Thud, thud, thud.
Spencer is throwing an old hacky sack against your wall. Your eyes burn from sleep deprivation as you stare at the clock above his head. It’s half past one.
“Aren’t your parents going to be worried about you?” you ask him, rubbing your eyes as you speak. You haven’t even gone through a quarter of the patient files on your desk.
Spencer quits throwing the sack for a moment and stares down at his hands instead. For a reason unknown to you, the subject of his parents always puts him in a bad mood.
“You know what I hate?” says Spencer. “Parents who are on their kids’ asses twenty-four-seven. The kind that always tells them what to do and how to do it. They cage their offspring like fucking trophies—as if they deserve to treat them anyhow to compensate for one drunken night or a broken condom.”
“Haven’t you ever thought that parents want their children to succeed? Isn’t that why they ‘cage’ them all the time? Some parents care too much.”
The words feel funny when they leave your mouth. Spencer seems to notice; he quits looking at his hands and gives you his full attention.
“You’re not much of a good liar, you know.”
“Who ever said I was lying?”
Spencer scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Come on, doc. I can see right through you. Your parents were assholes, weren’t they? They kept you in a cage.”
Your eyes shift down to the papers scattered on the desk. “I never said anything like that. Enough about me, Spencer. Let’s talk about you.”
Spencer ignores your request. He moves to your desk, sitting on top of it like an ancient lady on a horse. “You told me you grew up in a small town,” he says. “Were your parents hicks? Did they beat you or something?”
“My parents never hit me.” Your voice comes out edgier than it meant to, causing a surprised look to cross Spencer’s face. You sigh and massage your temples. “Some parents just want their kids to be best at everything. I mean, they want them to do well. Be great. It may come across as tedious to you, but you’ll appreciate it soon enough. Trust me.”
Spencer studies your face before shaking his head. “You need to get on my level, doc. They’ve brainwashed you. I’m the voice of reason.”
“Are you asking me to follow you, Spencer? Like some kind of disciple?”
Spencer shakes his head again and offers a smile, jumping down from the desk. “Not a disciple, no. Rather, think of it as an offer.”
“An offer to what?”
His smile grows wider, white teeth gleaming in the light. “To be a member of my cause.”