Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The door opened. Amazing. For a rugged, emo punk rock band looking, suicidal teenager, he came in on time. Should I congratulate him? Stereotypically, kids like him don't always welcome such encouraging words.

But, oh. What the hell.

"Congrats, Ryan! You're on time!" I had my hand up in what is usually seen as a high five pose, but this get up didn't attract a high five from him. Clearing my throat in the awkward silence, I ruffled my clothes and sat back. Inside I hit myself for thinking I was hip. "So, Ryan. What's up. Talk to me. There's a reason why rich people hire people like me."

He gave me the stare of a drunk loser who just lost a bet. Vacant with a tad bit of anger mixed in there. I noted the long sleeve, collared shirt.

I gave a tone of assertion in my voice and asked, "Ryan. You know why you're here. Since the second you failed, you knew this was going to happen. So it's either a waste of money on your side or we'll start being proactive about it."

Oh God. This was like trying to talk on the phone line when it wasn't a success yet. I could see myself in one of those petticoats from the old days and barking into the other end of the two-piece phone. Good times, good times.

"Maybe I don't want to talk."

I jerked back into reality. I sighed. Maybe it was too obvious. Maybe a more subtle sigh next time. "Everyone says that. I know it. It's pretty human. We like to keep things to ourselves from fear of rejection, misunderstandment or just fear. But that's why this job was made. So out with it. Come on."

"Shut up. What do you know. You can't relate to me. What experience do you think makes you capable of understanding? You're, like, a stranger. You can't tell me what to do and what's wrong with me. You don't know anything!"

Being a veteran in this business helped me a lot in approaching kids like him.

"When my mom was murdered in front of my eyes, did I think anyone could understand me? While I searched through the trash every day for food, did I think anyone could understand me? The day I got a PhD and master's degree in medical science and began my career path to therapy, did I think anyone was worth thanking? No."

And while my super awesome cool speech was playing in my head, I responded to his rebellious denial. "But do you know everything?" Silence again. I like this kid. "That's why you're here. Inside this room, if you decide to, you could discover yourself. I'm only here to listen and give random comments that you could choose to take as advice or a load of shit."

He adjusted himself to the leather chair. That's a good sign. He's getting more comfortable.

He rubbed his eyes with both hands. Giving a loud moan, he drawled out, "Then you know why I'm here, right?"

Actually, I'm not sure if that was said in a questioning manner.

"Please. If it'll help you begin, why don't you tell me?"

Ryan was looking down at his feet. "I attempted suicide." The timer rang. We both stared at it. Uggggh. I just got him to talk!

Leaving his intro in midair, he was already making his way to the door. Without a goodbye, a look, or a wave, he slammed the door and left. I leaned back and covered my face. It wasn't my first day. It wasn't my first job. But he was my first suicidal patient. How am I supposed to know how to deal with him?

My phone began to ring. Matt. My body's going to become unresponsive at this rate. Waiting for a few rings, I finally picked up. Goosebumps were exploding everywhere. This was the first time I've talked to him in a month.

"Hello?" Too bold. Tone it down.

"Hey. You called?"

"Yeah." 5 days ago, 2 weeks ago, 3 weeks ago, 2 days ago - which call is he talking about?

"And...?"

"I don't know."

"Marina..."

"I'm sorry. I don't know."

"Ok."

I gathered my courage and asked before our rare conversation ended. "Do you want to go out for a movie and a dinner?"

"Sure. What movie and when?"

"I'll watch whatever's out and next week?"

"Yeah. I'm free. See you then."

"Okay. Bye."

Pathetic.