Writing Wrongly

Chapter 24 - Warren And His Chairs

The room was sparse, except for a pot plant and desk: the former sat upon the latter which only drew attention to the lack of things. There were two chairs, also. But because both were occupied, neither were relevant. Thomas sat in one, and a man named Warren sat in the other, who studied Thomas with a sort of intimacy that had him wishing he'd been asked out to dinner first. Although Warren was apparently one of the country's leading psychiatrists, he appeared young enough to have trouble spelling the word. Which did little to fill Thomas with encouragement.

"Do you feel uncomfortable, Thomas?"

"Considering that I've just been smashed in the face by a cricket bat, your need to ask that question doesn't fill me with encouragement."

"Would you like to be filled with encouragement, Thomas?"

"Another question that does you little credit."

There was a pause. "I suggest you are being hostile because you are uncomfortable—"

"Blimey. No wonder you're a psychiatrist."

"—and you're uncomfortable because you suspect things about yourself that you think I already know."

"That's convenient. I can probably go home then."

"No you can't. Because although I might know certain things about you, I want to know whether you do."

Thomas stared at him. "Are you quite convinced we're having the same conversation?"

"Do you want to have the same conversation, Thomas?"

"I want something to make sense. And this doesn't. In fact, I think I've forgotten my name. Which is odd, considering your habit of adding it to the end of every sentence."

"Does my using your name make you fell uncomfortable, Thomas?"

"No, but you're beginning to piss me off more than a well-placed catheter."

"I want to know why you're feeling uncomfortable, Thomas."

"I've just told you."

"No you haven't, you're using sarcasm to avoid the issue."

"What issue?"

"You tell me."

"I just want to go home."

Warren jotted this down on a pad. "Is that because you know that you're ill?" he asked, looking up.

"Once again, that I'm sitting here with a sutured face rather renders an answer superfluous, don't you think?"

"Are you certain an answer's superfluous, Thomas? Or do you perhaps feel that you are?"

Thomas put his face in his hands, and then swore when it hurt. "I shouldn't even be here. I should be home."

"Is that because home is safe?"

"No. It's because you're not there."

"Your hostility is not helping you, Thomas."

"No, but a cricket bat would."

"Is aggression an issue for you?"

"No. But I'm surprised it hasn't become one for you."

"I see. You are exhibiting avoidance, Thomas, and I—"

"Would you stop using my name every time you speak? It's really starting to shit me sideways."

"Is that because you don't like yourself?"

"No. It's because I don't like you."

Warren leant forward and put his pad of paper on his knee. "Let me tell you something, Thomas. I am here to help, not hinder. But I cannot do so if you do not wish to engage. I cannot help you, unless you want to be helped. And this defensive, dismissive and sarcastic attitude is not helping either of us. Ultimately, it doesn't affect me, I'm paid regardless. But it does affect you, Thomas. I have treated thousands of patients in my career, but I cannot help you become one of them if you refuse to let yourself be helped."