A Soul of Empty Words

"Don't let it get to your head. I'm just as good at manipulating as you are."
"I'm not manipulative," he defended his honour. Oh but she is. Who's the shrink here, mister? You or her? Me. Me. Me. You. Me. Whatever. Akhtar is the shrink. Period.
"It's all about intentions," he tried rephrasing. "Just like your self love. If it exists so you don't forget to love yourself while loving those around you, it's a good thing. But if your self love is harming everyone around you, it's not love. It's some obsession. Narcissism even. Know what happened to Narcissus?"
"Greek mythology?" she sounded impressed.
Percy Jackson, he thought but why beat down the standard someone gives you? Anyway. This isn't about you. You're the shrink. She's actually manipulating you. Get your wits together, Akhtar Rasheed.

That day ended too. But he thought about it.
Tell me, has my story ever made you cry? Sit and think and feel sorry? Ever felt my pain? Or anyone's at all? You do this for money. Selfish.

It's his job. He knew it. And what does Sumaiya know about how long he'd stand under his shower after a trauma patient had a heart to heart with him? That's why he could work in this field. Because he felt pain. Acutely. Sharply. All in between and beyond. He didn't like Sumaiya Hassan showing zero progress. But she was also messing with his head. He knew she was messing but he couldn't hold his guard. She was right. She was manipulative. If only she could put it to good use, she'd make a more successful psychiatrist than himself.
Oooooh. Self burn. Those are rare, Akhtar.

But you know what is rarer? His walls coming down. And he didn't see it, but her words had made a crack that would later cave in on his head and bury him under rubble.

More sessions came and went. But none as intense because he treaded carefully. He couldn't help her on his own in the office. So he decided he needed to put a hand out of the profession. He broke the cardinal rule; patient confidentiality. He confided in Raheem though Sumaiya strictly wanted privacy.

"She lacks in the spiritual field," her brother amended. "She no longer prays. She hasn't touched the Qur'an in years. Instagram got to her head. All the bs about self love first--" he air quoted "-- love yourself first. Respect yourself to know you deserve nothing less than what's best. All that crap."

"She needs a friend. And I can't be that friend. I need you to look out for her."

"I can't, Akhtar. That's the problem. She hates it when I tell her to pray and ask Allah to heal her. Says she has nothing to heal. Everything is perfect."

"Sorry, I couldn't help you. Or her," Akhtar apologised. Why did it hurt to admit he couldn't help that one? She had been messing with his head for so long, the end of the term must have made him skip around in an apron and sing songs while watering flowerbeds. Why did he feel... incomplete?

For her last session, she came with impressive punctuality. He was later than her.
"Time to party, yay," she said.
"Got your problem sorted?"
"I don't have a problem to sort. That's the problem with all of them. They think me loving myself is hazardous. Because they can't dictate me around like a good little girl eager to do their bidding. Because I have a brain of my own. And a heart. And I care for it."

How is anyone going to heal this damaged brain? She needs a neurologist not a psychiatrist. Or maybe both. If I don't hold my steering properly I'll be needing a psychiatrist. God forbid it be flashly little Carol.

"Is this your mobile number?" he asked toward the end of the session.
"Yeah. Why?"
His brain gears whirred. His heart raced. Don't do it. Don't do it. You didn't get defeated to prove anything.
"Because I'm going to keep in touch. And I'm going to monitor you for a while. Part of the protocol."
There you did it. Holy guacamole, Akhtar! And you lied. Asthaghfirullah. Nothing starting with so many sins will ever bear flowers. It's thorns you dumb schmut. Back pedal. Now!
For Allah, a graver voice spoke in his head. Medical reason. For Allah.