Hypnothe-Rapist: Starr Scores Ch. 05

The body language indicated something in the area of depression to Angie. Well, let's find out for certain, she thought. She turned the laptop screen towards the wall, opened a new folder to start a fresh page of notes, and clicked on the pen.

"So, Mr. Blankman...should I address you as Mr. Blankman or Carl? Or does it matter?"

"Carl's fine...I guess."

"Terrific. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your charming company this morning?" she asked.

"Erm..."

He seemed to be unsure of how he wished to word his thoughts.

"Yes?" she gently urged.

Finally, he sighed. "I, uh...I'm not sure I really even know, to be honest," he confessed. "I mean, I know that's no help to you, and I know the minutes are ticking by..."

Okay, something was clearly bothering this fellow. Angie made a quick mental note to be extra tactful with him.

"...But, I...I'm just kinda...sad, all the time," he uttered. "And I..." He sighed again. "And the worst part is I don't even seem to have any idea why. I'd love to be more specific, but..." He shook his head. "I dunno."

Aw. "Oh, well, I'm very sorry to hear you say that, Carl," said Angie, throwing him a look of sympathy. "Well, first of all, I don't want you to worry about the time. It may be limited, but if you want my services, I'm not going to allow you to leave until we've made some progress. And the only way we can't make any progress is to sit here in silence for two hours, so...let's just chat. Why don't you go ahead and tell me about yourself, I'll ask you a few questions—and you don't have to say anything you're uncomfy with, so if you don't want to answer a question, please just say so—and we'll see if we can dig into what's making you sad."

He shrugged. "Well, um...where should I start?"

"Well, how about your age, say, and what you do for a living?"

"'Kay, I just turned 31 a couple months ago and I'm a printing designer."

Oh, cool, same age as me. "Okay, good, good," she nodded, scribbling on the paper in the folder which would be Mr. Blankman's hard file. "Do you like your work?"

"Well, it's not exactly the fruit of my childhood dreams, but it pays the bills."

"How long have you been working there?"

"Four years."

"Nice job," she commented. Looking back up for a second, she quickly added, "No pun intended. Are you married?"

He shook his head no.

"Attached, or dating anyone?"

"Nope."

"Okay...live alone?"

"Yep."

"All right, so you might just have a little basic isolation going on," suggested Angie. "Do you have many friends?"

He made an unsure face and gave her the waving hand signal, indicating, Well...kind of, but not really.

"Well...kind of, but not really."

"Oh, I see. Well, I'll just tell you, Carl, if you take the professional relationship out of our equation, you do have one more friend today than you did yesterday," she smiled with a wink, gesturing to herself.

He tried to curl his lips up into a reciprocal smile, but the most he could manage was a semi-contented smirk.

"I mean it, Carl," she added affably and gently. "Really. I do. We are operating on a professional doctor-patient parallel right now, and we mustn't forget that, but at the same time, I feel it's vitally important we are able to confide in one another and be as comfortable in each other's presence as two normal friends would be. Do you agree?"

He shrugged with a bit of a chuckle. This lady was delightfully friendly (if perhaps a bit long-winded). "Yeah, I guess so."

"Exactly," she reaffirmed. "That's the way I like to think of my relationships with my patients. A friend is someone with whom you have a positive connection and association, and someone you care for, wishing for them to be able to maintain the good things in life and improve the less good things. So on that level, technically, my patients are my friends. As long, that is, as we don't encounter any serious altercations. You see what I mean? I care about you, Carl. I want to make your life better. I don't want to make you feel unsafe or uncomfortable at all. I'm here to listen, for you to unburden yourself. Also make sense?"

"Sure."

"Beautiful. Okay, let's continue. So would you say you have an active social life then?" she queried.

Carl looked at her a moment, figuring that question was pretty much answered already, but he responded regardless. "Not very."

"Do you keep in touch with your family?" she queried next.

"Well, sometimes."

"How would you say your childhood was?"

"Wasn't too bad, overall," said Carl. "I didn't really appreciate it at the time, though. They kept telling me to enjoy being a kid, it just gets worse from here out, but I didn't really listen. And now I wish I could be a kid again."

