Our almost-visitor—a tall man in his early 40s—looked downright unsettling. A few days’ worth of stubble flecked with gray, hair combed carelessly yet still a mess, an exhausted gaze, and a crumpled, brand-name shirt that looked like he’d slept in it for a week… Combined with his broad, muscular frame, the outlines of which were visible beneath the thin silk, he inspired not quite fear, but certainly wariness.
But what unnerved me most were his eyes. Utterly wild, unhinged, with dilated pupils and the look of a cornered animal. Those eyes had seen something horrific, I thought at the time. Or perhaps they still saw it every single day.
Meanwhile, the man stood frozen in front of our office door. He seemed to hesitate, debating whether to come in or not, rereading the sign. I wondered what there was to read so intently.
“Andrew Vlasenko. Licensed Therapist.”—it was clear as day, black on white…
“What’s going on, Dan?” Andrew, noticing my curiosity through the side window that offered a perfect view of the entrance and everything happening there, stepped closer and placed a hand on my waist. For some reason, it irritated me. I felt an urge to brush his hand away. Maybe because I was still mad at him?
“See for yourself!” I muttered and stepped aside.
Just a week ago, Andrew and I had been the happiest couple. We’d ordered our wedding bands, and Andrew’s parents had even found us a little apartment. We had jobs lined up too, planning to open our own therapy practice together. But then, as we started finalizing the paperwork and preparing for our first clients, I discovered that Andrew and his parents had taken care of everything behind my back. The office I’d poured endless hours into—searching for the right space, handling documentation, investing my energy—had somehow “accidentally” become the office of “Therapist Andrew Vlasenko.” And me? The one who’d studied for two during six years of university and internships, who’d written two theses instead of one? I was relegated to the role of secretary-assistant.
It wasn’t even about ambition or pride. It was just… my entire worldview felt like it had been shaken by an earthquake. Especially my feelings toward Andrew.
Meanwhile, our potential client finally made up his mind. With a sharp push, he flung the door open and stumbled into the office, limping slightly on his left leg. Up close, he seemed even more imposing, his face and eyes even more weary and deranged. His presence, charged with anxiety, seemed to fill the entire space of our not-so-small room.
“I need a therapist!” he said in a low, raspy voice. Something about it made me think he hadn’t spoken to anyone in a long time.
“Welcome! I’m at your service. Please, take a seat! Dana, could you make us some tea?” Andrew crossed his arms with a businesslike air and gestured toward a chair by the desk.
The man sat down silently. And then I understood the reason for his unsteady gait. As he settled in, his pant leg rode up slightly, revealing a wide strap of a bracelet on his ankle. Not a decorative one, but a tracking device, the kind they put on criminals or suspects to monitor their movements.
I froze, staring at that damned bracelet. The visitor, easily following my gaze, shot me a heavy, piercing look that made me feel utterly uncomfortable. Yet, at the same time… something in his eyes stopped me from challenging him back. Instead, it made me pause. His eyes were pleading for help…
Finally, to escape the web of his gaze that seemed to ensnare me and strip away my will, I spun on my heels and hurried out of the room.
When I returned a few minutes later with the tea, I could sense the tension in the room had reached a boiling point. Andrew even discreetly wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, though the room was far from warm.
“I’m sorry, but this isn’t my area of expertise,” he declared, his verdict making the man’s shoulders twitch as if from a sudden chill. “You need a different kind of specialist,” Andrew added, his tone clearly implying, “Please, just leave already.”
“I don’t have another specialist!” the man’s voice thundered. “I can’t go farther than a mile from my house! There are no other therapists in that radius!”
“I understand, I do, but what you’ve described is more suited for a psychotherapist. Or even a psychiatrist…” Andrew continued softly.
“Are you saying I’m crazy? Sick, is that it?” the man shot up abruptly. I didn’t have time to step back, and the tray with the tea flew out of my hands. The cups rolled across the floor, splashing crimson hibiscus tea everywhere.
“Sorry!” the stranger unexpectedly said to me.
“It’s nothing!” I blurted out quickly. “Andrew, maybe we could help him?” I ventured hesitantly. We couldn’t just turn away our first client! Though… it wasn’t about superstition. It was about this man.
Instead, the stranger turned to me, his wild, exhausted gaze burning into me with bloodshot eyes. And I caught myself thinking that once, before whatever had happened to him, this man must have been quite handsome… Our silent standoff lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough for his gaze to imprint itself in my memory, etched onto the retina of my eyes like a photograph on film.
“No!” Andrew delivered his final verdict. “We appreciate you reaching out, and we recommend…” He didn’t get to finish, as our potential client stomped toward the door, each step deliberate and heavy.
“What the hell are you doing?” I couldn’t hold back my frustration. “This was supposed to be our first client!”
“Not ours, mine. I’m the specialist here, Dana,” Andrew stunned me with his words.
“You?” My hands clenched into fists from sheer anger.
“Dana, don’t get upset!” Andrew finally noticed my state. “He just… he hears voices, sees things… He needs a psychiatrist, not us.” And just like that, as the righteous fire flared in my eyes, we were suddenly “us” again.
“Voices?”
“Yeah, voices. He sees dead relatives. That’s not a therapist’s territory. I didn’t sign up for this. Self-improvement, childhood trauma, relationships—that’s my wheelhouse. This? This is psychiatry.”
“Psychiatry!” I muttered under my breath… Irritation surged within me like a tidal wave, threatening to flood the office and shatter the large windows. The haunted look in the client’s eyes still lingered before me, stirring strange, conflicting emotions.
***
No one else came or called for the rest of the day. Well, if you turn away the first client who’s begging for help, what else can you expect?
“Let’s head home!” Andrew walked into the reception area, already in his coat and scarf.
“I’ve still got some things to do. I’ll work here for a bit,” I brushed him off. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to ride with him either. I thought I could get over my resentment, but with every passing minute, it grew sharper and more bitter.
“Take a cab then,” he shrugged indifferently.
Once Andrew left, I felt like I could breathe easier. I paced around the office for a while, closed the blinds, imagining myself working here as a full-fledged therapist, not just an errand girl. Then, locking up the office, I stepped into the small hallway.
I didn’t feel like calling a cab. It was chilly outside, but the cool air actually helped calm me down a little. So, I briskly walked toward the bus stop. It would take longer to get home that way.
I regretted that decision the moment someone grabbed me and pinned me against a wall. Terror turned my insides to jelly as, under the dim light of a lone streetlamp, I saw the wild eyes of our client.
“Help me!” he exhaled heavily, his breath hot on my face. “Kill me, or help me!” His words made me shudder and freeze, like a hummingbird before a king cobra…