Henry Hassan's Criminal Healing

“One-Shots in the Dark” is a series of stories that can each be turned into a full-fledged, completed narrative. Though they’re not technically one-shots, I refer to them as such because they could each remain as a one chapter story if not greenlit. The reader, (you), can influence a series’ chances of getting greenlit via votes and comments! So, if you like a series, don’t forget to show that love! Thank you.

Rule of thumb: When a section is enclosed in “--”, it’s a flash forward.

Additionally, I sometimes I write in ways that resemble a screenplay. For example, “We cut to,” “We see,” etc. This is because all of my novels are formed as a series of detailed events and scenes with direction and choreography in my mind, which then get translated into written form. Hope this helps. Have fun reading!

A young man with a short chin puff beard, black hair and hot-pink teashade glasses walks towards the pedestal. They’ve just called his name, “Henry Hassan.”

He sees the crowd of people staring on, each in their blue college uniforms like him. He clears his throat, admittedly a tad nervous. Giving a nod to the president while shaking his hand, he takes his Master’s degree.

“Are you okay giving the speech?” the president asks quietly.

“Yes, I think so.” Hassan replies with an assuring smile.

Walking up to the pedestal, he taps the microphone. He doesn’t know why, he’s just seen it everywhere in media. It wouldn’t be an official graduation without the obligatory microphone tap, he reasons.

Taking a deep breath, he looks towards the crowd, his expression growing serious, yet with undertones of satisfaction, evident by his slight smirk. With a pump, he holds the degree up in the air, the crowd focusing their attention to it.

“Here I hold the key to my practice, the allowance of my hands to heal those in need. Thank you all for being great and bright mans; you’ve all done nothing but motivate me to keep going forward. Your words of encouragement, your confidence in my ability... I also had--and still have--full confidence in yours. Even those who said it couldn’t be done, those who might’ve criticized me for even trying, I appreciate them, too. I hope that you all can do the same. My job, the duty of someone who shares their sanity for the sake of another’s, I have a passion for it. I know that Davey always told me that’s what makes me so odd--maybe even a masochist--but that weirdness, that drive to feel another’s pain and trade it for my own, that’s exactly what people our age need nowadays. I will accept indiscriminately, I will not judge indiscriminately, and I willheal indiscriminately. Those of you who believe in me, just you wait, I’ll blow your expectations out of the water. And I know that you’ll do the same for me. If you ever need help, just come to me. Don’t worry at all; just come to me, my healing will be so effective, you’ll think it’s criminal!”

A wave of claps drown the air. Hassan waves with a grin at his fellow students. This is goodbye. He hopes that he won’t have to see them again, though it’d hurt him. This not out of hatred, but out of love. For seeing them would mean they are suffering.

After the graduation is over, he says goodbye to his friends while they all go to their cars. Hassan gets into his own, a gold Volkswagen Beetle. Trying to climb in, his hat falls on the ground. With a slight gasp, he picks it up, wipes it off somewhat and puts it in the passenger’s seat. He barely fits in the car, his chin feels like it’s trying to penetrate his chest. But he’ll be damned before he gets a new car, as he loves his “Baby Beetle” too much. Driving home, he turns on the radio.

“--he saw her tapping his window. What a weirdo, right?!” the voice on the radio says.

“For real! We’ll be right back with more wild stories and wi-wi-wicked music here on Baltimore 97.3!” the announcer says before commercials start playing.

♪ I move in, now move out (hands up, now hands down)Back up, back up (tell me, what ya gonna do now?) ♪

His phone rings so loud that he jumps, his heart nearly jumping out of his chest, as well. The car behind him beeps due to his slight swerve. He picks up his phone and answers, now at a red stoplight.

“Hello?” he asks with a shaky and winded voice.

“Congrats, kid! How’d it go?” a raspy voice asks.

“Good, dad. Wait, aren’t you still at work?”

“You just graduated, dum-dum. Work comes later.”

“You’re gonna get fired!”

Beep, beep!

The same car beeps. The light has been green for god-knows how long now. Hassan floors it, embarrassed.

“Kid, stop worryin’ so much about others! I’m fine, I told my boss the news. He’s equally as excited.”

“Oh, really?” Hassan asks, pleasantly surprised.

“Hah, no. He couldn’t give less of a shit. Almost decked him in the face...”

“Dad...”

“I’ll talk to you later, kiddo. I’m sorry that I can’t be there to celebrate with you... I promise ya’ that tomorrow I’ll be there for sure.”

“No worries, dad. I know that you work really hard. I mean, compared to me--”

“Nah, nah, nah--Hassan, seriously, give yourself more credit!”

“Right, sorry.”

“Anyways, take care. Make me even more proud!”

“Right! Bye.”

Booop...

Hassan walks up the steps to his apartment, the excitement of his new future as bright and radiant as the summer’s shine and heat. Speaking of; he’s sweating buckets. When rummaging for the keys in his graduation coat’s pocket, they fall out of the opposite pocket.

‘What...?’ he asks himself in disbelief. ‘When did I put them there? No, wait... how does that even happen?!’