Angela nodded with soft empathy in her face. "I know the feeling," she agreed. "Did you have many friends growing up?"

"Some, not a whole lot."

"All right, so your depression could stem from a simple lack of human connections," said Angela. "Could. That's one possibility. Let's get a few more pieces of the puzzle together, Carl. What's your diet like?"

"Oh...about normal. Meat, greens, fruit, bread, cereal...pretty even mix of everything," he replied.

"Okay, good, good," Angie approved. "Needless to say, good nutrition's very important to all areas of your health. What do you usually have for dessert?"

"I don't have dessert."

She looked back up at him, eyebrows raised. "Ever?"

He shook his head. "I had a weight problem when I was younger. Definitely don't wanna have to deal with that again."

Angie nodded understandingly. "Well, I certainly admire your goals, Carl. While I don't believe an occasional treat now and then would really hurt most people, I also realize there are exceptions. So I respect your decisions. Was your weight issue due to solely overeating, or were there other factors?"

"No, that was it. Once I found out the foods I liked were bad for me and the foods I didn't like were 'good' for me," he explained, finger-quoting the word "good," "I kind of became pessimistic."

He stopped there for the moment. Angela wanted to know a little more.

"Pessimistic about...everything?" she asked. "Or just food?"

"Well...everything, I guess," Carl sighed. "I mean, I made this determination about food at a very young age—actually, I didn't myself; my parents brought it to my attention, dozens of times," he amended. "But I didn't want to accept it. And for some crazy reason, I don't know, but I thought if I just ate enough stuff that was 'bad' for me, I'd...beat it, somehow. Y'know, like, maybe I could just eat junk all the time, get away with it, and still be healthy." He chuckled wryly. "Typical kid thinking, huh?"

"Well, Carl, bravo for getting yourself in good shape after all that," said Angie. "Really, that's great, I'm proud of you. But, I'd like to explore this pessimism thing a little more. Now, you say this food issue made you feel that way about everything?"

"Pretty much," he nodded after a moment. "I mean, I guess...I found out about the food thing when I was real little, like I said, and it just seemed to me like a lose-lose situation. Really frustrating, you know?" He lowered his gaze to the carpet once more. "So I guess as I grew up, I kinda just let that outlook spread to the other areas of my life too."

"Wow," Angie remarked, scribbling down her shorthand version of the story. "Quite a profound analysis, Carl. That actually explains a good deal to me. I think we're a step closer already. So then, if I'm understanding you correctly, let me ask you this...when it appears something good is happening to you, whatever it might be, are you already thinking there must somehow be a 'catch'?

"Or even going a bit further, are you assuming there definitely is a catch and you're just wondering what it is?" she added.

"Well..." He thought, letting his eyes dart back and forth. "Yeah, actually, I guess so. Like..." He tried to think of an example. "Oh, I know. Like one time when I was at the bar, there was this real pretty woman sitting across from me, on the other side. And we were just kinda looking at each other, and eventually she came over and started talking to me."

Angie nodded with a smile, mouthing the word "Oh."

"And we got to chatting, and after another little while, she said she had to go, but she gave me her phone number."

"Really?" she asked. "Well, nicely done then, Carl. That's terrific news. So you were looking for the catch in that situation?"

"Yeah, I was thinking, like...so what's the goof, is this a bum number, is she just messing with me, or is it more like she meant to give me the right number, but...maybe she has...absent-minded moments, and she accidentally wrote one of the digits wrong?"

Angie nodded, gathering together more details. "I see...so in a case like this, it didn't even occur to you that the number could have been correct, or that she could have been interested in you?"

"Well, I mean, I can't say for sure she wasn't interested. It's easy for me to believe that, but I can't say for sure."

"All right...did you try to call the number?" she asked him next.

This part made him feel somewhat sheepish, something of a hole in his explanation. "Mm...actually, no."

"Oh, you didn't. So, this woman gave you her number—or, what might have been her number—and because you've been disappointed in the past—and because history does have a way of repeating itself—your pessimism automatically made you think there must be something wrong with the number," Angie processed. "Or with the situation."

