on_thecouch 1.4 Daddy Issues
Munch sighs heavily and rubs the inside corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He takes one more steadying breath before he says what he's told so few others before.
"My father died when I was very young." He's glad when the therapist simply nods, he's afraid if they were to speak that he might lose his nerve. He takes the silence as his cue to continue, "Actually he shot himself, right in our living room. No note, no warning, he just climbed down the stairs one night with gun in hand and blew his brains out."
"I still remember hearing the shot followed by my mother's screams. I ran out of my room to see what had happened. I had barely made it out of my bedroom when my mother grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me back. She put her hands over my eyes trying to block the sight but it was too late. I had already seen the slumped headless corpse on the couch and..." his breath hitches as a wave of nausea hits, "and the blood. It was everywere, the walls, ceilings, everywere. And you want to know what the worst part is?" His lip curls in disgust at the memory, "The last words I ever said to him were that I hated his guts. For the longest time I thought it was all my fault. I thought I killed my father. Maybe I still do."
"Your father probably had a serious mental illness, Detective. Psychotherapy wasn't as advanced back then, he probably went undiagnosed his entire life. Suicide was how he chose to deal with whatever demons he felt he had but that was his choice, you can't blame yourself."
"But what if mental illness runs in my family? If you're right then my father killed himself before anyone could figure out what was wrong with him but I've got an uncle and, Andrew my father's brother, and he's rotting away in some mental hospital. What if I've got whatever it is they've got? You know? Sometimes I think about Cass and I wonder if I could ever do to her what my father did to me." Munch is surprised by a single hot tear rolling down his cheek. He swipes at it angrily but then they start coming down in sheets and he can't make them stop. "Damn it!" he cries but still they come. Soon he's hunched over with his hands over his face. It feels like he's drowning as great heaving sobs make it almost impossible to breath. The therapist lets him cry, she doesn't try to ask questions or hand him a tissue, she just sits there and watches him.
Long after the tears have dried Munch is still staring at the inside of his palms. When finally he hears the timer ding he stands up and walks out of the room without so much as a word.
"My father died when I was very young." He's glad when the therapist simply nods, he's afraid if they were to speak that he might lose his nerve. He takes the silence as his cue to continue, "Actually he shot himself, right in our living room. No note, no warning, he just climbed down the stairs one night with gun in hand and blew his brains out."
"I still remember hearing the shot followed by my mother's screams. I ran out of my room to see what had happened. I had barely made it out of my bedroom when my mother grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me back. She put her hands over my eyes trying to block the sight but it was too late. I had already seen the slumped headless corpse on the couch and..." his breath hitches as a wave of nausea hits, "and the blood. It was everywere, the walls, ceilings, everywere. And you want to know what the worst part is?" His lip curls in disgust at the memory, "The last words I ever said to him were that I hated his guts. For the longest time I thought it was all my fault. I thought I killed my father. Maybe I still do."
"Your father probably had a serious mental illness, Detective. Psychotherapy wasn't as advanced back then, he probably went undiagnosed his entire life. Suicide was how he chose to deal with whatever demons he felt he had but that was his choice, you can't blame yourself."
"But what if mental illness runs in my family? If you're right then my father killed himself before anyone could figure out what was wrong with him but I've got an uncle and, Andrew my father's brother, and he's rotting away in some mental hospital. What if I've got whatever it is they've got? You know? Sometimes I think about Cass and I wonder if I could ever do to her what my father did to me." Munch is surprised by a single hot tear rolling down his cheek. He swipes at it angrily but then they start coming down in sheets and he can't make them stop. "Damn it!" he cries but still they come. Soon he's hunched over with his hands over his face. It feels like he's drowning as great heaving sobs make it almost impossible to breath. The therapist lets him cry, she doesn't try to ask questions or hand him a tissue, she just sits there and watches him.
Long after the tears have dried Munch is still staring at the inside of his palms. When finally he hears the timer ding he stands up and walks out of the room without so much as a word.