Can You Write A Little One Shot Of Jack Going To Therapy Please 🙏 (begging On The Floor Rn)

can you write a little one shot of Jack going to therapy please 🙏 (begging on the floor rn)

hi this is my first time writing jack which is actually a lil hard because even tho he is witewawwy me i rarely act this disrespectful to therapists.

its only 450 words thank yewww vvvv

The therapy office walls are truly offensive this time around. I glance downward at my hands; sunburnt, peeling, stained. Any longer in this sterile room and I’ll start to pick at them. If only I’d known fame comes with dirt under your fingernails. 

The door opens up and in comes today’s doctor. Blonde headed and taller. Eyes a horrible, seafoam blue.

“Jack, is it?”

“Merridew,” I make sure my voice is sharp enough to command, like a knife. “My name is Merridew.” As he’s settling in, I take a glance at his clipboard. He makes one sharp strike through my first name at the top of the page. The satisfaction settles in slightly. There is a drop of brown at his collar, still wet.

“I hear you were one of the boys-”

“If you want me to talk, make sure you’re presentable first.” I jab my index finger out towards his collar. He glances down, dumbfounded. The man looks back at me, then at the tissue box on the table.

“My apologies… Merridew. I was on my lunch break.” The defeat in his voice is almost palpable as he dabs at the stain. I nod silently, avoiding his gaze. “As I was saying, I’ve been informed you were one of the rescues from that…” He gesticulated, searching for a word. “Plane crash.”

I pick some grime out from under my nails. “I played a big part in that rescue. My fire got us found.” I can even sense the irritation in my voice. Why spend time on small talk?

“The forest fire?” He takes a bored sip from his coffee cup. Now, I can feel my blood boiling against my ashy skin. 

“Why, it did the job, didn’t it?” My voice rises into a shout. How dare he look down on me? When I saved the rest of the pathetic whelps, when I was the one who created order, when I was the hunter?

Again his pen moves, making gentle strokes on his paper. He pauses for a moment, setting down the clipboard and folding his hands together slowly. I can feel those horrible blue eyes burning into me. Before he speaks, I am asserting myself once more.

“I’m not telling you anything. I’m leaving.”

He opens his mouth, his lips moving slowly to form words. “By all means, Merridew, if you are dissatisfied with my care-”“I’m dissatisfied with you.” My time is better spent elsewhere. I rise from the seat, pushing his coffee cup off the table. It makes a shrill sliding sound and falls to a satisfying crash. The coffee pools outward to touch my shoe; I have already rejected its warmth on my way to the door.