# Chapter 4: The Therapist

Alex awoke to the sound of his alarm. He reached over and turned it off, feeling the stiffness in his muscles from yesterday's session with James Carter. The bruises on his ribs had darkened overnight, and his jaw ached when he opened his mouth.

He got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. The mirror revealed the damage - a swollen cheek, a cut on his lip, and dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept well after his visit to the basement.

Alex brushed his teeth, careful around the cut on his lip. He showered quickly, letting the hot water ease some of the stiffness in his muscles. After drying off, he applied arnica cream to the worst of the bruises, then dressed in a clean button-up shirt and slacks.

In the kitchen, he made coffee and checked his schedule for the day. One appointment stood out - Dr. Thomas Webb at 3:00 PM. Alex rarely had other therapists as clients, and this one was unfamiliar to him.

He sipped his coffee and pulled up the booking information on his tablet. Dr. Webb had requested a mid-tier session and noted he was visiting from Westbrook, a city about two hours away. That explained why they hadn't crossed paths before.

Alex spent the morning catching up on client notes and research articles. At noon, he ate a light lunch and began preparing his therapy room. He cleaned the surfaces, adjusted the lighting, and made sure the recording equipment was turned off - a special request from Dr. Webb.

At 2:50 PM, the doorbell rang. Alex straightened his shirt and walked to the door.

The man standing outside was tall and slim with a neatly trimmed beard. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket that looked straight out of a university professor's wardrobe.

"Dr. Webb?" Alex asked, extending his hand.

"Yes, and you must be Dr. Bailey." The man shook his hand firmly. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"Not at all. Please come in."

Alex led him through to the therapy room. Unlike most clients who looked around nervously, Dr. Webb surveyed the space with clinical interest.

"Interesting setup," he commented. "Minimalist but functional."

"I find excess stimuli can be distracting," Alex replied. "Please, have a seat wherever you're comfortable."

Webb chose the chair opposite Alex's usual position and sat down, crossing his legs. He placed a leather messenger bag beside him.

"Before we begin," Webb said, "I want to confirm that this session will remain confidential."

"Of course. Client confidentiality is sacred in my practice."

Webb nodded. "Good. And you've turned off the recording equipment as requested?"

"Yes. No recordings, no notes. This session exists only in our memories."

"Excellent." Webb adjusted his glasses. "I imagine you're curious why another therapist would seek your... unique services."

Alex settled into his chair. "Everyone needs help sometimes. Even therapists."

"Indeed. Though I must admit, your approach is controversial in our field."

"That's putting it mildly," Alex said with a slight smile. "Most of my colleagues consider me a disgrace to the profession."

Webb's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yet your client retention rate is impressive. I've heard stories about your effectiveness."

"Word travels, even about disgraces."

"It does." Webb leaned forward. "I'm curious how you developed this method. It's certainly not taught in any program I'm familiar with."

Alex noticed the shift in conversation. Webb wasn't here to begin therapy; he was probing for information.

"My methods evolved organically through my practice," Alex answered. "Every therapist finds their niche."

"And yours happens to be human punching bag?" Webb's tone was light but probing.

"I prefer 'projection facilitator.'"

Webb chuckled. "A euphemism worthy of our profession."

Alex decided to redirect. "We should discuss your needs for today's session. You booked a mid-tier session, which allows for verbal expression with physical limitations. Is there something specific you hope to address?"

Webb seemed to consider this. "I'm dealing with some professional frustration. Cases that aren't progressing, institutional barriers, the usual therapist's burden."

"I understand. Many in our field struggle with those issues."

"Do you?" Webb asked. "Struggle with cases, I mean."

"Every therapist has challenging clients."

"But your approach is different. You don't need to solve their problems, just absorb their anger." Webb studied him. "It must be simpler than traditional therapy."

Alex recognized the subtle attack. Webb was suggesting his work was easier, less skilled than conventional therapy.

"Simpler? Perhaps. More direct, certainly." Alex kept his voice neutral. "Though absorbing rage carries its own challenges."

"I imagine it does." Webb gestured to Alex's face. "Your recent clients seem particularly challenging."

Alex touched his bruised cheek. "A productive session."

"Do you ever worry about the psychological impact of repeatedly positioning yourself as the object of hatred?"

"All therapeutic approaches carry risks."

Webb nodded. "True. But most don't involve being physically assaulted."

"The physical aspect is only one dimension of the work."

"Yes, the emotional component must be significant." Webb leaned back. "How do you prevent countertransference when your clients are actively trying to hurt you?"

Alex smiled slightly. "The same way any good therapist does. Self-awareness, reflection, boundaries."

