Chapter Text
Chapter 1. “You’re Safe Here.”
The therapist’s room was neat and tidy. Resembling almost a grandmother’s house, and oddly enough, an office at the same time. Who stood in front of me was a woman with golden blonde hair, and in a simple white cardigan with a note pad sprawled open on her lap.
We both sat in silence.
Her reason, more understandable.
She was waiting for me.
. . .
“So…Tell me, Hookline.” Said the blonde woman, her gaze lifting from the page to the Robloxian sitting in front of her. “I take it that you’ve been making progress?” She asked with a smile, waiting for the silent man to break his facade.
“…In what, exactly?” He answered bitterly, already waiting for this session to be over.
“..Your coping mechanisms.” She replied. “That, and your post traumatic stress disorder.” She would end up closing the notepad entirely, as she leaned in closely, her body language ensuring Hookline that this is a safe space. “Go on, explain it to me.”
Hookline stayed silent, gaining discomfort as he leaned back in the chair.
It slightly creaked.
“I’ve used the water technique you told me about.”
“The one last week?”
Hookline nods.
“How many times per week?”
Hookline stayed silent, almost as if calculating a number that seemed reasonable. “Three.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No ma’am.”
The two stayed silent in their seats. It was a good afternoon, the orange hues in the sky are visible between the window’s blinds.
“..Tell me, Sterling.”
“Hookline.” He corrected her.
“Right, I’m sorry.” She would sit straight, looking at his shaded covered eyes. “Please, tell me.”
“..I’d drink a bottle every time I’ve had an episode.” He shamelessly admitted.
Angel stayed silent, closely opening up the notepad as she began writing. “And how many episodes would occur?”
“Three.” He replied quickly. “Though most times, I just isolate myself.”
“…That’s not healthy, Hookline.” Angel muttered.
Obviously it wasn’t.
The reason why he’s this way is the overbearing workload he’s gotten lately. Many, endless nights. With the sheer psychological terror of surviving paranormal environments, compounded by the isolation and bizarre anomalies he studied. If anything it’s shocking he hadn’t cracked sooner than he had originally.
Or maybe he did and refused to admit it.
Angel stayed silent, stopping her pen movements as she sighed. “..Hook..-“
“I know.”
Silence.
She spoke up again.
“We can’t fix what we don’t look at,” Angel said softly, her voice dropping to a gentler tone. She set the pen completely flat across the open page of her notebook, a deliberate gesture to show him he had her undivided attention. “Isolating yourself might feel like putting up a shield, Hookline. But, it’s actually just trapping you inside the room with the very things you’re trying to run from.”
Hookline shifted, the chair creaking again in the quiet room. The warm orange light slicing through the blinds casted harsh shadows across the floor, mimicking the eerie, structured grids of the facilities he spent his nights investigating.
"The shield works," he muttered, keeping his chin down. "Outside, everything is unpredictable. Anomalies don't follow rules. The workload doesn't stop, yet I can’t complain about it. Inside my own head... at least I know where the walls are."
"But you're suffocating in there," Angel whispered gently. She leaned back slightly, giving him physical space while keeping her gaze locked onto the edge of his shaded glasses. "Drinking water to ground yourself during an episode is a better alternative for a physical reset. To anchor you to the present moment, to remind you that you are here, safe, in a chair, and not back in those environments. But if you drink, and follow that up by locking yourself away from the world, the anchor-"
“Isn’t getting picked up.” Hookline let out a short, cynical breath.
"You’re safe here.” she emphasized.
He didn't answer. He stared at the neat lines of her notepad, wondering how many pages it would take to calculate the psychological weight of what he does for a living.
How do you explain the terror of a reality that bends out of shape to someone who sits in a cozy, grandmotherly office all day?
Angel seemed to catch the direction of his silent thoughts. She tilted her head, her golden hair catching the fading afternoon light. “Let's try something different for the coming week. No more counting bottles, and no more disappearing acts. When you feel panicked during work, I want you to stay there, and think of something reasonable for what occurs.”
He’d stay silent, he’s pretty sure he tried that before, saying that it’s all in his head, excusing every figure as an odd looking shadow.
"Can you try that for me, Hookline?”
. . .
“Alright.”
Angel would smile, clasping her hands together on her lap.
“Thank you, Hookline.”
Hookline would stay silent, only nodding as he stood up, grabbing his keys off the coffee table in front of them.
Angel glanced at his movements, before offering. “I could walk you out,”
“No no, it’s alright.” He put the keys in his pockets as he walked to the door, he’s all too familiar with the office building’s interior. “I’ve got it.”
He would turn the knob, and walk out. Leaving Angel alone with the door shut.
She stood there, in silence and devastation.
Angel sighed, sitting back down on her chair, leaning back after several overwhelming sessions.
But not too long after, there was a knock, and the twist of a knob.
A brown haired doctor walked in, with two cups of tea in hand.
He entered further into the room, putting one of the cups of tea down on the coffee table. “Long day?” Mick asked.
“Very.” Angel repeated as she graciously accepted the tea, picking it up with both hands
“It’ll be alright,” Mick sat down in the same chair Hookline had just been sitting on.
He leaned back, resting his elbows on the armrests and interlacing his fingers. He watched her for a moment, letting the warmth of the tea soothe the sharp edge.
“He’s a stubborn one ,” Mick took in the silence, and the slight warmth that the rays of sunset brush on his face. “He’d spend so much time in places where reality doesn't make sense that a normal office starts to feel like the anomaly.”
Angel took a slow sip, the steam rising to meet her tired eyes. "He's ruining himself, Mick. He admits to the isolation, but he's treating his struggles like a checklist.“
"But he came back today," Mick pointed out. "That’s something. For someone like Hookline, just showing up and sitting in that chair for an hour is a victory, even if it doesn't feel like one right now."
Angel looked down at the dark liquid in her cup, the orange light from the window reflecting off the surface. "I just hope it doesn’t ruin him to the point of psychosis."
Mick sighed, looking towards the door. As a doctor in the same facility, he knew the cruel reality of their occupation all too well. “We do what we can, Angel," Mick said, his tone softening, yet maintaining his same blandness. "Even if we unfortunately can’t save them all.” Mick muttered, clenching the handle of his own cup.
Touchy subject for him.
He stood up, offering her a small, encouraging nod. "Drink your tea. Take a breath. You can't carry his weight if you're drowning in it yourself."
Angel nodded, smiling slightly. “Thank you, Mick.”
-
Hookline stepped out of his car, closing the driver side door as he clicked the lock button on his keys.
He’d stay there for a moment, having an eerie feeling as he glanced at his house’s windows.
All the lights were on.
Seeing how his paranoia is, his light bills are probably sky rocketing.
How could someone live with this much anxiety..?
Nonetheless, he sighed.
Grabbing his key,
Placing it in,
And turning.
. . .
Hopefully work tomorrow won’t be too bad.