's a condition. Another line on a very long list of boxes he has to tick to remain free.
When he walks in, I think two things at once: he looks exactly like the photos, and he looks nothing like them at all.
He is tall, broad-shouldered, but lean in a way that reads as tension more than fitness. His movements are economical, efficient. No wasted steps. His hair is shorter than it used to be, than what I'd seen in footage of him in the news and in photos, but still long enough to tuck behind his ears. He wears black gloves on both hands, and the dark hoodie he wears looks worn, like something he's had for years. There's two jackets layered over it, despite the warm weather outside – protection, to hide him from the world or to keep the world out.
He doesn't smile, doesn't nod in greeting. Just walks in, sits down in the chair across from mine, and folds his arms.
His eyes flick over every corner of the room. Twice. Three times. Memorizing exits, sight lines, potential threats. He clocks the small recorder on my desk. The bookshelf. The clock.
Me.
"Good morning, Sergeant Barnes," I say, as calmly as I can with a friendly smile.
He doesn't answer.
"My name is Doctor Anna Dufresne. I'm the psychiatrist that has been assigned to your case. For a bit of context, so you know that I know what I'm talking about, I specialize in post-traumatic stress, cognitive behavioural therapy, and cases of what the DSM-5 would generously label as "identity disturbance." I've worked with veterans. I've worked with survivors of brainwashing and severe trauma." I pause for a moment, looking him over as he stares at me, listening. "But I can't say I've ever worked with someone who's over a hundred years old," I add, a slightly tone of humour to my words.
He doesn't smile, not even a millimetre, and doesn't shift his facial expressions at all. He just stares, unblinkingly, at me.
Of course, he doesn't look over one hundred. That's the part that's most disorienting. He looks like a man in his thirties. Not a day over forty.
But he carries the weight of centuries in his eyes.
"I understand you're here under mandate," I continue. "But I want to assure you, this is your space. Your time. We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to."
Still nothing.
He sits stiffly, like he's bracing for an impact that never comes.
I watch him for a moment. The way his fingers twitch slightly under his arms, as though he's resisting the urge to clench them into fists. The tremor is so subtle it might be missed by anyone else.
Eventually, I sit back, open my notebook, and begin to jot down a few preliminary impressions. "I hope you don't mind me making some notes as we go along. It helps my build my understanding of you as my client, but also helps me remember what we discussed and how you reacted to information or stimuli. Is that okay with you?" I ask.
He hesitates for a moment and then nods curtly.
"Okay, excellent."
The silence stretches between us. He watches my pen with the intensity of someone reading a weapon being loaded.
Session Notes:
Patient presented with marked signs of hypervigilance. Unwilling to initiate or respond to conversation. Demonstrates symptoms consistent with severe PTSD and identity disassociation.
Speech: None.
Affect: Flat.
Behaviour: Guarded.
"Sergeant Barnes," I try again, softening my voice. "Would you like me to continue calling you "Sergeant Barnes", or would you prefer to go by James?"
A flicker. His jaw tightens.
"James."
His voice is gravelled and quiet, but the syllables land like bricks.
It's not much, but it's something.
"Thank you," I say simply. "I'd like to get to know you. I know your file, but that's not the same thing. Files don't show the person. Just the damage."
His mouth twitches. Almost a frown. Almost a smirk. I can't tell which.
I go on, cautiously. "If you don't want to talk today, that's okay. This first session is about building a safe space. About learning how we can work together."
He doesn't say anything.
"I won't push," I promise.
His eyes narrow. There is no trust there. Not yet.
Eye contact infrequent. Avoidant posture. Minimal response to engagement. Exhibits trauma-related emotional numbing. Clinical impression: rapport not yet established. Recommend continued non-confrontational approach to foster safety.
I let the silence linger. Sometimes the right words need time to be found.
After fifteen more minutes, I offer, "We have about half an hour left. Would you like to end early today?"
He shrugs.
"Up to you," he says. He still doesn't look at me.
I make a decision.
"Let's just sit, then. No questions. No expectations."
For the remainder of the session, we sit in silence. I make a show of checking my notes. He stares at the window. Occasionally, our eyes meet, and I offer him a nod. He doesn't return it.
When the clock chimes the end of the hour, he stands instantly, almost too fast.
"Same time next week," I say.
He pauses, then nods once and walks out.
After he's gone, I sit back and exhale. There is no part of this that will be easy. But I remind myself that trust is earned, not given. And healing is not a sprint.
It's a crawl.
Therapeutic alliance: not yet initiated.
Risk assessment: low for self-harm at this time but potential for emotional deterioration if support systems remain absent.
Intervention plan: establish routine, maintain consistent presence, avoid pressing trauma disclosure until client initiates.
Next steps: continue silent support model, normalise presence.