The counselor slides off the desk, wiping pretzel dust off his hands before striding over to Moriarty and taking his hand— one hand to hold, one hand to trace a line on Moriarty's palm. The life line. It itches when the counselor touches his skin, and at the same time, the tally marks on Moriarty's wrist begins to burn, a searing pain, one finger pressed to the end of the line while the other hand wraps itself around Moriarty's wrist with surprising strength to prevent him from pulling away.
He opens his eyes and it's darkness, it's silence, there's the distinct lack of air or space to move but he finds himself trying anyways, hands scrabbling at— dirt? soil, heavy and damp, crushing him on all sides, something with too many legs skittering over the back of his hand, something with no legs slithering inside his open mouth that's screaming, shouting, no breath left in his lungs that burn and sear as he keeps calling for help, crying for somebody to save him— for somebody to hear him— for Maya to-
He opens his eyes and he's in the counselor's office. The counselor is crouched in front of him, hands to himself again, peering up at Moriarty.
...He breathes a sigh, and pushes off his knees to stand. ]
That will be the end of our counselling sessions, James. For now.
no subject
The counselor slides off the desk, wiping pretzel dust off his hands before striding over to Moriarty and taking his hand— one hand to hold, one hand to trace a line on Moriarty's palm. The life line. It itches when the counselor touches his skin, and at the same time, the tally marks on Moriarty's wrist begins to burn, a searing pain, one finger pressed to the end of the line while the other hand wraps itself around Moriarty's wrist with surprising strength to prevent him from pulling away.
He opens his eyes and it's darkness, it's silence, there's the distinct lack of air or space to move but he finds himself trying anyways, hands scrabbling at— dirt? soil, heavy and damp, crushing him on all sides, something with too many legs skittering over the back of his hand, something with no legs slithering inside his open mouth that's screaming, shouting, no breath left in his lungs that burn and sear as he keeps calling for help, crying for somebody to save him— for somebody to hear him— for Maya to-
He opens his eyes and he's in the counselor's office. The counselor is crouched in front of him, hands to himself again, peering up at Moriarty.
...He breathes a sigh, and pushes off his knees to stand. ]
That will be the end of our counselling sessions, James. For now.