He’d seen that face before — practiced, clearly inquiring, perfectly formed so as to welcome an answer rather than demand it.  He generally never noticed it — it was integral to the Theraputic Affect, designed to be subtle.  Particularly to those whose cognitive faculties were leashed by anti-psychotic drugs.

“And then…what?”

“And then, what happened?”

“Why are you asking that again?  This is old territory.”  He shifted in his seat.  “I’m really not…”

“Comfortable?”  An empathetic smile.

“With all due respect…what the fuck do you think?”

The empathetic smile held.  “I think that you’re incredibly uncomfortable right now.  And on all the occasions when this particular matter comes up.  And I think that as with all discomfort, the reasons go deep.  And as you know, I’m paid to ‘go deep.'”

He smirked.  “That’s what she said.”

His therapist leaned back in his chair, eyebrow raised.  “This is also familiar, you know.”

“What?”

“Deflection.  Avoidance through humor.”

He sighed.  “Look…yes…I know.  I’m sorry, I don’t mean any-”

“Stop.  Don’t apologize.  We talked about no more shaming.”

He felt a flash of anger.  “No more shaming…OK, fine, great idea.  Totally on board.  Shame has fucked with me for, oh, the last 45 years.  Not an easy habit to break.”

Smile holding fast. “I know.  Not easy at all.”

“…and with this particular topic, with this, you know, little chapter among fucked-up chapters in my fucked-up narrative, well, the shame feels pretty goddamn deserved.”

He sat back, his eyes closed, and ran both hands through his hair.

“It feels more than deserved, in fact, when you almost kill someone.”