Sessions

A click. A lighter flare. Smoke. A gentle inhalation pulls it from the white, glowing stick. It billows. It pushes out of nostrils and swirls around the room. Heavy. Dark. Bright blue eyes hidden behind dark shadows and long dark hair peer across at the spectacled woman. She’s small but she’s confident. Her blonde hair falls to her shoulders. Occasionally she brushes it back. And he’s watching her. He breaths smoke.

“I don’t usually let people smoke during sessions,” she says calmly.

A laugh. “If you don’t let me smoke, I won’t be able to talk.”

“I said usually.”

“Shit.”

She’s looking over a pad of paper, not at him. His eyes bore into her face as though daring her to say anything to him. But he fidgets. He drops ash on the Turkish rug. She doesn’t notice. His foot jiggles, propped up on his knee. Blue eyes search. She doesn’t reciprocate. Losing interest, his eyes rove around the room absently. There are books everywhere. It’s not a room he would like to admit being in. But he has no choice. Not really.

“So tell me who you are.”

He scoffs. “You know who I am.”

“Tell me,” she presses. Her eyes venture up briefly and stop on his face for a moment only, then dive back onto her paper.

There is a prolonged pause before he says, quite flippantly, “Look it up.”

She’s unmoved. “Who are you?”

“What the fuck?!” he snaps, taking a long drag of his cigarette. The ash hangs as if by a thread. “Who am I?”

“Don’t you know?” she continues.

“God damnit woman! Who am I? You tell me!”

“All I want is your name.”

“Do you have any idea who I am really?!” he chastises her. “Do you have any idea who my father is?” It’s a defence mechanism; the name is familiar. His father has a reputation. It gets him out of trouble, sometimes, just throwing the name down.

“I know who you are but I want to hear it from you.”

“Jan Hakala!” He’s all but shrieking. Both feet have slammed into the floor.

There is a pause. She’s looking at him again, him having now garnered her full attention. Then, softly, “Good.”

“Jesus Christ! Is this how you treat all your patients?!”

Her attention wavers. She’s looking at the paper again. “It’s hardly a personal affront to ask someone for their name.”

“Yeah, well, it’s stupid to ask for something you already know,” he replies with defeat. There is a long pause. Then, suddenly, “Who are you?”

She looks at him with interest. “What?”

“Well, if I have to tell you who I am and I’m suppose to tell you my life story and shit I need to know who you are.” He sounds like he’s reasoned this out, though there is a hint of a question in his voice. He doesn’t like being bested by anyone, and yet she’s gotten him to provide information he was intentionally withholding. He’s trying to get control back.

She humours him. “I’m Dr. Järvinen,” she introduces.

“What’s your first name?”

“Sisko .”

He laughs. It’s bitter and ironic. “I already have two of those.”

She is watching him thoughtfully. He doesn’t look at her but instead looks out the window. His eyes seem to be taking in a stimulus that isn’t there. His two sisters. She wonders what he sees. “Tell me about them.”

“They’re women,” he answers without thought. “Almost. Kerstina’s not really a woman yet.”

“Kerstina is younger? And the older is...?”

“I don’t want to talk about them,” he answers quickly. The cigarette is hanging precariously from between his lips and his hands are clasped together in his lap.

Her eyes shoot back to the paper. She writes a few lines then turns up to look at him. “You asked me if I knew who your father was.”

He shifts nervously in the chair but says nothing. The cigarette is glowing dimly. He takes it between his fingers and taps it out onto a dish she’s provided. It’s unconscious. “Yeah.”

“Should I?”

Another awkward pause punctuates the room. He mashes the cigarette out on the dish and starts to rummage through his belongings for the pack. Pulling out another long white stick he places it between his lips and lights it expertly. He’s thinking but not speaking. Once he’s taken a long inhalation, he breaths out slowly. Words are forming in his mind. Finally, “I would be surprised if you didn’t. He’s pretty famous.”

“The lawyer?”

He laughs, again, bitterly. Eyes turn up to the ceiling as he breathes out more smoke. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“He has quite a record.”

“Yeah he does.”

“He’s important to you.”

The blue eyes shoot down and lock with hers. The ironic smile has vanished and his expression is dark. “No.”