"Boundaries," Webb repeated. "Interesting choice of word for someone who invites verbal and physical abuse."

"The abuse exists within very specific boundaries. That's what makes it therapeutic rather than just abuse."

Webb nodded slowly. "You're well-defended, Dr. Bailey. Both physically and psychologically."

"I need to be."

"Yes, I suppose you do." Webb uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "I've been analyzing your responses, and I'm struck by how carefully you manage conversation. You reveal nothing while appearing transparent."

Alex maintained his neutral expression. "We're here for your session, Dr. Webb. Not mine."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong." Webb smiled. "I'm fascinated by your method because I'm researching defensive mechanisms in trauma survivors."

Alex felt a slight tensing in his shoulders but kept his face impassive. "An interesting research area."

"It is. Particularly when examining professionals who develop unusual specialties." Webb's eyes fixed on Alex's. "Your practice suggests a profound relationship with pain. Both giving and receiving it."

"Many therapists are drawn to areas that resonate with their own experiences."

"True. Though most don't create systems where they're repeatedly traumatized." Webb tilted his head. "It makes me wonder what original trauma you're recreating."

Alex knew Webb was trying to provoke him, to find the crack in his professional facade. It was a clever approach - using psychological insight rather than crude insults.

"If you wanted a case study, Dr. Webb, you could have simply asked for an interview." Alex kept his voice light. "Though I'm not particularly interesting as a subject."

"I disagree. A man who chooses to be professionally abused is quite interesting psychologically." Webb's voice softened. "Especially one who shows signs of severe compartmentalization."

"Are we still in your therapy session, or has this become a research interview?"

"Both, perhaps." Webb smiled. "I'm working through my frustration by analyzing you. It's quite therapeutic."

Alex nodded. "Whatever works for you. That's the point of these sessions."

"Is it?" Webb asked. "Is that really the point? Or is the point that you need to be punished?"

Alex felt the conversation shifting into dangerous territory. Webb was too observant, too precise in his probing. He needed to redirect.

"You mentioned professional frustrations earlier," Alex said. "Let's focus on those. What cases have been troubling you?"

Webb smiled slightly, acknowledging the deflection. "Alright, I'll play along for now. I have a patient - a young woman with severe depression following childhood trauma. She's resistant to traditional therapy approaches."

"That can be challenging."

"Yes. Particularly when the trauma involves parental loss."

Alex kept his expression neutral despite the targeted comment. "Loss is difficult for anyone to process, especially children."

"Indeed. This patient lost her mother at a young age. The father... well, he didn't cope well." Webb watched Alex closely. "He became emotionally unavailable, leaving the child to process grief alone."

"Many parents struggle after losing a partner."

"True. But some become so consumed by their own pain that they neglect their responsibility to help their children heal." Webb's voice hardened slightly. "Some even find unhealthy ways to manage their grief, ways that further damage those around them."

Alex recognized the attack for what it was - Webb had researched him, found something about his past. The session was turning into an ambush.

"Your patient sounds like she needs consistency and patience," Alex said, refusing to engage with the personal implication. "Trauma work requires time."

"Yes, time." Webb nodded. "But also honesty. The father in this case refuses to acknowledge how his behavior affected his daughter. He's created elaborate systems to avoid facing his own pain."

"Without knowing the specifics, I couldn't comment on that particular case."

"No? You have no insights on avoidance behaviors in grieving parents?" Webb pressed.

Alex decided to shift tactics. If Webb wanted to play psychological chess, Alex would move the pieces too.

"Your interest in this case seems personal, Dr. Webb," Alex said softly. His eyes seemed to darken as he studied Webb's face with unsettling intensity. "The frustration you mentioned earlier - is it really about your patient's father, or something closer to home?"

Webb's expression flickered briefly, a momentary crack in his facade. "What do you mean?" He felt suddenly exposed, as if Alex had just peeled back a layer of his skin.

"Your tone changes when you talk about the father. There's anger there, not just clinical concern." Alex leaned forward slightly. "Did your own father struggle after a loss? Or perhaps you're a father who fears he's failing his children?"

Webb's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "We're discussing my patient, not me."

"Are we? Because it sounds like you're using this patient's story to express something personal." Alex kept his voice gentle. "That's common, you know. We're drawn to cases that mirror our own struggles."

"An interesting deflection technique," Webb said, but his confidence had wavered slightly.

"Not a deflection. An observation." Alex smiled. "You came here ostensibly for therapy but seem more interested in analyzing me. I wonder why that is. What are you avoiding in your own life by focusing on mine?"

Webb removed his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief - a stalling tactic Alex had seen in many psychologists that tried to think about something as fast as they could.

