Anger

 Mahogany is a very nice wood. When polished to a mirror-finish, the dark tones of chocolate and fresh planting-soil shine through to the top. That was what Reid was focusing on, the wood of the desk.

“So how have you been feeling?”

Her voice was crisp, professional, like a fresh sheet of printer paper. It held just the right notes of concern and curiosity. It was as polished as the mahogany. His fingers tightened, pulling at the fabric of his jeans.

“Good,” he said, trying to inject his voice with levity.

The dry rumble that issued from his lips informed him that he had failed. He heard the scratching of her pen, and looked up. His therapist was noting something down with her fountain pen. His stomach roiled.

What is she writing?

He avoided her gaze as she looked up from her notebook.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked him.

The mahogany wasn’t enough. His gaze darted around the room- settling, finally, on the shiny plaque on her desk.

Dr. Pollyanna Weir.

“Reid?” she insisted.

He struggled for a moment, searching for something to say, something to prove to her that this wasn’t necessary. Some way to get her to leave him alone.

“… positive,” he grated.

He could feel her looking at him, feel the penetrating inquisition of those cool greys. Heat flared in his neck, and his fingers tightened again.

“I’m not sure I believe that, Reid.”

Her voice was the worst part of these sessions. She was so poised, so calculated. He wanted her to stop, to just let the silence fester, he wanted to scream at her to shut up. He didn’t do any of those things, instead sitting back and trying to relax. The leather creaked under his shifting weight, sending a piercing shock through his left eyeball.

“Why not, Dr.?” he asked, pulling his sore lips into a false smile. “I’m telling the truth.”

The lies hurt to say. He’d been raised an honest man, after all. But the truth hurt worse.

He made sure to meet her gaze, to reassure her of his sincerity. Her expression told him that she still didn’t believe him. She put her notebook down on the desk that divided the room. On her half, power, logic, sanity. On his, helplessness.

“Reid, you understand that I can’t help you if you won’t let me?”

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. The grey in her eyes was truly implacable. An emotion, the one that Reid didn’t dare name, boiled his heart in a pot.

“Of course, Dr. Weir,” he said.

She kept his gaze for a long moment, then looked down at her notes. Freed from her eyeline, Reid expected to feel relieved. His hands didn’t unclench.

“Let’s circle back to your emotional state,” she murmured, “how has your physical therapy been going?”

Pangs of pain stabbed through his legs and right arm, as if her words had woken his limbs from a long sleep.

“It’s been going OK,” he said, rubbing his injured arm with his uninjured one. “I’ve got full movement back, I can walk by myself, and Dr. Rabinowitz says the pain should be mostly gone soon.”

This was good. He could feel the knots in his guts untying. It was nice to talk, just not about… feelings.

“That’s good,” Dr. Weir said, unintentionally agreeing with his silent sentiment, “as the body heals, the mind tends to settle. Still, scars can be left in both.”

She flipped back a couple of pages, ignoring his suddenly-shortened breath. Did she know what she was doing to him, each time she tried to draw him out?

“What about the trial?”

Reid’s hands fully balled into fists. If there were any topics worse than his feelings, then the trial was one of them.

“… not much to say,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, Reid, I didn’t hear that.”

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

Focus on the wood, Reid, he said to himself, staring down at the desk, that’s some nice mahogany.

He cleared his throat, then repeated more loudly, “There’s not much to say, doc.”

Weir steepled her long fingers, focusing her grey gaze on him over top of her wire-framed glasses.

“Not much progress, I take it?”

Feigned sympathy tinged her question, making his stomach clench like his fists.

“No,” he said.

She waited for him to elaborate, but he just stared at the desk, tracing the lines and swirls.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, and Reid could hear faint frustration in there.

Strangely, it just made him feel worse. Wasn’t he trying to frustrate her, to get these sessions to stop?

“No,” he said again.

He’d said no a lot over the past few months. The first time was in the car, vision hazed, looking over at the empty seat next to him. The next few times had been in a hospital bed, watching, transfixed, helpless, as a monitor screamed and doctors in white and blue turned more and more red. After that, it had been in interviews, outside courtrooms, to lawyers smirking in their tailored suits.

No, I wasn’t drunk, No comment, No, I didn’t run a red light. No, it’s not my fault.

That last one he’d said to himself, in the mirror. His reflection hadn’t believed him.

“What would you like to talk about, Reid?”

The question was surprisingly disarming. Maybe because he wasn’t expecting to hear it.

“I don’t know,” he scrambled, “… woodworking?”

That was a stupid response. She wasn’t going to be interested in woodworking-

“Go on,” she said.

So he told her about the resin table he’d made. He’d gotten the wood from a logging site, buying from a buddy of his. He’d selected three lumpy pieces, avoiding slices where branches had been taken off. The resin had been store-bought, three litres of Epoxy. He’d spent a couple of hours rearranging the wood, trying to find the perfect pattern. At one point, Lily had come in-

He stopped, mid-flow. Every part of him clenched so hard that he felt sick.

“Reid?” Dr. Weir asked, “are you all right?”

His face felt hot, his heart was hammering so hard it felt like it would break his ribs. Everything he was trying not to think about, trying not to feel, bubbled just below the surface.

“I-I-”

He couldn’t breathe. He could barely think.

“Reid,” he heard her say, “breathe.”

He sucked in air through his nose, deep and long.

“That’s it, in and out… in and out…”

He listened, following the rhythm she set with his breaths. In and out. He didn’t calm down, but it helped.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “It’s just-”

He wiped his face, the roughness of his own hands somehow comforting.

“… I haven’t said her name since the funeral.”

Dr. Weir didn’t say anything, she just watched and nodded. For some reason, that broke the dam. It all poured out, a river of thoughts and feelings. Memories, of Lily, of Johnny and Grace. The things he felt in that courtroom, sitting silently across from the slimy little shit that had taken them away. Eventually he stopped, tears choking him. Another emotion joined the pain and the anger- shame.

Dr. Weir handed him a box of tissues. He took only one, folding it carefully into a thick square and dabbing his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I’m not usually like this.”

“Don’t apologise, Reid,” she said, “you’ve done nothing wrong.”

He chuckled bitterly.

“Right,” he spat, “nothing wrong.”

She reached out and touched his hand. He jerked away, looking up at her. She stared him down, storm-clouds in the grey.

“I mean it,” she insisted, “it’s only natural.”

For the first time, he believed her. That belief, that little bit of trust, stapled itself onto his heart. He found it easier to talk to her, easier to say what he had to. That session he said more than all the previous sessions combined.

“Sadly, I think that’s all we have time for,” she said, after nearly an hour, “but I think we’ve made a real breakthrough today, Reid-” she smiled “-don’t you think?”

It was hesitant, but he smiled back: a small, shy smile. The sort that he had thought he would never do again.

“… yeah.”

They stood, shook hands, and the doctor lead him to the door. As he walked out into the sunlight, he massaged his chest, pondering what had just happened.

The rage was still there, coiled like a snake around his chest, fangs pumping venom into his bloodstream. But the coils were a little looser, and maybe, just maybe, he might slip free one day.