There’s confusion. Her brow furrows. “No? Then why mention him?”

He’s glaring at her. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“You’re the one who brought him up.”

“No. I didn’t.”

She brings her pen up to her lips and taps it against them a few times. “You did. ‘Do you have any idea who my father is?’ Those are your words.”

His eyes don’t waver. They’re dark. Stormy. Intense. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”

She locks onto this intensity and lets it hang in the air for a moment. His feelings are clear. Where his sisters held no interest, his father holds obvious emotional value. She presses. “Maybe you should.”

“No.” There is no hesitation as he says this. His gaze is clear. He’s challenging her. The cigarette has lost importance. All that matters, right now, in this moment, is silencing the woman across from him.

“Your father is an important man.”

“Some people think so.”

“You don’t?” she presses.

There’s a pause. Then, “No.”

“Tell me about him.”

He’s angry. Not at her, but at a memory. Something he isn’t saying. Something he doesn’t want to say. Then, in a controlled voice, “I told you. I don’t want to talk about him.”

She lets the subject drop for a while and instead watches him. The subject of his father has caused him an exceptional amount of frustration and stress. She makes note of it on her paper. Father issue of intense emotion. Possible past abuse.

His eyes watch her. They narrow. Blue darkens. “What are you writing?”

“Tell me about your mother then.” She hears his question but ignores it. There’s no point.

At the word mother, he softens. “Why?”

“Because you don’t want to talk about your father or your sisters. Who else is left but your mother?”

Silence greets her. He’s thinking.

“Mrs. Hakala. Hanna, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Stop,” he says firmly. He looks distressed. She glances up at him, noticing the sudden change and makes a note of it mentally; she will put it on paper in a moment. For now she just watches him. “Don’t...I can’t talk about my mother.”

“Then what is there to talk about?” she asks in surprise. “Why are you here?”

He takes a drag of his cigarette. Though he appears looser, there is still a bit of tension in his neck. Veins bulge. There is more beneath that he isn’t showing. “Because. I have to be.”

“According to?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone.” She takes a break and writes it down, along with another note; Obvious compassion towards mother. Family sour subject. Inquire in further sessions.

“You know why I’m here,” he snaps, reverting back to the same dark, biting persona that was sitting in the chair when the session began. She will come to know this person as ‘defensive Jan’. The outer layer of a far more complex human being.

“I’d like to hear it from you, Jan.”

He bristles when she speaks his name. He doesn’t like it. He’s never liked it. No one makes it sound quite like it fits him. No one except...

“I have anger management problems,” he says in a tone that implies static quotation. He feels nothing for it. It means nothing to him.

Her eyes scan the paper in front of her. Skimming a paragraph her brow furrows. “It says here you checked yourself in.”

He doesn’t say anything but inhales deeply. The smoke leaks out the corners of his mouth.

“You don’t have to be here,” she continues as though this conclusion is obvious.

He sighs. For a moment he appears almost calm. The defence mechanisms have given way to something gentler. “Yes. I do.”

“Explain.” It’s not a question. It’s a command.

He inhales deeply. The smoke swirls inside him, catching in his lungs. He coughs once, twice, smoke seeping through every respiratory orifice. Then, once he’s recovered, he breathes again. Easier. “Everyone left me.”

She seems surprised. Though she knows the man has anger management issues and that he checked himself into the facility, she knows very little else about him, save his father’s reputation. “Everyone? That can’t be true.”

“Trust me; it is,” he answers her sardonically. His eyes don’t look at her. They’re staring at the wall.

“Why?” This question, also, is genuine.

For a long while there is silence. He smokes. She waits. Pen hasn’t graced paper since the note about his mother. More questions volley around the room, but she’s willing to wait forever to press them into him. For now, why will do.

Finally, he sighs and shifts on the chair. There is a layer of pain under the defensiveness. They seem to be fighting to be primary in his person. He suppresses the pain for unknown reasons. “I...don’t want to talk about it.”

“Jan.” The name falls heavily and he glares at her. It doesn’t sit well. Ever. But he doesn’t respond either. He listens. “If you want help, you’re going to have to talk about something.”

