Ghost of You

t h i r t y - t w o

"So (Y/n), is there anything specific you'd like to talk about today?"

"Not really."

I watched as the woman across from me began to scribble on her notepad.

"You've been through a lot these past few months." She noted, eyeing me carefully. "You must have something to say regarding it all."

"Not really." I repeated.

This answer was followed by more hasty writing.

She had introduced herself to me as Dr. Cynthia. Apparently she was one of the many psychologists that liked to go by their first name instead of their last. I'd read somewhere once that they do that to make themselves seem more approachable to their patients. It seemed stupid to me. If a psychologist wanted to seem more relatable why would they force the word 'doctor' on the people they worked with? Calling her doctor made it sound like there was something inherently wrong with me, something that could be cured by her 'skillful diagnosis'.

As much as it probably just sounded like I'm totally against the concept of therapy, I'm not. In the right scenarios, I think talking through your problems with a trained professional can do world's of good. Being forced into it is not one of those scenarios. I think going to therapy needs to be a conscious choice. You need to decide for yourself that you need help, not have it mandated by someone else. Having Dr. Cynthia shoved my way by the same organization that had locked me in a glass cage for two weeks was in no way me reaching out for help. These sessions had been one of many stipulations made to acquire my release from that holding cell. The fact that she came from that organization made her immediately untrustworthy to me, and a psychologist can only do so much without their patient's trust. This would never feel like a counseling session, it would always be an interrogation. For all I knew she could have been planted here with the sole purpose of trying to get information about Steve out of me and oh my god- how can she still be writing? Her pen was still flying across the page in swift movements that made loud scratching noises. Surely my repeated two-word answer hadn't been that fascinating.

After a few more moments she put her pen down and looked back up to me.

"Well I'd like to talk about Steve Rogers, if that's okay with you."

Wow, big shocker. How long before a copy of those notes was faxed to every person in Ross's department?

"We can but I don't really have anything to say about him." I replied, shrugging.

"I find that hard to believe." She said, picking up her pen again. "You worked closely with him for a year, you broke the law for him, you got yourself arrested for him. That seems like the kind of person you might have something to say about."

Well that was just wrong. I didn't break the law or get arrested for Steve. Sure he had been involved, but he was only one among many motivating factors, I certainly hadn't done it all for him. I'd be the first to admit my judgement revolving around Steve was flawed at best, but I wasn't so far gone as to just do whatever he asked me to do.

"Not really."

Dr. Cynthia stared at me for a moment, appraising me over the rims of her glasses which had fallen down slightly as she bent her head to add to her notes.

"Why don't we discuss something else." She suggested. "We can return to this topic at another time."

"Okay." I let my eyes wander around the room. There were minimal decorations, a few pictures that looked a lot like stock photos along the wall and a couple plants here and there. We were both sitting in identical chairs, the base was soft and squishy but the arm rests were an exposed silver metal, quite cold to the touch.