Enjoy.

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Don't do this. Not again. I can't do this again.

He felt like his mouth was glued together. Suffocating and thick, hot like bile. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. But he had to, the last syllable of his name rang and faded to silence in the air, he forced his foot forward. Please, just make it end. The slip was yanked firmly from his lax fingers. He stood anxiously. Swallowed. Let it be over.

"She'll see you now."

Oh, God. No.

Why was walking so difficult, why did it feel like he was wading through heavy water. He stretched out his hand. Why him, why again, why now ― he opened the door.

An air conditioner roared at full blast in the corner and had the air around him coated in a faux frigidity, and it was sharp in his nostrils when he inhaled. No one was seated behind the glossy desk and he stepped silently across the carpet, over to the tiny table laden with psychiatric evaluation toys, slowly lowered his lanky frame down onto the hard plastic chair. A pale finger reached out and pushed a bead over on the abacus. It gave a soft clink.

Other than the air conditioner, the place was silent.

"Dib."

He glanced up and over the rims of his glasses so he wouldn't have to see in full detail the woman's face. She was wearing black today. How quaint. Even through his blurry and imperfect vision ― he could see the sickening smile spread across her face, jagged and frightening and utterly fake. Dib curled his outstretched finger into his palm, lines going ramrod straight in his body. Uncomfortable and shielded.

It was silent when she walked, too, and this was unsettling. He listened as she sat down. Adjusted her files. Cleared her throat. Said, "And how are you today?" He kept his eyes lowered, could see her knees in the edge of his vision, and he tried to keep his finger from shaking as he slid another bead across.

He shrugged.

Sloppy and uncaring.

"I see," she said. A pencil scraped. She kept going, kept saying, Do anything fun, go anywhere special ― and her voice dropped suddenly; subtext, Dib's mind screamed, subtext ― see anything…interesting?

And there it was, he reasoned, there it was. His father was in the room, wasn't he, standing over them, intimidating and blocking out the light. Just like he used to when he towered over a young Dib's head and his face couldn't be seen; he was here now, scientifically gloved fingers tangled in strings, yanking at this cheap therapist marionette. His voice superimposed, speaking through her.

Dib had mentally strapped on his armor and taken up his weapon. But again, he felt like he'd wrapped his fingers around it too late.

Clink.

Another bead.

"No," he croaked. The glue in his mouth had turned to ash and it sat heavy and dry on his tongue, his voice coming out like a man's dying of thirst. He felt so tired.

Then it began. She asked him what he'd learned in school today. She asked him how his sister was doing. How his father was doing ― but you should know that, shouldn't you, he's standing right behind you and his breath is ruffling your strings ― and how his friend was doing.

What friend, he had to question.

She said she thought he had a friend at one point.

What point.

"You know…that one boy."

There was nothing flatter and duller and sadder and so horribly sarcastic than Dib's laugh. He fell silent, tucked into himself, slid another bead on the abacus. He didn't bother trying to explain anything. How funny, he kept thinking, that everyone believed in a friendship there. It's so funny, isn't it. So ironic. I think this says something about you. And she asked him about his feelings on the upcoming election and did he prefer salt or butter on his corn and he'd honestly ceased listening to her razor-sharp smile over ten minutes ago. The air conditioner screamed on, Dib pulled his jacket closer as it felt like it was only getting colder.

He looked at the clock. He wanted this to end.

She asked him if he'd been staying away from razors. Like she had instructed him to. Dib felt his face contorting into a look of disgust and it was everything he could do to keep from shouting at her. His anger, it'd been getting harder and harder to handle lately. His fist curled, but then he heard, no. The voice was small. But he heard it.

Don't say anything. Don't make it worse.

The imaginary tug was himself, young and wide-eyed, sitting cross-legged on the ugly carpet. And Dib hated looking at it. That Dib was far too old already; there was age in his face and weariness in his eyes, the decay already begun. This ten-year-old version was sad and pathetic, and said, I don't want to come back here again.

