If Kharon had a thought about the whole affair, it was this: fire can warm a room without burning it down, if someone shows it how.
Berz1337 (they preferred the handle because it felt less like a name and more like armor) sat with elbows on knees, shoulders tight. Beside them, folded in a way that somehow made room for both menace and melancholy, was a hellhound: coal-black fur that absorbed the light, eyes like molten brass, and a single scar running from snout to shoulder that seemed to map an entire life. The dog’s breath came out in warm puffs, ash-scented, as if it had been exhaling embers for years.
Dr. Marin wrote, then set the pen down. “When he protects you by pushing others away, what does that protect you from?” hellhound therapy session berz1337 new
Dr. Marin leaned forward. “Soft doesn’t mean gone. It means different tools. If Kharon steps back sometimes, you can try new tools. You can try being recognized by someone who isn’t trying to cut you open.”
“Names can also be offers,” Dr. Marin countered. “Treat it as an experiment. Give him a name for five minutes. Then ask him to sit back and watch while you say something true to me, aloud. If he resists, you can stop.” If Kharon had a thought about the whole
Berz1337 let out a half-laugh that was almost a sob. “Is that allowed?”
“Vulnerability,” Berz1337 said. “From expectation. From letting someone see how badly I’m falling apart.” Their jaw clenched. “But it’s lonely. He’s very good at being a fortress.” The dog’s breath came out in warm puffs,
Berz1337 inhaled. “I’m afraid I won’t recognize myself when I’m not angry.”
“Language,” Berz1337 said. “The jokes I use as armor, the sharp edges. If I lose those, maybe I lose the only person who knows how to survive inside me. Maybe I become… soft. And I don’t know who gets to be soft.”
Dr. Marin nodded. “And does he ever get predictive? Does he warn you before he acts?”