Chapter 4: The Therapist's Office
Roya Amani sat in the waiting room, arms crossed, glaring at the clock as it ticked away the seconds. Therapy. She'd been doing this for years, long enough to know the routine by heart, but no closer to understanding why she even bothered to come. Her parents had been the ones who insisted on it when she was younger, desperate to figure out what was "wrong" with her.
Sociopathy. That's what Dr. Langston had called it when she was first diagnosed at sixteen. A genetic quirk. Something that had been lurking inside her all along, waiting to be named. Her parents hadn't taken it well—especially her mother. They had wanted to fix her, mold her into something more palatable. But Roya had never been broken. Just different.
She ran a hand through her dark hair and sighed. Another pointless session. The receptionist offered her a tight-lipped smile, and Roya returned a blank stare, her usual mask of indifference slipping into place.
The door finally opened, and Dr. Langston, the same therapist who had been seeing her for years now, called her in.
"Ms. Amani, come in."
His office, like always, was filled with warm colors, a little too cozy for Roya's taste. She had once asked him why therapists always seemed to decorate with cushions and plants, as if a potted fern could magically make people spill their deepest thoughts. He had laughed at that.
She sat down in the same chair she always did—the one by the window, less comfortable than the plush leather couch but positioned in a way that let her keep an eye on everything. It wasn't that she cared about her surroundings, but it was better than pretending to be interested in whatever Langston was going to ask.
"So, how are you feeling today, Roya?" Dr. Langston asked, settling into his chair across from her. His tone was calm, professional, the way it always was.
"I'm here, aren't I?" she replied, her voice clipped. "Let's just get this over with."
Dr. Langston smiled faintly, used to her deflection. "We don't have to talk if you don't want to, but your last session was a bit... tense. You mentioned some recurring dreams. Are they still happening?"
Roya's eyes narrowed. She hated that he remembered everything. "The dreams aren't relevant," she said flatly.
"Dreams can be a way for the subconscious to work through unresolved feelings. Maybe there's something more to them than you realize."
She leaned back, crossing her legs. "I don't do feelings, Doc. You know that. And the dreams? They're just fragments of nonsense. They don't mean anything."
He tilted his head, his eyes searching hers. "But the dreams have a recurring character, don't they? Emris. You've mentioned him before. A character from one of your stories, if I remember correctly."
Roya's fingers tapped against the armrest, a small tell of irritation. "Emris is just a character. A tool I created to serve a purpose, and now that purpose is done. End of story."
"And yet, he keeps showing up in your dreams." Dr. Langston's voice was calm, but probing. "Why do you think that is?"
She looked away, her gaze shifting to the window. Outside, the city moved like clockwork, everyone so predictable, so ordinary. Emris was anything but. She had designed him that way—invincible, larger than life, a hero who defied all odds. And then she had killed him. Because she could. Because the story demanded it.
But then came the dreams. Night after night, his blue eyes haunted her, glowing in the dark, watching her. Stalking her through the shadows of her own mind.
"I don't know," she muttered, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "Maybe I just didn't give him a proper ending."
"Or maybe," Dr. Langston said gently, "he represents something deeper. Something unresolved within yourself."
Roya scoffed, her mask slipping back into place. "What could possibly be unresolved? He's fictional. I created him, I killed him. That's all there is to it."
He studied her for a moment, not pushing, but letting the silence hang in the air. Roya hated that. The way he let her fill the gaps. But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
"My parents put me in here when I was a kid, remember?" she continued, her voice cold. "They thought therapy would make me more... normal. But guess what? It didn't. I'm still the same person I was back then. I don't feel the way they want me to feel. And I don't care."
Dr. Langston nodded, his expression neutral. "I remember. You've always been very clear about that. But it's not about making you 'normal,' Roya. It's about understanding yourself, about finding what works for you."
"Right," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "I understand myself just fine. I write stories. I create worlds. I destroy them. It's what I do. I don't need therapy for that."
"Your stories give you control," he noted, his voice soft but firm. "In your writing, you dictate the outcome. You hold all the power. But in the real world, things aren't always so predictable."
Roya clenched her jaw. He wasn't wrong, but she wasn't about to admit that. Not here. Not to him.
"I control my world," she said, her voice like ice. "I always have."
"Do you?" His question was simple, but it hung in the air like a challenge.
She stared at him, refusing to answer. Her parents had tried to control her for years, tried to mold her into someone who cared, someone who felt guilt or remorse. But she didn't. It wasn't in her nature. It was genetic, after all. A quirk of her DNA.
They had hated her for it. Especially her mother. Roya could still hear her voice, dripping with disdain. Why can't you just be normal? Why can't you be like everyone else?
Because she wasn't. She never would be.
Dr. Langston watched her carefully, waiting for her to speak, but she wasn't going to give him anything. Not today.
"The dreams will go away," she finally said, standing up. "They always do."
He didn't argue. He simply closed his notebook and nodded. "If you say so. But remember, Roya, if you ever want to explore them... I'm here."
She left without another word, her footsteps echoing in the hallway as she made her way out of the office. The dreams might go away, but Emris wasn't fading. Not yet.
And deep down, she wasn't sure if she wanted him to.