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As a clinical psychologist, Versailles Lucien spent his days navigating the jagged interior landscapes of others, a vocation that had slowly turned his own mind into a hall of mirrors. He sat in his leather chair, a silent witness to the carnage of the human psyche, processing the "transference" of his patients until he felt saturated by a grief that wasn't his own. Every hour was a fresh descent; he would listen to the low hum of a widow’s depression or the frantic staccato of an executive’s anxiety, and by the time the door clicked shut, he was left with the invisible soot of their lives clinging to his skin.
The job demanded a clinical neutrality he no longer possessed. He was supposed to be a "blank slate," yet the more he practiced, the more the slate became etched with the scars of a thousand different confessions. He found himself cataloging his own thoughts with the same cold, diagnostic detachment he used on his clients, labeling his mounting dread as countertransference or compassion fatigue, as if naming the monster could keep it from devouring him. He knew the chemical composition of sorrow and the neurological pathways of guilt, but this professional expertise offered no sanctuary. Instead, it stripped away the mystery of his own suffering, leaving him to endure a hollow, mechanical pain that he could explain but never ease.
The walls of his office, lined with heavy, unread volumes of Freud and Jung, felt like they were closing in, pressurized by the sheer volume of unspoken truths he held in trust. He had become a graveyard for secrets, a man whose very presence invited people to bury their darkest parts within him. By late afternoon, the weight of being a professional listener made his neck ache and his hands tremble. He would watch the clock, not out of boredom, but out of a desperate need to stop the influx of misery before he overflowed.
When he finally left for the day, the transition was jarring. He would walk through the park, watching parents play with their children, and find himself involuntarily diagnosing the subtle, toxic patterns in their interactions. He couldn't see a smile without looking for the micro-strain of a hidden resentment; he couldn't hear a laugh without listening for the hollow ring of a defense mechanism. His clinical gaze had ruined the world for him, turning a vibrant city into a sprawling ward of undiagnosed pathologies. He was a man who fixed minds for a living, yet he walked home every night feeling like the most broken machine in the shop, haunted by the realization that he knew exactly how to save everyone except himself.
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𝖅𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖛𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊
The way you write is so eloquent and immediately grabs me every single time. Reading your stories and poems is becoming a favorite pastime of mine. I also feel sorry for him, because I know his pain all too well. It always comes so easily to me to try and help others but I always keep my own problems shut away
I'm so glad you think so! I'm posting another story today about a third character. If you need anything at all, even to vent, you can talk to me ^^
by Avangeline; ; Report
And the same goes for you, too. I'll always lend an ear to listen, shoulder to cry on, etc. I'm here for you
by 𝖅𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖛𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊; ; Report
<3
by Avangeline; ; Report
𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕍𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕥 𝕀𝕕𝕚𝕠𝕥
The weight that we all bear for others is one that we can all relate to, even if we aren't experts. The advice we give to each other becomes a starting point to judge ourselves and to analyze our insecurities. Some of us survive off of hiding inside of other's problems (might be speaking from experience).
As much as he can't bear the weight of his knowledge, it is also the only way he can survive, the only way he knows how to. It's a gothic kind of existential horror going on here. The real fear is found in the mundane, in the routine and minutia of the ways we cope with modern life. What perpetuates our misery is what we use to quell it type shit fr fr. This was an excellent short story. I would just like to see more of this guys day!
Yes! You got it exactly, along with what you said i was also leaning into the 'therapist needs a therapist' trope quite a bit! glad u spotted everything i was trying to convey! I will make another story where characters from my short stories so far (Lucien, Renault Reeve, and Naomi Nacred, who's story will be published tofay) will connect in a way!!
by Avangeline; ; Report