I know. God, do I know.

"I never tried to―"

"It's a simple question, Dib. Answer it."

He clenched his teeth and muttered no, no razors. He wanted to throw the abacus at her. He wondered how deep a gash the corner would leave in her pompous know-it-all head. Young Dib fell silent and still, fingers lightly pulling at his own pant leg. And the hands moved slowly around the clock, much too slowly. The therapist was right in the middle of a question when the minutes at last counted down to zero and Dib stood up without a sound. He strode right through the image of his younger self and it evaporated around his knees, and he left that cold and barren room, keeping his mouth shut. He nearly ran through the lobby and out the door.

That was a huge waste of time.

Like it always is.

Young Dib was running to keep up.

Whatever problem it is I have, she won't do shit to fix it.

Hey. Language. I am a minor, y'know.

Dib stopped at his car, keys dangling from his fingers, and he ran his fingers through his hair. Gripped the back of his head. His breath left him in a shaky sigh and when he looked up again, the parking lot was empty save for him. That didn't mean he wasn't alone. His car felt stuffy and suffocating when he climbed inside, and the motor spluttering to life seemed almost too loud in the silence, echoing across the asphalt. He pulled out of his space and began his drive home.

Young Dib sat calmly in the passenger seat. You do have problems, though.

I never said I didn't. I said that insane woman can do nothing. She's a quack.

He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel and wished his radio wasn't broken so he wouldn't have to deal with the utter quiet. And himself.

Well, do something. Because you realize, this isn't quite normal.

Yeah, I realized a very long time ago, thanks, Dib sneered. His younger self was not amused. Those young eyes flashed with warning and the snarl fell from Dib's face.

Just don't go too crazy. Once that happens, you're screwed.

How optimistic.

Dog.

"Shit!" The brakes squealed and the car came to a shuddering halt. There was a clunk from somewhere inside the engine, and as Dib was deciding that the sound probably wasn't a good one, the dog trotted to the curb and out of harm's way. Dib sat back in his seat and gritted his teeth and tried to keep it together. In the flurry of activity his younger self had disappeared, and was for the moment remaining silent. Which he was thankful for. He set a shaky foot on the gas pedal.

He was still trembling, just minutely, minutes later when he was standing in front of his fridge trying to decide whether he wanted anything in it or not. Gaz sat on the counter with a cookie and stared at him. Young Dib was fixing a crooked Poop Cola magnet.

"I'm guessing your session was a bust," said his sister. He barely heard her. He watched young Dib turn the magnet to the left. Turn it back to the right. Upside down, in a circle, entranced. Dib made a soft sort of grunt in response and opened the fridge door and young Dib went stumbling back, gave an offended huff, disappeared. Dib didn't take anything out. But when he closed the door the magnet was crooked, back in the same position.

Gaz raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. She was holding her cookie, had only taken one bite out of it, and didn't look like she was going to take any more. Dib held out his hand for it. She tossed it into the nearby trashcan, and without a word Dib turned and simply left the kitchen.

Young Dib was spinning around in his computer chair when he came into his room, and he said, You should probably sleep. Bitterness has the tendency to exhaust you. Dib shrugged out of his jacket and threw it hard at his chair and where young Dib was standing on his knees, and it landed on the chair with a soft smack; young Dib vanished and was suddenly standing on his bed. Like a flicker, a few frames of a film strip missing. I know you're mad but you don't have to take it out on me.

"Go away," Dib muttered. He shoved his chair aside and, careless of the small boy version of himself standing defiantly on his mattress, he collapsed slackly into bed.

You shouldn't say stuff out loud. That'll just make it worse.

Dib clacked his tongue piercing against his teeth. Buried his face into his blankets and pulled the pillow over his head, long fingers curled like claws. All he could think was that he didn't want to go to school the next day, but young Dib was spinning in his chair again saying that his father would never let him stay home, and he had to. He simply had to.

Dib couldn't have passed out sooner.