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Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Who: Oliver and Misha
What: Therapy Group
Where: The Quiet Home
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Trauma stuff, maybe?
The Quiet Home wasn't real inviting. It was tucked up on a hill in the woods, deep on in there and a place folks wouldn't have no reason to stumble onto. It was built a long, long time ago, when hiding away broken folk was all that mattered to the world. Originally a sanatorium, it still had all its original fixtures inside. And the treatments, they were real old-school too. The thinking was that mental health wasn't much better now than it was then, and it was best to go on back to basics. There was modern medicine, sure enough, but the school of thought was antiquated, just like the building itself.
The room was cold, and a circle of chairs sat in the center.
Misha wasn't an outpatient, but the therapy groups were the same some. Today, he was slouched in a chair in denim and a Ramones shirt, knees spread real wide. He was sporting a pretty black eye, and his nails were painted a real fine red. The therapist was going on eternal about trauma, and how it did someone's mind up wrong, and Misha only half listened. Misha didn't think he needed a lick of counseling, but the folks here had his foster records, which meant he was hearing endless drivel 'bout his religious ideation being manifested on account of his childhood abuse.
"Seeing as I spent ten years after that abuse in Heaven, then it seems real unlikely I'd still be messed 'round the head. You wouldn't believe the therapists they got up there, sweetheart. Sigmund, he was a laugh riot." He grinned and slouched more, thighs spread cockier wide. The therapist jotted things down manic in her notebook, and Misha wondered why they didn't use tablets. Tablets couldn't mess with therapy, he reckoned, but maybe the therapist would use it to go hunting for porn. "Felix culpa," he added, because she was getting real red-faced and turning her attention to another patient in the group.
What: Therapy Group
Where: The Quiet Home
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Trauma stuff, maybe?
The Quiet Home wasn't real inviting. It was tucked up on a hill in the woods, deep on in there and a place folks wouldn't have no reason to stumble onto. It was built a long, long time ago, when hiding away broken folk was all that mattered to the world. Originally a sanatorium, it still had all its original fixtures inside. And the treatments, they were real old-school too. The thinking was that mental health wasn't much better now than it was then, and it was best to go on back to basics. There was modern medicine, sure enough, but the school of thought was antiquated, just like the building itself.
The room was cold, and a circle of chairs sat in the center.
Misha wasn't an outpatient, but the therapy groups were the same some. Today, he was slouched in a chair in denim and a Ramones shirt, knees spread real wide. He was sporting a pretty black eye, and his nails were painted a real fine red. The therapist was going on eternal about trauma, and how it did someone's mind up wrong, and Misha only half listened. Misha didn't think he needed a lick of counseling, but the folks here had his foster records, which meant he was hearing endless drivel 'bout his religious ideation being manifested on account of his childhood abuse.
"Seeing as I spent ten years after that abuse in Heaven, then it seems real unlikely I'd still be messed 'round the head. You wouldn't believe the therapists they got up there, sweetheart. Sigmund, he was a laugh riot." He grinned and slouched more, thighs spread cockier wide. The therapist jotted things down manic in her notebook, and Misha wondered why they didn't use tablets. Tablets couldn't mess with therapy, he reckoned, but maybe the therapist would use it to go hunting for porn. "Felix culpa," he added, because she was getting real red-faced and turning her attention to another patient in the group.