My Therapist, Dr. Logan Robinson - Chapter One
Chapter One - Meeting Virgil
Summary: Logan meets Virgil for the first time.
Pairing: None
Masterlist, Prologue.
LOGAN
I drive to the backside of the building. I’ve only been to the front and side, never the back. On the building are big bold white letters that read FLORIDA CHILDREN'S PSYCHIATRIC CENTER. I park in the employee parking before grabbing my messenger bag.
I walk into the building and am immediately met with bright colors. The waiting room walls are white with cartoon trees painted onto them. The sofas are orange, blue, and some grey. There’s a play center with about five toys and three picture books.
Something tells me that Virgil’s a little too old to appreciate the waiting room, and possibly the rest of the outpatient center.
I walk past a mom with her young screaming child. The child looks like she’s about five years old, and yet she has a scream louder than anything I’ve ever heard before. I walk up to the desk where an older lady is typing away at her computer.
“Hello, are you here to admit a,” her eyes glance down to my lanyard that has an employee pass on it, “you must be Dr. Robinson, one second.”
She presses a button and shortly after a young man appears.
“Follow me,” he says, so I do as I’m told. We walk down a long hallway, though big bulky locked doors, until eventually we end up in a small office.
“I will go get Virgil,” the man says before leaving the office.
The walls of the office are wood, and everything’s pretty plain with the exception of an orange bookcase. I sit down at the desk. I’m not the biggest fan of the fact that there are no sofas or anything, and that Virgil will have to sit in a chair across from me with a desk in between us, but I can’t really complain. It isn’t my office, after all.
The young man enters the room with a young teen. His hair is jet black and covers one of his eyes. He’s wearing a plain white shirt, a black and red flannel, and red skinny jeans with rips at the knees.
He seems to have a sense of self, from what I can observe from at least.
“Virgil, this is Dr. Robinson,” the man says before leaving the room.
“Hello Virgil, you can call me Logan. Have a seat,” I gesture to the chair in front of me.
He plops down into the chair. His back is unnaturally straight. His eyes are drilling into the desk, making sure not to make eye contact with me. From what I can see his eyes are tight and worried.
I take my laptop out and open it up to a document that only has Virgil's basic information.
“So, why are you here today?” I ask him.
“I’m being forced,” he grumbles.
“Oh?” I write that down into a new document, “why are you being forced?”
“Because my mom’s paranoid.”
“So, Virgil, tell me about your day,” I say.
“Um,” he gestures around the room, “it’s not great.”
“What have you done here so far?”
“I did some crafts with a group of kids. It was pretty lame. I’ve also had to talk to quite of people, kinda like this,” he explains.
He’s quite talkative, which is good.
“Are the staff treating you alright?” I ask.
“Yeah, they’re fun. Some of them are annoying though. Wait, is that okay for me to say?”
I chuckle.
“Of course, Virgil. I’m not going to tattle.”
I skim through some of the information on his form.
“Your mom seems concerned that you are extremely anxious, would you agree?”
“Do I agree that my mom is concerned?” he raises his eyebrows at me.
“Are you extremely anxious?” I ask.
“I mean, yeah.”
I write that down.
“What are you writing?” he asks.
“Basic stuff.”
“Vague.”
“That’s interesting,” I mumble as I read part of his form.
“What is?”
“It says here that you have habits that you feel you need to complete even if you know it doesn’t make sense. Is that correct?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Do you have any examples?”
“I have to tap my left middle finger against my shoulder five times.”
“Why?”
“So that I feel better.”
“Feel better?”
“Yeah,” he responds, “when things get too much.”
“What overwhelms you?”
“Everything.”
I pause for him to continue, but he never does.
“Have you ever been diagnosed with anything?” I ask as I write down everything he’s said.
“Uhh, asthma.”
“So, how do you get along with your sibling?”
“We used to be best friends, but we don’t really talk anymore,” he admits.
“Why don’t you talk anymore?”
“They have friends and a job.”
“Do you have any friends at school?” I ask.
“Yeah, two. Talyn and Camden. They’re siblings though, so they don’t always get along.”
“How old are they?”
“Talyn’s fourteen, and Camden’s eleven.”
A fifteen-year-old hanging out with an eleven-year-old, huh.
“How’s school?” I ask.
“It’s not my favorite thing in the world,” he admits as he shifts in his seat.
I write that down before asking, “why’s that?”
“Talyn and Camden are in middle school so I never get to see them except for during lunch, but lately I have to spend lunch in Mr. Sanders. I don’t have any friends, and most of my classes are so boring.”
“Tell me about Mr. Sanders.”
“Alright,” he sits back into his chair, “he’s really nice. I can tell he cares, but he’s just… he doesn’t get it. I wish I could tell him that the reason I don’t do my work is that I’m too scared to, but I can’t tell him that.”
“Why are you too scared to do your work?” I ask.
“Because I can’t handle getting something wrong,” he looks down at the floor as he says this.
I’m definitely going to write that down.
“Why not?”
“Because I… I don’t know, because I can’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“You don’t quit do you?” He pauses for me to change the subject, but I don’t. “It’s too overwhelming.”
“Why is it overwhelming?” I adjust my glasses.
“Because I... I can’t be dumb.”
“Why not?”
“Does getting a few problems wrong make you dumb?”
“Well no, but getting a lot of problems wrong does.”
“Do you usually get problems wrong?” I ask as I cross my legs.
“Depends on the subject.”
“What subject does Mr. Sanders teach?”
“Astronomy,” he says.
“Do you struggle with Astronomy?”
“Yeah. There’s a lot of constellations and stuff to memorize, and I just can’t memorize them.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your grade in Astronomy?”
“I’m failing.”
“Alright,” I write that down, “what has Mr. Sanders said about that?”
“We eat lunch together in his room and he helps me finish homework. He’s really helpful, but it’s still really stressful. He’s seen me cry so many times.
“What does he do when you cry?”
“He usually tells me that it’s okay if I get a problem wrong.”
“Interesting.”
I write that down.
I look over at the clock, I have about five minutes left with him.
“Before you said that you can’t tell Mr. Sanders that you’re too scared to do your work. Why can’t you tell him?”
“Because it sounds like a pathetic excuse, and he deserves more than some stupid excuse.”
I write that down.
“Is there a possibility that he’d be understanding?” I ask.
“I mean, maybe, should I tell him?”
“That’s up to you, you’re the expert when it comes to yourself and what you should do.”
“Wait, then why am I talking to you,” his eyes widen, “not that I was trying to be like rude or anything.”
I chuckle.
“It’s fine Virgil, don’t worry. I’m here to help you figure yourself out, and to help you overcome your struggles.”
“I see,” he says before a young man opens the door.
“I’m sorry to disrupt you two, but it’s time for Virgil to eat lunch.
“Alright, have a nice lunch,” I say as Virgil and I both stand up.
I hold my hand out, and we shake hands.
“It was nice meeting you,” he says.
“Likewise.”