His door creaks open slightly as a cold wind brushes up against it. Hassan backs away slightly, his eyes peering into the darkness of his apartment. He swears that he locked it. His heart begins racing, and he bends down to pick up his keys while looking into the crack. Did someone break into his apartment? He wouldn’t be surprised. This isn’t exactly the safest part of town. He hears whispering from within the crack. Anyone could mistake it for an auditory illusion created by the wind, but Hassan knows better than to assume the most plausible explanation. It’shim, after all. Now to see if those voices are familiar or... dangerous.

Taking a deep inward breath, he swings open the door.

“Who are you...?!” he screams into the unknown.

“Surprise!” multiple familiar voices sound from within his apartment. “Wait--oh my god! Are you alright?!” one of says frantically.

Below Hassan lies a short, chubby man with dark-brown hair wearing a brown jacket as he writes on the ground in pain, covering his face.

“Dad?!” he asks, turning the light on. “What’s going on...? How are they all here right now...?!”

“Yeah, it’s me, dumbass!” he says, getting up, holding his nose. “It’s a surprise! Now my surprise is gonna be the damn medical bill...”

“Yeah, he’s okay,” one remarks.

“Sorry!” he looks up to see the familiar faces belonging to the familiar voices. “You... You’re all...”

He sees his mother, who’s also fairly short, though not as chubby as his dad, and unlike his messy black hair, she has short, kept blond hair. He also sees his two best friends, Davey, a brown-haired young man, and Sean, a blond, equally young man with a thick beard for his age, smiling awkwardly. On the far end of the room, he sees a beautiful, brown-haired woman in a red dress. Her beautiful, sharp, blue eyes steal his gaze.

‘Even Cassidy is here...’ he thinks, a feeling of happiness and comfort overcoming him.

His dad’s expression is one of slight sadness as he lets out a deep sigh. “Congrats, kid,” his dad says, pulling something out of his jacket’s pocket. “I got you this.”

Hassan takes the gift. It’s a fancy bottle of vodka, his bushy eyebrows and dark-brown, messy hair reflected on the bottle.

“How did you afford this...?!” he asks, sounding worried. “Hold on, didn’t you say you were at work?”

“I did.” he says with a smirk. “I’m gonna go buy myself somethin’ to drink, too. I’ll be right back.”

“Why didn’t you buy it...” before he can finish his sentence, his dad leaves.

“We gonna party or what?!” Sean asks.

“Oh, sure. Just let me change--”

“No time!” Cassidy says. “We bought you ice-cream cake and you arenot letting it melt!”

Hassan chuckles nervously. “Wow... you guys really went out of your way. Thank you.”

“Whatever, man,” Davey says, playfully dismissive, now playing some EDM music on a Bluetooth speaker that he brought. “I’m just here for the party!”

“Well,” his mom says with a smirk, her arms crossed. “Aren’t cha’ gonna try the vodka that your dad painstakingly worked to buy?”

“Ice-cream cake!” Cassidy yells.

“Okay!” Hassan reacts, uncapping the vodka. “I’ve never drunken before...”

All eyes lock on to him and the bottle. His two friends are in slight awe, their eyes wide as they see him put the bottle closer and closer to his lips.

“Hassan’s about to drink?!” Sean asks.

“Hell yeah!” Davey. “Drink! Drink! Drink!”

They all begin chanting--even his mother plays along.

Hassan feels pressured. He can smell the alcohol. It’s strong, and he’s not sure that he’ll like it. But he can’t just quit now. Not when they’re all cheering him on and believing in him. With an exhale, he squeezes his eyes shut and takes a big gulp from the vodka.

“Let’s fucking go!” both of his friends say in unison.

“Yeah!” Cassidy exults.

His mom gives a proud nod with a smirk...

...Three hours go by. The music is blaring fairly loud. Well, loud for this place’s standards. His next-door neighbor is so sensitive to sound that he’s sure that he’s some sort of cat. Cassidy is already knocked-out, asleep on the couch. She ate almost all of the ice-cream cake, even faster than the drank the booze.

“Where’d Davey and Sean go?” Hassan asks, coming out of the bathroom, his hands freshly washed.

“They had to go early. Their boss wanted em’ early.” his mom responds, laid back on the opposite side of the couch, glass of vodka in hand.

“Dad’s not back yet?” Hassan asks, growing worried.

“Who cares about that little midget,” she says scornfully. “You got your beautiful mother here to celebrate your graduation with you.”

She tilts her head back to face him. Her eyes show that she’s clearly intoxicated. “Can you give me a refill, Hassy?”

He takes the glass from her hand, walking over to the apartment’s small kitchen. Grabbing the vodka from the freezer, he walks over to the counter, slowly pouring the liquid into the glass.

“Yeah, who cares about that dead-beat...” she says, slurring her words.

His eyebrows furrow. A slight frown forms on his face. He’s confused. Confused and offended. ‘Dead-beat?’His dad? That’s not possible. Why would she throw such a nasty word at him like that? A dead-beat...?

“What makes him a dead-beat?” Hassan asks, closing the vodka bottle.

“He left you and me a long time ago. You seriously tellin’ me you don’t remember that?”

