The waiting room was quiet, restful. There was no irritation in the form of badly chosen recordings playing, or the distraction of a television. Even the reception desk was in a separate room, allowing those who waited to do so in peace. The whole place was set up to encourage calm reflection from the moment a person entered.
The man awaiting his appointment was not one for whom calm reflection was a problem. He'd reflected upon his own personal tragedy until he though his head might explode. Thinking wasn't the problem - it was making sense of things and sorting out where to go from here. He had resisted therapy of any sort - whether private or in a group - despite the gentle suggestion and encouragement from those around him who cared, and yet, here he was. It had taken the smashing an expensive violin for him to finally accept the fact that he needed help, if only to have someone to talk to, to confide in, to share the burden of grief and pain. It galled him a little that he had to pay someone to do it, but his friends had lives and problems of their own, after all. And so, he found himself here - in a quiet office waiting for an appointment he didn't really want to keep, twisting his hands in his lap and wishing it wasn't so damned quiet.
A soft knock on the door preceded the entrance of the receptionist, a doe-eyed little woman who radiated a gentle kind of understanding. "Mr. Ashworth' Dr. Forster is ready for you now. If you'd like to come with me?"
"Ashton," he corrected with a heavy sigh. He didn't hold out much hope for an establishment that couldn't even get his last name right, but then it was only his first time here. He moved to his feet to follow her, despite his desire to run screaming mad into the street - no, not mad. He wasn't here for that. He didn't have any mental health problems that he knew of, though he was no expert on the subject.
"Mr. Ashton, I apologise." She offered him an apologetic smile, moving to escort him to Dr. Forster's office, where she knocked again before opening the door to allow him inside. It was an airy room, lit with wide windows and soft lamps, furnished with desk and chair, with two couches, three armchairs, space in which to move.
And, of course, it contained Dr. Forster, who proved to be a woman of around his age, curvaceous, confident, and warm in her greeting. "Mr. Ashton, come in. Make yourself comfortable."
He merely shrugged. After all, his was an ordinary face that didn't really stand out in a crowd and was mostly forgettable, or so he believed. He was used to it. His parents hadn't bestowed on him the most lyrical of names, though for some reason, it seemed to fit him. Good lord, he thought to himself as he spied the face behind the desk. A woman. Well, no one said he had to come back. One visit was all he'd agreed to, to see if the good doctor could do anything for him. "Dr. Forster, I presume," he returned the greeting, trying to make a small joke, which more than likely fell flat, as if comparing her to Dr. Livingstone. He dragged a brief glance around the room, choosing a chair, rather than a couch. He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready for a couch.
She smiled at the joke, recognising the sense of nervous tension, the reluctance to actually be here at all. As the door closed behind the receptionist, Dr. Forster came out from behind her desk, moving to take a seat in one of the chairs with him. "Demeter, if you prefer," she told him her name in a gentle tone. "My aim is help you to feel comfortable in this space, with my guidance. If you would prefer to use first names, that is perfectly acceptable."
"Demeter," he echoed, letting the name roll around on his tongue. "Like the goddess" How very Rhy'Din." It wasn't a judgement of her name exactly, but just that it gave away the fact that she was more than likely a Rhy'Din native. His own name left a lot to be desired, too. Now that she'd come around from behind the desk, he had a chance to get a better look at her, unable to miss the fact that she was a knock-out. Like that didn't make him uncomfortable at all, he thought, not quite realizing he was frowning. "You're the doctor. You make the rules," he told her, letting her decide, unsure how comfortable he felt calling her by her first name.
"Very Rhy'Din, yes," she chuckled as she settled into her seat, shaking her head at his assumption that just because she was the professional, she was in charge. "That isn't how therapy - counselling - works, Mr. Ashton. In order for us to gain ground, you need to comfortable. I may steer you in certain directions, offer guidance, but you are in charge of these sessions. I can't force you to confront the reasons you're here, nor would I try. But you are clearly here because you are exploring whether or not this is an appropriate course for you to take. For many people, it's a brave step forward."