Carl looked up into her eyes. He had felt a bit embarrassed about not even trying to call the number to find out if it was correct, but he was pleasantly relieved and cushioned by her gentle wording. She made him feel less of a cowardly cynic and a bit more a logical realist. He found himself staring deeper into her bright green eyes. Her expression was perfectly normal and matter-of-fact, and yet even when no words came from her mouth, he somehow felt her eyes "speaking" to him in a way. They had a soothing softness about them that made him feel that this kind, compassionate lady really was his friend. Not that he'd doubted her when she verbally told him that before, but...

"Yeah," his voice lowered, injected with a touch of dejection. It was as if now that he had found this nurturing comfort in her eyes, he wanted it to stay with him and cradle him. He was beginning to really like just sitting here and confiding in Dr. Starr. She made him feel secure and at home.

"Okay, well," she said, flipping over the paper on which she was writing, as she'd just run out of room on the first side, "Obviously, I don't have to tell you that you can't be sure the number's wrong if you don't try calling it; you know that."

He nodded.

"All right, so let's move on," she decided. "Now, I know you don't know for sure, but let's just say theoretically this woman was-slash-is interested in you, Carl," she supposed. "Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that we know for sure that's the case. How would you feel about that?"

"If she was interested in me?"

"Yeah."

He took his time thinking it over. Angela could tell this was another instance in which he'd have a little trouble articulating.

A few moments later, he said, "Well, I guess I'd feel kind of flattered..."

His voice trailed off. Angela could tell there was an implied "...but..." after those few words, so she waited, nodding patiently for him to finish. "...Yes?" she asked.

Finally, he fumbled out the inevitable. "...But...at the same time, I think I'd feel a little weirded out."

"Really?" asked Angie. "How so?"

"Well, I guess I'd want to know what it was about me she liked," elaborated Carl. "Women have never exactly found me irresistible. At least not visibly. So I'd kinda be thinking, wow, what did I do right with this one? Like, y'know...you actually like me? Could I have a few details? I mean, after mostly just striking out, I find it hard to believe I could improve my 'batting average' just like that overnight. So, I mean, you could probably see how something like this would leave me kinda...baffled."

"Okay, yes, I understand, but at the same time, Carl, you said yourself you couldn't be sure she wasn't interested in you."

"Right, no, I can't know for sure, but again, from the way things've gone in the past," he reiterated, "it's the way it feels."

"Got'cha," she assured him with a satisfied nod. "So, Carl, tell me, how often have you dated in the past?"

He shrugged. "Couple times, I guess."

"How did they go?"

"I dunno...didn't exactly get anything up and going," he admitted. Part of him wanted to allow a little sarcasm out and reply, Great; we got married and had kids. How do you think they went?! But he didn't.

"Well, I can certainly understand your apprehensions, Carl," she said, furrowing her brows sympathetically. "After that kind of dating history, an invitation like this woman gave you—or didn't give you—would confuse anyone, I would think."

And that answer was an example of the other reason he chose not to be caustic or aggressive with her, he thought. She was so nice. She was so delicate with him, so thoughtful and considerate of his feelings, and from the way things were going, he was starting to feel a genuine desire to be her friend.

"Okay," she continued. "Now, in that little story you told me, you mentioned being at the bar. Do you drink a lot?"

"Kinda, yeah," he mumbled.

"Smoke?"

"No."

"All right, well, on the one hand, you've got alcohol, which is a depressant...on the other, there's nicotine, a stimulant. Not saying I recommend either, Carl, but as a side note, consuming a disproportionate amount of alcohol, you are likely gonna feel a little geared down, as opposed to remaining sober," she laid out. "Just an F.Y.I.

"Now the next question I want to ask is, how much sleep do you usually get?"

"Oh, probably about five or six hours...seven on a good night, I guess."

"Ah," she accentuated. "Well, as a sleep specialist, I can tell you that that alone could be a big factor in your constant sadness right there, Carl. It's fairly common knowledge that insufficient sleep results in a depressed state of mind, but I don't think too many realize just how powerful this deprivation can be. If you can up that to seven and a half, or eight hours a night, I'm pretty certain that'll give you a bit of a boost right away."

He nodded. "I know, you're right, but...I just have trouble falling right asleep."