He doesn’t reply but he shifts again. His arms are leaning on his legs, his spine slouching forward. The cigarette seems to be silencing him. She waits. It burns down and is smashed into the plate. When he goes to search for another one, she holds up her hand to him.

“I have a suggestion.”

Silence.

“Give me those.” Slender fingers point to the pack. He glances down at it, then back at her with an uneasy question in his glance. “Trust me,” she adds.

He has no reason to, but he’s here. His initial reaction is to retort, but he sees her firm expression. As yet he has been unable to intimidate her. He is unlikely to be successful. A brief moment of hesitation, then he sighs. If he doesn’t give them to her she’ll likely call in some orderlies to confiscate it anyway. He passes the pack to her, but his expression indicates that he’s far from happy about it. “Now please tell me why the fuck I just did that.”

“It’s an incentive program,” she replies. Just a hint of a smile plays at the corner of her lips. It irritates him and he scoffs again, leaning back roughly in the chair and folding his arms across his chest. “It’s nothing too difficult. I ask you a question. You answer the question. Whatever you want to say. Relevant or not. But you have to speak to me.”

“For how long?” he shoots back without hesitation.

She ponders. “Let’s say three minutes, for now. We’ll move it up as we need to.”

“Three minutes,” he echoes. He looks bemused, but he considers it as an option. Having already relinquished the cigarettes he has very little choice at this point. Then, suddenly, “Okay, three minutes per cigarette. But I don’t have to answer your question.”

“But you do need to talk. About something.”

“Fine. Then let’s go,” he answers sharply. “Ask me something!”

The hint of a smile gives way to a sincere one, just briefly, and then she pulls it back into her thoughtful stoicism. “You said you had anger management problems.”

No words; just a small chuckle.

“What makes you angry? Who are you angry with?”

There is a vast and profound silence. Strangely enough he doesn’t look angry so much as unsettled. His expression is wounded. His thoughts are elsewhere. Far entrenched in his past.

“Give me something Jan. Please.”

The please seems to break into him and he looks up at her. “I don’t know,” he replies thoughtlessly. “Everyone!”

“Everyone?”

“Yes!” he hollers. He’s being defensive again. Without the cigarette to calm his senses he starts to play with his fingers absently. Rubbing the long nails of his right hand under each other. It’s a tick that otherwise wouldn’t be noticeable with the nicotine in his system. She observes it but makes no note yet. “Everyone makes me angry!”

“That’s less than thirty seconds.” She raises her eyebrows. It’s almost a tease. He growls and turns roughly in the chair so he’s facing the wall.

“Well maybe not everyone but...shit. I have no one left to go to!”

She doesn’t say anything but leans back in the chair. She taps her pen on the paper.

“I used to think...no...why the fuck would I tell you that anyway? Jesus.” He’s suddenly very distressed.

“Because,” she adds casually, “I have your cigarettes.”

“Fuck.”

“What wouldn’t you tell me?” she presses.

He glowers, not at her but at the wall. His mood has soured. She guesses part of it is because he knows exactly who his anger is directed at, and it’s clearly not everyone.

“What did you father do to you, Jan?” she asks suddenly. His whole body responds to the statement and he slips deeper into the cushion of the chair. Fear has replaced frustration, annoyance and irritation. It’s clear on his face.

“What makes you think my father did anything to me?” The tone hints at sarcasm but there is incredulity there, subdued, under the layers of everything else.

“Because you already told me he did,” she answers quietly. “He’s very important to you and yet you can’t bear to talk about him. What did he do?”

He is silent for a long while. His eyes continue to stare at the wall, his hands wringing together nervously. For a moment he brushes his dark hair with his fingertips, playing with the ends absently. A few times he even opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it again as if rethinking his word choice. Then, softly, in a controlled tone, “I hate him.”

She doesn’t say anything but listens.

