Chutes and Ladders

---

As a professional, it’s fairly taboo to label a patient, let alone get cocky with your own assumptions.

In therapy, it’s fairly easy to lull my clients into a general state of well-being, and I’m sure we’re all somewhat prone to give generic, sightless advice that can apply to many of the situations we see on a daily basis. Most of my clients are rich, overweight women who come and use approximately 25 percent of their (heftily) paid hour to talk about their newest diet schemes and whine about their constant need for instant gratification. I smile, give a few encouraging words in regards to the weight loss, and then smile even more when next week I’ve heard about a fried chicken binge (accompanied, of course, by a frenzied visit to me and several tears.)

I shouldn’t be amused. I have a Ph.D. I work for a private firm.

I shouldn’t be, but I am.

Anyway, I went through years of training and very specific, detailed education and I feel like it all went to waste. I bring in six figures a year, drive a $90,000 Mercedes S Class sedan, and all because I chose to work in Beverly Hills. The biggest psychological thrill I’ve seen in five years is seeing Britney Spears escorted to Cedars-Sinai. Boy, that had me pumped.

I think that’s rather indicative of how mundane, dehumanising, and generally boring my job is.

So, you can imagine my surprise when I met Brendan.

Brendan breezed into my office with an aloof air and a kind of distorted confidence that made my eyebrows shoot up into my hair. He was young and refreshing, and he hated me.

Naturally, he made me fall in love with my job again.

Brendan comes from a very wealthy family that he hasn’t lived with since age 13. He’s gay and very angry and looks oddly at any sort of healthcare, and completely captivating. He spends half of our sessions insulting my hair and frowning out the window with his thin arms crossed over his chest; I’ve found myself completely dependent on his visits.

In my utter boredom following a devastating and disappointing career choice, I have resorted to watching a lot of television. To put this in simpler terms, let’s say my excitement towards seeing Brendan was similar to the trepidation I felt about 30 minutes before a new episode of House. Unbridled excitement that I found difficult to contain.

My name is Elijah Lawley, and I am extremely overqualified for my job.

Well, I thought so before I met Brendan.

--

He’s currently stretched languidly over my new, Williams Sonoma couch that I purchased from the new store that opened up on Rodeo Drive. Personally, I thought it was rather extravagant, but with the similar, frivolous fancies of my clientele I find myself making odd and very questionable sacrifices.

He’s wearing a fitted black turtleneck, a baggy pair of flap-pocket True Religions, and, oddly enough, a pair of Converse. The outfit was haphazardly put together, but as a seventeen year old I wasn’t expecting much out of him, and it seems at this point that Los Angeles hasn’t had too much of an impact on him. This quietly pleases me.

He’s pulling at his fraying sleeve, his thin, pale fingers a stark contrast against dark cotton. I’m sitting behind my desk with my chin rather childishly propped up on my palm, waiting for him to make the first move. While he tries to be obstinate and difficult, he also seems a little too self-absorbed to stay silent for as long as he would wish. I find his lack of self-control charming.

Sure enough, he opens his mouth and speaks in his usual drawl. He has a sweet, melodic voice that should sound fantastic, but does everything in his power to irritate those he finds to stand in his way, myself included. Regardless, I perk up and wait to hear what he has to say.

“You know,” he muses, and I absently watch as he pulls the thread between full lips and tugs with his teeth. He looks over to me, his wrist at an angle and his lips in a slight sneer, his teeth perfectly white and straight. I am suddenly reminded of what an enormous trust fund this boy must have.

“Your name is really retarded.”

I slouch. So, today is another Elijah-deprecation day. They come now and then, sometimes more often than not. I ride them out.

“How so?” I ask bemusedly, not even questioning my lack of personal offense. I can see the answers coming; I’ve gotten them all of my life. A famous, pretentious first name and an equally pretentious last name. I was destined for greatness, and also quite possibly a philosophy major.

“Elijah,” he murmurs, and I ignore how much I enjoy him saying my name with a slightly singsong, mocking tone. “Are you a hobbit?”

I didn’t see that one coming.

Oh, wait. I did.

I cock my head at him and smile, and I can see him become visibly irritated as he raises his upper lip in the tiniest of sneers and goes back to worrying his right sleeve. “Do you think I am, Brendan?”

He doesn’t respond.

He’s usually very witty. I don’t understand why his comebacks are of such a low caliber today; usually they have me at least internally flinching. I’m sure, I muse as I look through my mental Brendan-catalogues, he’s used the Hobbit line at least two times before, and both during times of minor distress.

His deep red bangs brush his eyebrows and he attempts to tuck them behind his ears, but they’re too short and inevitably fall back in front of his matching, wide crimson eyes. I’ve always thought it rather unfair that he chooses to be a cynic but has the wide-eyed look of an innocent; it makes his death glares more imploring than threatening. It must be a tough life to live for Brendan.

