Funerals, Right?

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This was a response to the following prompt on r/writing prompts.

A protective therapist moonlights as a vigilante hunting those who have wronged their clients.

Funerals, right?

I kind of felt like I had to attend this one. Given my involvement with the bereaved. But I’m already questioning that decision. A therapist turning up to his patient’s husband’s funeral. I don’t think it is strictly a breach of ethics, but is it a good look? I mean obviously I’ve been sleeping with her. But coming to the funeral? Is it against the spirit of the guidance?

But honestly, my patient, Sunstra. You have to see her. You would understand if you saw her. You seen that film ‘Only God Forgives’ with Rhatha Phongam in it? No. Well she looks like her. High cheekbones. Soft eyes that are sideways teardrops pulled back at the corners. Nose that is too elegant to believe it is natural. Skin like latte. Hair like jet. In that black dress she’s wearing today she has the angry grace of the bereaved.

I never been into it. You know, Thai girls? But you gotta see her. Class.

She seems a little more upset than I expected, given everything she told me in our sessions. But funerals make people weird. I’m sure I’m still smashing her after this. We’ll see. We haven’t smashed for a couple of weeks. Since his death actually. She’s had too much to arrange I guess. So I’ve been jerking it to the bikini pics on her Instagram feed. I don’t follow her, obviously, she’s a patient. But if you don’t make your account private you’re asking for it, right?

Hoffman is here and he is really killing my vibe. Hoffman has always had a real problem with me which he hides under being a stickler for ethics. He’s got a problem with me because I got a third and he got a first at university. But I’m absolutely raking in the money and he’s not. I’ve got the reputation for working miracles. He’s just another therapist. Piss-off Hoffman you’re killing my boner.

I thought I would feel a bit worse at this funeral, given everything, you know? But this is dragging on. It must have cost a fortune but that’s not surprising because so do I.

I think I’m going to have to stop the interventions. This was the third intervention. The others were mostly a success. I mean, the suicide has nothing to do with me, obviously. But I should probably stop the vigilante missions for a while.

I don’t even know why I started these interventions. I guess I wanted to do something helpful with my ‘ability’. I mean, I am doing something good with it, the therapy is obviously helping people, even if it does make me filthy rich, right? But I wanted to use my ‘power’ for something purely good.

Maybe I’ve watched too many crappy superhero movies. Maybe I’m not the Bruce Wayne of therapists.

The first intervention went quite well. Or not badly. Or whatever.

The first intervention was a woman who was coming to therapy with depression. She was having issues with an estranged husband who was taking no interest in their two kids. He was barely paying his child support.

So I found a way to bump into him at his gym. Got into his head a little bit. Rearranged things. Just planted a few new thoughts in his head with my ‘ability’. Made him worry that time was running out to bond with his kids. Made him think that they might hate him later in life.

I mean it did work. I didn’t expect him to file for primary custody. To use her depression as a mitigating factor to win the court case. But in the end it was a good thing for the kids. He’s more involved now.

We’re moving to the wake now for Sunstra’s husband. She’s rented out this huge plastic dome thing. The catering is immense. Open bar. Thai ‘street food’ which actually costs the same as haute cuisine. I want to talk to Sunstra but I can’t get close to her. She’s being swamped. She won’t even give me eye contact. Honestly though, you should see her. You wouldn’t blame me if you could see her. This dress she’s wearing. You should see the bust. Tits hanging like two dead puppies in a plastic bag. You’d think it’d be enough to bring the husband back to life. I shouldn’t be looking at a funeral, but you know?

The second intervention was a male patient getting beaten by his wife. I found a way to bump into the wife at the supermarket. Put a few words into her ear, used my ‘ability’ to rearrange a few thought processes in her head.

I wanted to make her a little bit scared of him. Scared of what he might be able to do if she continued to beat him. I didn’t know she’d buy a gun and preemptively shoot him in the leg. But she’s in prison now and he’s not getting beaten up so we can count that one as a win, right? He doesn’t even limp that bad.

Hoffman tries to talk to me at the wake. Hoffman the big boner killer. He’s not drinking, obviously. He has a client this afternoon. He nods at the champagne flute in my hand. I am drinking, Hoffman. I have no clients this afternoon. He mumbles something about how I can afford it. Damn right I can afford it.

Sunstra came to me for therapy with the general rich, bored housewife type of issues. I’ve seen this umpteen times. I usually just go into their head, rearrange their thoughts a bit, give them a passion, get them out of the house more. Then the husband starts to miss them, gives them more attention, blah blah blah, then rip their eyeballs out with the fees.

I made it take a little longer with Sunstra cause I wanted to bed her and you wouldn’t blame me if you saw those legs. Legs all the way to her asshole, you know? Did I tell you she looks like Rhatha Phongam? Yeah? Well she does.

And then a couple of sessions in she tells me about the system of sophisticated emotional abuse he uses on her. The gaslighting. The putting her down.

At first I just thought it would be a way to feel less guilty about banging her, you know? But then I thought I’d do a third intervention. Do this one perfect.

I managed to bump into the husband outside his tennis club. Used my ‘ability’ to put a couple of thoughts in his head. Make him feel some guilt and remorse for the stuff she’d said he’d done.

Since it doesn’t look likely I’ll be talking to Sunstra at this wake, I ask Hoffman who he knows at the funeral.

Hoffman goes to the same tennis club as the husband. They’re mates apparently. Unreal, you know?

He asks me same question. I tell him the wife is one of my patients. He looks at me shocked but doesn’t give me the expected lecture. In fact he keeps asking me about Sunstra. He wants me to break patient doctor confidentiality. Hoffman you naughty boy.

He asks me what she’s like, what she came to therapy for. I keep it vague. This could be a trap.

He says the husband, Mark, his tennis mate Mark, was planning to leave her. Interesting. She was emotionally abusive. Constantly gaslighting him. Telling him to quit the business. Telling him it would never work, literally as it was working. Intriguing. She wanted them to live off the family money. He was only staying with her because it was her family’s money that had helped start his business. Now that was all paid back he could actually leave her. 

Really?

Hoffman says he’s serious. And he says Sunstra knew this and was manufacturing a divorce by going to therapy that would look like the husband’s fault. She wanted to make him split up the business so she could trash it.

Really?

Hoffman says it’s true. Hoffman says Mark was really sanguine about it until a few weeks ago when he suddenly changed. A huge guilt-trip gripped him. He was suddenly believing everything Sunstra was saying. Taking all the gaslighting to heart.

Really?

Yes really, Hoffman tells me. And he committed suicide because of the guilt.

Damn.

I look at Sunstra. Lean posture that looks like she’s hanging from a beam by her teeth. Looks like Rhatha Phongam, you know? Oh yeah, you don’t. But honestly, if you saw her you still wouldn’t blame me, you know?

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