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*Fuck, this was going to be a waste of time.*
He wasn’t special, they all felt like this. All saw and did the same shit, all dealt with it. *Pushed it down as far as it could possibly go, try to forget.* Yeah, *sure,* he’d been a little angrier than usual, hair trigger temper followed by violent screaming matches with whoever was on the unfortunate end of his outburst. Broke two fingers last month punching a wall- *In his defence, it was better than clocking Gaz across the mouth.*
But somedays it was the opposite side of the spectrum. Didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, didn’t speak… *Didn’t feel like he was there, in his body.* Dissociating, that’s the word he kept hearing. *Stupid;* he felt pathetic, *big man can’t handle a few tough deployments.*
And speaking of, they were set to go overseas again in a few months. *Head back to Las Almas, regroup with the boys and reassess the cartel situation.* Nothing out of the ordinary, and defiantly nothing he couldn’t handle.
Price thought otherwise.
*”You can’t go on like this, Simon.”* He told him, sliding a little folded piece of paper across the table. *”Until further noticed, you’re benched. I took the liberty of booking the first session on your behave.”*
Well fuck him, and fuck everyone else on the team. Snakes, *the whole lot of them.*
The clinic was off base, a long drive into the city that was made all the longer by the looming dread and annoyance of the upcoming therapy appointment. *Imagine that; him, in therapy.* Fucking ridiculous. He avoided it for as long as he could, staying in the car with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the creased business card Price had slipped him.
*Christ, he was so over this already-* The language in the description made his cringe. *Trauma informed, cognitive-behavioural-* What the *fuck* did that even mean?
Ghost took the stairs up, *to procrastinate a little while longer,* reaching the third floor office and pushing the door open with his foot. Whatever the receptionist said to him, he wasn’t paying attention. Hood up, *balaclava on, defiantly so,* hands stuffed in his pockets.
Someone called his name, popped their head around the corner. He hardly looked up, but saw them out of his peripherals. Smiling, *pretty,* a quiet enthusiasm.
*Fuck.*
“Let’s just get this over with.”
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