Bleach
~V

He’s telling you to just talk, to let the words flow naturally and spill out of your mouth like drops of water.

You mentally correct his statement to say “drops of acid” instead.  Every time you try to explain something to him a part of you is eaten away.  He doesn’t seem to understand that when you clamp your mouth shut to keep the caustic words from pouring out you’re also doing him a favor.  Corrosive sentences hold bias towards no one.  

But, if you can no longer talk, then he no longer has a patient to over-analyze; he’ll no longer have a receiver for his unending questions and theories.

He’s worse than the new ones fresh out of college.  The new ones, while still trying to follow the books they’ve read, at least understand that they really don’t know what they’re doing.  They’re more forgiving and will learn from you.

The veterans, like him, know everything.

They’ve read all the books, heard all there is to know about the human psyche, and your brain is no different than that of the patient two rooms down the hall from you.  In fact, he knows everything so well you don’t even have to speak for him to interpret what your mind is thinking about.  You stare blankly at his questions and he jots down how it’s common for you to be so introvert when you’re still adjusting to the new surroundings.  You cross your legs and clasp your hands together and he makes a note about a tendency to close people off.  You yawn and he mentions on his paper about lack of sleep.

One hour, once a week, you meet with him and he tells you all about yourself on a little piece of paper you never get to see.  He says you’re making progress and ushers you out of the room, greeting a passing nurse and informing your dosage of medication needs to be increased by ten milligrams.