Clinical Shitshow
Private Notes – Session 1: Delilah P. Darling
Do not file. Do not submit. Burn later.
Location:My office
Duration:50 minutes
Mood:…complicated.
She walked in like the word boundaries had been redacted from her dictionary.
Legs first. Everything else followed: hips, shoulders, trouble. I’ve never seen a skirt weaponized quite so effectively outside of a nightclub or a poorly-conceived movie montage. Innocent in the way a trap is innocent before it snaps.
When I called her name, she smiled like she already knew things.
She took one look at me and decided I belonged to her. There’s a kind of static that lives in the breath between eye contact and intent. She let it spark. The rest of the session was just her claiming space.
She gave me a once-over that made me feel unprofessional. And underdressed.
Her lips are full. Glossy. Distracting. She licked them while I was writing, and I nearly spelled trauma wrong. Her eyes lingered on my hands, my pen, my sleeves. I could feel her attention like heat on my zipper.
I pretended not to notice. She noticed me pretending not to notice.
Everything about her presence was loud, even when she was silent. Even her stillness feels like performance art. I can’t decide if she’s doing it to provoke, or if this is simply her, composed entirely of red flags and perfume and insinuation.
I gave her a journaling assignment to create distance. Something useful. Structured. Contained. She offered to useglitter pens. I told her this isn’t graded. She asked about bonus points for provocation.
I didn’t laugh. I didn’t smile. I absolutely wanted to.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. The question is whether she knows why.
She’s dangerously charming, but it’s a defense. I see it in the way she studies my reactions, memorizing tells. She wants control, or the illusion of it.
And the worst part? She’s smart. Sharp. She’ll pick apart any hesitation I give her and wear it like a trophy.
I need to be careful.
She’s not just a patient. She’s a problem in perfume and soft threats.
I’ve spent a career untangling people. But she’s the kind of knot you don’t pull, unless you want everything to unravel.
Chapter Two
Delilah
The receptionist glances up as I approach the desk, still twirling the pen I stole from Rhys’s office like a trophy I won for Most Likely to Make Therapy Horny. Her mug has been refilled with something herbal. Possibly hallucinogenic. Possibly brewed over a cauldron while chanting.
“So,” I say breezily, “Dr. Rhys says I’m a once-a-week delight now.”
She stares at me.
No smile. No nod. No oh wow, your trauma is adorable, let me schedule you energy. Just a blank face and those judgmental, try-hard brows.
“Therapeutically,” I clarify. Obviously. Jesus.
Although… was that a twitch at the corner of her mouth? A wrinkle of disdain?