I mean in all seriousness it actually is, but he can laugh at me, and I can laugh at him. Privately. And unlike him, I don’t mean to hurt.

I watch as his facial expressions vary a noticeable degree over the next few minutes, and he purses his lips several times, obviously thinking of speaking what’s on his mind. I really can’t stop myself from noticing how incredibly attractive he is; he’s naturally slender, but not unhealthily so, with an unusually small waist that nipped in sharply beneath his ribs. He stood almost a head below me, at a slightly below average 5’8” that seemed to suit him. I’m definitely not allowing myself to develop any room for attraction, but as someone very comfortable in his blatant bisexuality I think I’m allowed to appreciate a cute boy. And Brendan was. Very much so.

Enough to make me tolerate the Hobbit line one more time.

“So,” I smile and begin clicking my pen, a bad habit that I know drives my preferred client batshit insane. Maybe I’m not the most mature around him, and maybe I’m not doing my job correctly, but god damn do I enjoy it. And even though he has to hate me by nature, in a very typical rebellious-child-sent-to-psychologist-against-will scenario, I also know he knows he could’ve been stuck with someone much worse.

Surely enough, he frowns and looks toward me. He’s never voiced his displeasure at my insistent clicking, but always gives a similar reaction when it happens; I like to think myself trained enough to pick up on that, at least.

“Knock it off,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “That irritates the fuck out of me and you know it. You’re smiling.”

I resist the urge to smile wider and instead choose to keep my smug, cool expression plastered across my face. I stop the clicking.

“You’ve never told me before, Brendan. I had no way to assume you didn’t enjoy my terrible habit. I apologise.”

I set down my pen and I know he’s infuriated. He hates it when I play games with him, and he seethes quietly, his sleeve abandoned and his hands stretched tightly across his chest. He throws his nose up in the air.

“I, uh, got suspended today,” he says, his voice surprisingly unsure when one takes his furious expression into consideration. I set my pen down to avoid the urge to click (I tend to do that when in deep thought,) and stay silent in a way to coax him to continue. He recognises my waiting pause and continues.

“I punched the Lacrosse captain in the face.” After he voices it, he seems to have regained some of his composure. It’s out in the open now, and he can resume his normal, tough-guy attitude. I don’t buy it for a second. While Brendan is angry, frustrated and confused, he’s a pussy by all normal standards.

Okay, maybe that was out of line.

“Why?” I ask, but it seemed to be unnecessary because he picks up almost immediately.

“He called me a faggot again. I’ve gotten in his face the past two times he’s said it, but if I don’t do something more, he’ll keep walking all over me. And so will everyone else. They’ll think it’s easy.”

To be perfectly honest, I’m a little surprised so many people pick on Brendan. I’ve always imagined him as the senior heartthrob. Granted, he has horrible scars on his arms and wears long sleeved shirts all of the time and has very little muscle definition and enjoys the weirdest foods (I was told this in a rare moment of weakness,) but he’s so goddamn cute.

Okay, so, maybe heartthrob is an inaccurate expression. Maybe .. maybe he’s just eye candy. Angry, explosive eye candy.

I don’t think that works either. Brendan is just, you know, that weird kid. That seems a bit more appropriate.

“Are they kicking you out?” I implore, rubbing the knuckles of my remote-hand with my left. It’s had a hard workout these past few months.

Brendan’s school has been threatening to kick him out for ages. He’s always causing trouble; acting out, getting into fights, getting sent to the school counselor’s office for very old news. He hasn’t been cutting for a few months (I’ve asked his parents to do a very minimal body-checking every couple of weeks,) but every time a sheltered classmate sees the scars they usually scurry to the principal for advice, hence a very grumpy and disgruntled Brendan called onto the scene. The past few times this has happened, he hasn’t responded favourably.

“No,” he muttered, shifting his gaze from me and training his eyes on the ceiling.

Then, a little quieter: “Dad paid them off.”

I started to chew on the inside of my cheek. Brendan’s father was a soft spot for him, and discussion of him never went well. Truth be told, I felt terribly sorry for the boy.

I very gently pushed discussion on his father a few times, my joking demeanor completely lost. When he refused to answer, I folded my arms and inquired about how he was doing on his medication.

“Fine,” he murmured, then chewed on his lower lip.

I didn’t know why, but I felt a pang in my chest as I saw the completely aghast, crestfallen look on his face. Feeling the corners of my lips tugging downwards, I distracted myself by looking at his chart and eyeing his recently upped prescriptions and doses.

Sometimes he seemed like a normal kid; sometimes he seemed like a brat. And sometimes it seemed like he didn’t have any problems at all.

Whenever I saw this side of him, it upset me and I honestly can’t put my finger on why.

--

tbc

yaaaay! please review, they keep me going and excited about the story! plus i want to know if it’s crap or worth continuing. thank you!