Small-town Conspiracy AU is going great. Have a preview scene of Takeru and his forced âtherapyâ sessions.
âHave you started to remember things a little more clearly?â Dr. Taki has her notepad in hand, a pen hovering over the paper. Like she needs to take notes on a conversation theyâve been having for years.Â
Of course, she does. She never listens to a word Takeru says, unless it can be conveniently twisted into a different story: anger issues, delayed development, paranoia, memory distortions, dissociation She would give him whatever symptoms she had to.
Heâs just not getting better, she would no doubt tell his grandparents later. We need to send him somewhere he can get better help. I know just the place.
He could say anything here, and only the damning would matter. Only what could be used to send him right to his execution. Just like Jin.
Like Jin, within months heâd be nothing more than a crumpled body on the concrete. Or maybe theyâd smother himâno, heâd put up too much of a fight, even on tranquilizers. Slit his wrists, maybe. Have him slip in the shower or starve himself to death. The kind of shit the kids in town could mock his eulogy for.Â
After they find a terrible little note in his pocket, of course: a miserable little message to complete the tragic little story of a broken boy that just couldnât handle being alive.
Takeru takes a breath, trying to think around the pounding in his chest. Frustration burns inside his head, and builds like pressure in the back of his throat. âI know what I saw.â
âOf course.â Dr. Taki agrees blandly. âBut these sort of traumatic experiencesâwell, our minds have ways of warping them. We have to overcome that to get better.â
You were just seeing things. All six of you were just seeing things. You were scared, and confused, and your testimony means nothing.Â
So Takeru says nothing, and Dr. Taki hums. âYour grandmother is worried. She doesnât think the medicine is working.â She watches his face with gray eyes. Her own face doesnât move, and he imagines them both as porcelain dolls staring at each other, expressionless and empty. When he offers her nothing, she puts forward another prompt. âWhat do you think?â
He feels separated from his body, but at the same time, trapped in it. His skin itches and burns, and he wants to tear at it, shred it. He wants to crack his knuckles. But Takeru canât move; he can barely force open his mouth to reply, âItâs fine. Iâm fine.âÂ
âTalk to me.â Her voice is gentle, but he hates it. Hates orange sheen of lipstick on her lips, of red in her hair. Thereâs something like scream building up in the back of his throat. âAre you feeling better? Worse?â
âBetter.â He answers. He canât give her any openings. For a moment, theyâre just looking at each other again. Takeru doesnât think this is how psychiatry is supposed to work, but this is all he knows: this too small room, with thick curtains pulled tight over the windows and a door that locks automatically, and the scratch of Dr. Takiâs pen.
âIâm increasing the dosage.â Dr. Taki says with a note of finality in her voice, already writing on her script pad.
Takeru envisions the pills they gave him last time. Little white capsules in a yellow bottle with a label he spent hours googling. The results were innocuous, believable. He didnât dare swallow a single one of them.
This will be the third time sheâs increased the dosage this year. Takeru doesnât know if there will be a fourth. He stares at the script she hands him, failing to reading the chicken scratch sheâs etched into the paper. His mouth cracks open and words fall out. âKeep doing that and youâre going to kill me.â The words are dry and sandy in his throat. Dr. Taki smiles and laughs cheerfully.
She does not deny it.Â