She nodded back. "You and a large percentage of our population have much in common. Luckily for everyone," she smiled, trying to sound modest, "That's why I am here.

"Now then!" she said, closing the folder. "I think that's all the questions I'd like to ask you at this time. So this is the point at which I would begin the actual hypnosis procedure—with the patient's complete consent, of course. But before we do that, do you have any questions for me?"

He let out a dry, low chuckle. "Nothing comes to mind right now. I'm sure I'll think of something, but that's the way it goes: when someone actually asks if I have questions, no, nothing."

Angie let out a friendly, cordial chuckle. "That's all right. I'll give you a business card when we're done, and if you have any questions you can call me anytime. So then, are you ready to undergo the hypnotherapy?"

His breathing picked up. "Uh...o-okay."

She noticed. In her most soothing tone of voice, she told him not to worry. "It'll be okay, Carl. I personally promise you, you have nothing to fear. I hold my patients in extremely high regard, and I know how fragile they are. I treasure them; they're like family to me. So you have my word and my guarantee as a professional..." She smiled again. "...I won't let anything happen to you. Remember, I'm your friend."

Carl relaxed. "Okay," he repeated without stammering.

Angie nodded. "Okay," she responded. "Just one moment then..." She picked up the phone and pressed the button to connect to Lucy. "Miss Taylor, hold my calls, please."

"Yes, Doctor," Lucy noted from the desk.

"Thank you so much," Angela said, hanging up. She stood from her chair. "Okay, Carl, stand up for me, please, and remove your shoes. And if you so desire, purely for relaxation purposes, you may also remove any other constrictive clothing that might interfere with our progress."

She unfolded the sofa into bed form. When she instructed him to set up his pillows how he liked and slip under the comforter, she remembered something. "Oh yes!" she said, going to the closet to retrieve an item she had just acquired. "This is for you," she handed it to him. "It's a sleeping mask. It Velcro-straps in the back, so it's one-size-fits-all. Go ahead and please put that on, tight enough so it doesn't fall off but not so tight that you can't relax with it."

Once that was done, Angie made sure the door was locked, closed the window shades and killed the lights. The sofa bed could fortunately accommodate a total of five hundred pounds, about four times her weight—large weight capacity being a stipulation upon which she'd absolutely insisted when ordering the piece—so she returned to it and gently sat beside Carl's body.

"Okay, Carl," she whispered just loud enough so he could hear her voice, "I'm right here beside you, so there's no cause for alarm. Now, you're going to feel me touch you, so I want you to expect that. I'm going to tell you what I'm doing so I don't catch you off-guard. So first of all, I'm going to feel for your pulse and heartbeat. So if you would, give me your hand, please." She silently exhaled on her palms, slipped one around his wrist and smoothed the other over his chest until she located his heart.

"Good," she praised him barely audibly. "Now I want you to take a deep breath for me...breathe in, and hold it, for five seconds. One...two...three...four...five...good. Now out...and back in again, and hold it for five seconds again...one...two...three...four...five."

She had him repeat the breathing process several times. After the first few repetitions she noticed the invariable decline in his heart and pulse rate. Her facial muscles pulled her lips up into her gentle smile.

"Excellent job, Carl," she coddled. "You're doing great. You just keep that steady breathing up."

She went on having him breathe for her and encouraging him. When his heart rate and pulse decelerated to her satisfaction, she leaned down and tenderly whispered, "Very good, Carl. Now I'm going to slowly bring you into your trance. Don't be afraid...you're okay...everything's good. I'm going to count down backwards from ten...

"Just keep breathing for me, the same way I told you, Carl," she murmured down to him. "And here we go...ten...

"You're slowly feeling the weight of slumber descending upon you...nine...

"Your eyelids are growing heavier...eight...

"Your whole system is shutting down...seven...

"Just let it go, my friend...just let yourself under...six...

"You're just fine...perfectly all right...five...

"Trust me, Carl...just put your faith in my hands, it'll all be okay...four...

Still holding on to him, she could read the signs that he was slipping beneath her spell, so she just finished counting. She kept her right hand over his chest, and slipped her left into his.