"You're quite skilled at turning conversations around," Webb said, replacing his glasses.

"It's necessary in my line of work. People come in thinking they want one thing, when they actually need something else entirely."

"And what do I need, Dr. Bailey?" Webb's tone was challenging.

"I think you need to express something you've been suppressing. Not anger at me, but at someone else. Someone you can't confront directly."

Webb was silent for a moment. "Interesting theory."

"More than a theory. Your body language changes when we touch on certain topics. Your breathing pattern shifts." Alex gestured toward Webb's hands. "You're gripping the arms of that chair so tightly your knuckles are white."

Webb immediately relaxed his grip. "Professional observation. I do the same with my patients."

"Of course. But the question remains - what brings another therapist to my office? What emotions are so difficult to process that you need my particular services?"

Webb's professional veneer cracked slightly. "Perhaps I'm simply curious about alternative methods."

"Perhaps. But curiosity doesn't explain the tension in your shoulders or the way your voice tightens when discussing absent fathers." Alex paused. "Did your research on me have a personal motivation, Dr. Webb?"

"Research is always motivated by something."

"Yes, but your interest seems specific. Almost... familiar." Alex studied Webb's face. "You know something about me that you think gives you leverage. Something about family loss, perhaps?"

Webb's expression hardened. "You're deflecting again."

"No, I'm getting to the heart of today's session." Alex leaned forward. "You came here under false pretenses. You're not seeking therapy; you're looking for something else. Validation, perhaps? Confirmation of a theory?"

"You don't know what I'm seeking."

"I think I do." Alex kept his voice soft. "You're looking for someone to blame. Someone who represents something painful in your past."

Webb's breathing quickened slightly. "That's an interesting projection, Dr. Bailey."

"Is it projection? Or accurate observation?" Alex tilted his head. "Tell me, Dr. Webb, did you lose someone? A wife, perhaps? A child?"

Webb's face paled slightly as he spoke. "This session is about my professional frustrations."

"No, it's not. It never was." Alex maintained eye contact. "You researched me, found something that resonated with your own pain, and came here to... what? Confront me? Use me as a proxy for someone else?"

Webb stood abruptly. "This was a mistake."

"Sitting down is easy. Standing up takes courage." Alex remained seated. "You came here to express something. Why leave before you do that?"

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know pain when I see it. And yours is very close to the surface." Alex gestured to the chair. "Sit down, Dr. Webb. Let's do what you really came here for."

Webb remained standing, his breathing uneven.

"You think you're so insightful," Webb said as his voice shook slightly. "Reading people, manipulating emotions. You're not helping anyone. You're exploiting their pain for your own purposes."

"Perhaps," Alex acknowledged, his head tilting slightly like a predator assessing its prey. "But right now, I'm offering you what you need. A chance to say what you've been holding back." His voice carried a subtle undertone that made Webb's skin crawl.

"What I need?" Webb laughed bitterly. "What I need is for men like you to face consequences. To acknowledge the damage you do when you hide behind professional facades while you're broken inside."

Alex nodded. "Now we're getting somewhere. Who am I standing in for, Dr. Webb? Who hurt you?"

"This isn't about me!"

"It's entirely about you. About your pain. Your loss." Alex stood slowly. "You researched me because something in my story connects to yours. What is it? What did you find?"

Webb's professional demeanor crumbled as he spoke. "I found a man who lost his family and instead of dealing with his grief properly, created this... this perversion of therapy."

"You found a mirror," Alex said softly. "Something in my story reflects your own."

"We are nothing alike!" Webb's voice rose. "I help people. You... you just absorb pain like some kind of parasite."

"Is that what your father did? Or your wife? Refused to face their pain properly?"

Webb's face contorted as he shouted. "Don't you dare talk about my wife."

"You lost her recently," Alex said, the pieces falling into place. "And you're angry at how someone handled it. Not me, but someone I remind you of."

"Shut up!" Webb's voice cracked. "You don't know anything about her."

"I know you're drowning in grief and looking for someone to blame." Alex stepped closer. "Was it her therapist? Did they fail her when she needed help?"

Tears welled in Webb's eyes as he spoke. "He was supposed to help her. That was his job."

"And he didn't. And now you're angry at all of us who wear the title of therapist but seem to be failing our patients."

"She trusted him." Webb's voice broke. "She told him she was thinking about... about ending it. And he dismissed it as attention-seeking behavior."

Alex nodded. "And now you're researching therapists with questionable methods. Looking for more evidence that we're all frauds."

"Her therapist went on vacation the week after she told him. On vacation!" Webb's control was slipping. "She killed herself while he was sunbathing in Aruba."