He took that all in, the frown still in place on his face. This was serious stuff, and he wasn't here because he wanted to be, but because he needed to be. "Just so we understand each other, I'm not sure this is a good idea, and I'm not sure you can help me, but I've been told I need someone to talk to, so I guess you're it," he admitted, still feeling a little resentful that none of his supposed friends had stepped up to the plate, but then, he wasn't exactly an open book either.
She absorbed that without reacting to the implications, nodding gently. "Nothing you say in this room will go any further," she assured him. "I'm a doctor, and you are my patient. The same rules apply to me as they would to a medical doctor - everything you choose to share with me is in the strictest confidence." She paused, clasping her hands together as she rested one elbow on the arm of the chair in which she sat, somehow managing to convey complete comfort as well as professionalism. "Many people are suspicious of therapy, especially talking therapies. And no, it doesn't work for everyone. But the only way to know if it could work for you is to try it. No commitment to a long term course of sessions, no expectation on my part. I would like to help, if I can." She considered him for a long moment. "Why are you here, Mr. Ashton?"
He took all that in, too, slowly absorbing every word. He knew none of what she told him wasn't practiced. She was a professional, after all - this was what she got paid to do, and he was paying her a pretty penny to do it. He wondered though - did she come into this profession because she truly wanted to help people because if so, he should probably take her at her word and try not to be so cynical. Maybe he'd seen a little too much Hannibal. "Doesn't it say in my file?" he asked, gesturing toward her desk, where he knew she had to have some sort of file on him, whether a hard copy or on disk.
"My only notes tell me that you are interested in grief counseling, following a family bereavement," she told him quite honestly. "But that doesn't tell me why you're here. Nor does it open a dialogue between us. The best way for this to begin is for you to tell me why you're here, and if you know what you hope to achieve from our sessions together."
"Okay," he replied, pausing a moment to take a breath. His body language alone spoke of his reluctance to open the can of worms he'd been hanging onto for so long, though if he couldn't do that, there was no point in being here at all. He figured he might as well tell her the truth and let the chips fall where they may. Compared to other patients of hers, he thought his own problems were problem inconsequential, but they were his. "It's my wife. Or was my wife," he corrected, changing his tense. "She was killed in a fire in the Marketplace a few months ago." How many months ago, he didn't say, but it was recent enough that he hadn't had time to deal with his grief yet.
The man awaiting his appointment was not one for whom calm reflection was a problem. He'd reflected upon his own personal tragedy until he though his head might explode. Thinking wasn't the problem - it was making sense of things and sorting out where to go from here. He had resisted therapy of any sort - whether private or in a group - despite the gentle suggestion and encouragement from those around him who cared, and yet, here he was. It had taken the smashing an expensive violin for him to finally accept the fact that he needed help, if only to have someone to talk to, to confide in, to share the burden of grief and pain. It galled him a little that he had to pay someone to do it, but his friends had lives and problems of their own, after all. And so, he found himself here - in a quiet office waiting for an appointment he didn't really want to keep, twisting his hands in his lap and wishing it wasn't so damned quiet.
A soft knock on the door preceded the entrance of the receptionist, a doe-eyed little woman who radiated a gentle kind of understanding. "Mr. Ashworth' Dr. Forster is ready for you now. If you'd like to come with me?"
"Ashton," he corrected with a heavy sigh. He didn't hold out much hope for an establishment that couldn't even get his last name right, but then it was only his first time here. He moved to his feet to follow her, despite his desire to run screaming mad into the street - no, not mad. He wasn't here for that. He didn't have any mental health problems that he knew of, though he was no expert on the subject.
"Mr. Ashton, I apologise." She offered him an apologetic smile, moving to escort him to Dr. Forster's office, where she knocked again before opening the door to allow him inside. It was an airy room, lit with wide windows and soft lamps, furnished with desk and chair, with two couches, three armchairs, space in which to move.
And, of course, it contained Dr. Forster, who proved to be a woman of around his age, curvaceous, confident, and warm in her greeting. "Mr. Ashton, come in. Make yourself comfortable."