“He...is not...he is not the wonderful man everyone thinks he is. He’s a horrible man. A horrible man.” His eyes narrow as he speaks. His shoulders are closing in the gap to his head, his neck vanishing in tight, contorted muscles. The woman remains silent and she waits. When she contributes nothing, his voice continues. “All everybody sees is the attorney Hakala, the one who defends these high-profile clients and always wins the case. Everyone knows him. Some people would sell their soul to have him on their case.” He laughs a bit, lightly, but the sound is clearly humourless. “He’s always been on my case.” Though as he ponders this, he shakes his head. “No not always. Since I was eleven.” His voice tapers off there and he stares at the wall. Two minutes go by. Three. She continues to watch him, but when she’s satisfied he will say no more without prompting, she clears her throat gently. It doesn’t rouse him.

“What happened when you were eleven?”

He’s looking at his hands now, pressing the long nails of his right hand into his palm. He does it several times in succession, watching how the tiny indentations turn first white, then red as the pressure is released. Three repetitions in he breaks the skin, just barely, with his ring finger. He starts from the sensation and sits up straighter, eyeing the tiny amount of blood that bubbles out, a hairline indentation. It hurts. Barely. But he seems to take some kind of comfort from the pain. It keeps him from thinking of the deeper pain just under the surface.

Then, finally, “I told him no.”

She can’t help herself. “No?”

“I wouldn’t let him do it anymore.” He’s being evasive, but this time not so much but of a desire to irritate her or to control her so much out of a genuine inability to be specific. His fear is real.

She doesn’t ask him what but her eyes continue to focus on him from her side of the room. He feels the gaze but does not meet it. He knows he has to say more. He’s already said quite a bit. But speaking ill of Pauli is like speaking ill of the saints. He can’t ever quite bring himself to do it. No one likes to hear the gory details of a celebrity’s life. Not here. Certainly not one with as high of a reputation as Pauli.

“He...” he beings, but then his voice stops. His hands have drifted to his legs. They rest on his thighs in small fists. Nails press into flesh involuntarily. Knuckles tighten. Then, “He hurt her.”

His voice breaks. The pain is still there, but it’s pushed back by the anger. The anger dominates. It takes over.

She doesn’t hesitate to start writing. There is no question in her mind who the ‘her’ is.

And with that simple statement more words begin to flow out of him. “When I was little I used to hide under the kitchen table when he’d throw her down. He’d hit her so hard sometimes I could hear it from another room. Like she was never good enough. Never good enough for him. The fucking asshole. He hated her. I hate him. I could kill him!” The anger elevates to outrage and he rises up in the chair. But as the words crescendo he’s suddenly on his feet, the fists no longer at his sides but in front of him.

She is momentarily concerned, but she never lets it show. Briefly she ponders another note, but she waits to write it down. When he’s calmer. But she does add, after the tension lingers on the air for a time, “Your mother?”

“And she never once blamed him for it! Never once!” His hands fall down at his sides. “Like she deserved it! Like she...like it didn’t matter. Like it was okay for him to do that to her. Was she insane? He could have killed her! He could have fucking killed her!” He begins to pace, his hands moving freely to aid his articulation. “Why?! Why the hell would she let him do that?!” He stops and looks at her. As though she can answer.

“Perhaps she loves him,” she provides. He explodes.

“Loves him?! How could anyone love him? He’s a monster!” and there is something about the final word that sticks in her brain; she makes a note of that too. “He would throw her down and let us watch from behind the couch! All the while she’d be crying! We’d be crying and she never once blamed him!” His anger increases. He’s furious, though the more she watches him the more apparent it is that he’s unsure exactly who his anger is directed at. “She would apologize to him! Like it was her fault! Like his abuse...” His voice cuts short and he suddenly becomes profoundly sad. He collapses into the chair heavily. “She let him do it. She let him hurt her. She let him hurt Kerstina and Lusa. She just let him do it. I...” His voice cuts out again and he’s fidgeting. He’d vulnerable. He doesn’t like it. It scares him. “I wanted to kill him. So he could never hurt them again.”

She waits for the lull. His mood has shifted. The person who walked in the door has been left on the shelf and this new person is closer to the real person. Peeling back the layers piece by piece.

But that’s all she’ll get for now. He’s recovering. The defence mechanisms come back and he turns to look at her. “That was way more than three minutes! Now give me my mother fucking cigarette.”

She’ll take it. A smile. “Here.” She removes a white stick and passes it to him. “Finish that and we’ll move on to number two.”