"I'm sorry," Alex said quietly.

"Your sympathy means nothing." Webb's hands clenched into fists. "You're just like him. Pretending to help while hiding your own damage."

"You're right," Alex admitted. "I am damaged. We all are. Some of us just find different ways to function with our brokenness."

Webb shook his head. "You're not functioning. You're perpetuating a cycle of trauma."

"Perhaps. But right now, I'm here for your trauma." Alex spread his arms slightly. "This is what you came for. To unload your anger at a therapist who failed someone you loved. So do it. I can take it."

Webb stared at him, tears streaming down his face. "You think it's that simple? That I can just yell at you and feel better?"

"No. Nothing about grief is simple." Alex stepped closer. "But expressing the anger is a start."

Webb's breathing was ragged. "You don't deserve to call yourself a therapist. None of you do. You sit in your offices making notes while people are dying inside."

"Yes. Sometimes we fail. Sometimes catastrophically."

"She would be alive if you'd done your job!" here it is! he is trapped in projection he created.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Suicide is complex."

"Don't you dare minimize this!" Webb suddenly slammed his fist into the wall beside him and the impact made a dull thud. "He knew! She told him exactly what she was planning!"

Alex watched as Webb hit the wall again, harder this time.

"He went on vacation! He went on fucking vacation!" Each word was punctuated by another blow to the wall. Webb's knuckles began to bleed, but he didn't seem to notice.

Alex stepped closer and positioned himself near the wall where Webb was striking. "Your wife needed help, and the system failed her."

"Everyone failed her! Me, her doctor, her therapist!" Webb continued hitting the wall as his face contorted with grief and rage.

Alex moved slightly, angling his shoulder so Webb's next blow landed on him instead of the wall.

Webb barely registered the change, continuing his tirade. "Three years of therapy and he didn't even call to check on her when she missed an appointment!"

His fist connected with Alex's shoulder, then his chest. Alex absorbed the impacts without flinching.

"I found her," Webb sobbed as he continued to hit Alex. "I found her in our bedroom. Do you know what that's like? To find the person you love most in the world and know you can't save them?"

Alex didn't answer, just stood still as Webb's blows became weaker, his rage giving way to raw grief.

"She left a note." Webb's punches slowed. "She said she was tired of being a burden. A burden! The love of my life thought she was a burden."

Finally, Webb stopped hitting and stood there, breathing heavily, tears streaming down his face. He looked at his bloodied knuckles, then at Alex, sudden awareness dawning in his eyes. He noticed Alex hadn't moved, hadn't flinched, hadn't even changed his expression throughout the assault. He just watched, like a scientist observing a specimen under glass.

"What... what just happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"You expressed what you needed to express," Alex said quietly. His face remained neutral, but something in his eyes had changed - a coldness that hadn't been there before.

Webb stepped back, looking from his hands to Alex with growing horror. A chill ran down his spine as he realized what had happened. "You manipulated me."

"I helped you access emotions you've been suppressing." Alex's voice was soft, almost gentle, which made the words even more terrifying.

"The whole time..." Webb's eyes widened as realization crashed over him. His mouth went dry. "You turned it all around. Used my own techniques against me. You were ten steps ahead from the moment I walked in."

"Not against you. For you." Alex smiled slightly, the expression never reaching his eyes.

Webb grabbed his messenger bag while his hands shook. "This isn't therapy. This is... I don't know what this is." His voice trembled as sweat broke out on his forehead.

"It's what you needed, Dr. Webb. Even if you came here for different reasons." Alex's calm was unsettling, like the eye of a hurricane.

Webb stood at the doorway as his professional composure completely shattered. He felt suddenly small, exposed. "You're more dangerous than I thought."

"Probably," Alex agreed. His lips curved into a smile that made Webb's stomach twist.

"Don't contact me. Don't use anything I've said here." Webb tried to sound authoritative, but his voice came out as a desperate plea.

"Client confidentiality is sacred in my practice," Alex repeated his earlier words in a voice so hollow and empty it seemed to come from somewhere inhuman. "As I promised."

Webb stared at him, paralyzed by a fear he couldn't name. In that moment, he understood with horrifying clarity that the entire conversation had been orchestrated - every response, every revelation, every emotional outburst. He'd been played like a puppet by someone who had seen through him from the first second. Something primal and ancient in Webb's brain screamed danger. This wasn't a man standing before him but something wearing human skin, something that understood the darkest corners of the human mind and how to manipulate them with surgical precision.

His legs nearly gave out as he turned and fled, the sound of the front door closing echoing through the quiet house like the sealing of a tomb.