He merely shrugged. After all, his was an ordinary face that didn't really stand out in a crowd and was mostly forgettable, or so he believed. He was used to it. His parents hadn't bestowed on him the most lyrical of names, though for some reason, it seemed to fit him. Good lord, he thought to himself as he spied the face behind the desk. A woman. Well, no one said he had to come back. One visit was all he'd agreed to, to see if the good doctor could do anything for him. "Dr. Forster, I presume," he returned the greeting, trying to make a small joke, which more than likely fell flat, as if comparing her to Dr. Livingstone. He dragged a brief glance around the room, choosing a chair, rather than a couch. He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready for a couch.
She smiled at the joke, recognising the sense of nervous tension, the reluctance to actually be here at all. As the door closed behind the receptionist, Dr. Forster came out from behind her desk, moving to take a seat in one of the chairs with him. "Demeter, if you prefer," she told him her name in a gentle tone. "My aim is help you to feel comfortable in this space, with my guidance. If you would prefer to use first names, that is perfectly acceptable."
"Demeter," he echoed, letting the name roll around on his tongue. "Like the goddess" How very Rhy'Din." It wasn't a judgement of her name exactly, but just that it gave away the fact that she was more than likely a Rhy'Din native. His own name left a lot to be desired, too. Now that she'd come around from behind the desk, he had a chance to get a better look at her, unable to miss the fact that she was a knock-out. Like that didn't make him uncomfortable at all, he thought, not quite realizing he was frowning. "You're the doctor. You make the rules," he told her, letting her decide, unsure how comfortable he felt calling her by her first name.
"Very Rhy'Din, yes," she chuckled as she settled into her seat, shaking her head at his assumption that just because she was the professional, she was in charge. "That isn't how therapy - counselling - works, Mr. Ashton. In order for us to gain ground, you need to comfortable. I may steer you in certain directions, offer guidance, but you are in charge of these sessions. I can't force you to confront the reasons you're here, nor would I try. But you are clearly here because you are exploring whether or not this is an appropriate course for you to take. For many people, it's a brave step forward."
He took that all in, the frown still in place on his face. This was serious stuff, and he wasn't here because he wanted to be, but because he needed to be. "Just so we understand each other, I'm not sure this is a good idea, and I'm not sure you can help me, but I've been told I need someone to talk to, so I guess you're it," he admitted, still feeling a little resentful that none of his supposed friends had stepped up to the plate, but then, he wasn't exactly an open book either.
She absorbed that without reacting to the implications, nodding gently. "Nothing you say in this room will go any further," she assured him. "I'm a doctor, and you are my patient. The same rules apply to me as they would to a medical doctor - everything you choose to share with me is in the strictest confidence." She paused, clasping her hands together as she rested one elbow on the arm of the chair in which she sat, somehow managing to convey complete comfort as well as professionalism. "Many people are suspicious of therapy, especially talking therapies. And no, it doesn't work for everyone. But the only way to know if it could work for you is to try it. No commitment to a long term course of sessions, no expectation on my part. I would like to help, if I can." She considered him for a long moment. "Why are you here, Mr. Ashton?"
He took all that in, too, slowly absorbing every word. He knew none of what she told him wasn't practiced. She was a professional, after all - this was what she got paid to do, and he was paying her a pretty penny to do it. He wondered though - did she come into this profession because she truly wanted to help people because if so, he should probably take her at her word and try not to be so cynical. Maybe he'd seen a little too much Hannibal. "Doesn't it say in my file?" he asked, gesturing toward her desk, where he knew she had to have some sort of file on him, whether a hard copy or on disk.
"My only notes tell me that you are interested in grief counseling, following a family bereavement," she told him quite honestly. "But that doesn't tell me why you're here. Nor does it open a dialogue between us. The best way for this to begin is for you to tell me why you're here, and if you know what you hope to achieve from our sessions together."
"Okay," he replied, pausing a moment to take a breath. His body language alone spoke of his reluctance to open the can of worms he'd been hanging onto for so long, though if he couldn't do that, there was no point in being here at all. He figured he might as well tell her the truth and let the chips fall where they may. Compared to other patients of hers, he thought his own problems were problem inconsequential, but they were his. "It's my wife. Or was my wife," he corrected, changing his tense. "She was killed in a fire in the Marketplace a few months ago." How many months ago, he didn't say, but it was recent enough that he hadn't had time to deal with his grief yet.