“No,” he says, his frown and confusion growing even more. “I... no he didn’t What are you talking about?”

“I still remember that night. It was February, I think.”

“Mom, you’rethe one that left us!” he says, turning around, cup in hand.

“...Mom?” he asks softly.

Before him, in the living room, lies nothing. His mom is nowhere to be seen. There is no music playing. There is no ice-cream cake-covered Cassidy on the couch. There is no ice-cream cake box on the coffee table. Only silence fills the room. Silence and the slight flicker of his kitchen’s yet-to-be-repaired light. Where did the party go? Where have his friends and family wandered off to? Even their smells, Cassidy’s flowery perfume, his mom’s stench of booze, and Sean and Davey’s oddly pleasant smell of engine oil have all but vanished.

He starts feeling dizzy, growing more tired and slow. He looks down at his hand. Surely the vodka bottle didn’t disappear too, he thinks. His eyes meet with something that is surely a bottle, but is in no way alcoholic. Completely different from anything recreational, its very sight evokes nothing but disappointment and melancholy.

An orange bottle.

Chlorpromazine, 800mg

Anempty orange bottle.

“Holy cow--”

“I’m back with the goods, kid!” his dad says loudly as he opens bursts through the door.

Hassan jumps back in shock, completely jump-scared. “Dad! What the fuck?!”

“Hey! Language!” his dad says, closing the door with his leg.

He’s carrying a huge twelve-pack of canned wine, barely able to balance it, as his vision is obscured by the very box. Hassan rushes over, carrying the box for his dad.

“Dad, why were you gone for over two hours?!”

“Hass, I’ve only been gone for forty-five minutes or so.”

“Huh?!”

Hassan lays the box down on the coffee table, letting out a sigh of both slight exhaustion and confusion. Fifteen minutes? That can’t be, right? His dad looks over at the medication bottle on the ground, noting to himself how it’s opened and empty.

“You forgot to take your pills this morning, kiddo. I gave you the last one that was in the bottle before I left. You were out of it, so you won’t remember...”

“...Oh. That’s not good.”

His dad gives him a reassuring smack on his back. “But you know what is?” he opens the box, grabbing a can of wine. “This quality time we get to spend together. Celebrating graduation! Look at my son, all grown up.”

Hassan gives a weak smile, grabbing a can of wine from the box. “I saw mom. Sean and Davey, too. Even... Cassidy.”

His dad opens the can of wine, drinking it warm, his eyes sullen. “I know. Part of the reason I left to get this wine.”

“I’m sorry... I made things weird again--” he’s smacked on the back of the head.

“Can it. Have some self respect. Not like you can control it, kid,” he says, holding up his can to Hassan, offering a toast. “Just focus on the aspects of life that youcan control. Make sure you turn them into great and memorable moments.”

Hassan nods, feeling a little better. He taps his dad’s can with a faint “dink” sound.

“Still wish they were here, though.” he says, drinking the sweet, red wine.

His dad lets out a frustrated click. “Hass, this is your problem. Cassidy doesn’t and never will like your ass; that girl’s standards are so high they can stab Zeus in the ass when he’s trying to shit!”

“I know, but...”

“No buts. Sean and Davey both ended up backstabbing you for a higher GPA. Don’t ya’ remember, kid?!” his voice is getting more and more intense.

“Dad, I get it. Calm down--”

“No! Not until you realize that you need some self-respect! You’re good at analyzing people and their problems--hell, that’s what you graduated college in--but you can’t see that these people just don’t want anything to do with you? Kid, they don’t respect you--”

“But I’m not them! I don’t have their problems. No one’s perfect. Every person in this world deserves help; they’re born with the right to have a healer. The most sick are the ones that don’t want to be healed. I know that they’re the way that they are because... they just are. But, jeez, dad, you know that I can’t accept that!”

“I know! And that’s what annoys me about you!”

“I’m going to be a psychologist and therapist! I have to have the hope that they can change...!”

“I don’t think that they deserve to change. Not when they’re treating others like that. Not when they treat my own son like that.”

Hassan sighs, relaxing. It’s his graduation party and they still argue. It’s become a norm for them, though not a norm born of ill will. His father just wants his son to see the world like he does. And though is son respects how he views the world, respect doesn’t mean acceptance. His dad doesn’t share the same values. Even still...

“Eh, whatever. Agree to disagree. I love ya’ either way. Christ-like or not.” his dad says, giving a slight smile as he lays down on the couch.

“Wait, aren’t you Christian? What’s wrong with being Christ-like?” Hassan asks teasingly, a smirk on his face as he crosses his arms.

“Nothing!” his dad says with a frown, his silver crucifix swaying on his neck. “The Lord knows what I mean.”

They both laugh. They spend time together, conversing, watching movies they’d watch together since Hassan was a kid, and eventually spiraling into typical drunk talk, like questioning presidential assassinations, why people thought the moon was made of cheese, and how each animal on Earth would taste. Good times are had, and in that moment, both Hassan and his dad forget that they have to deal with a life of confusion and uncertainty...

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“Is it red?” the blond woman sitting on the barstool in front of the camera asks the cameraman.

“Almost...” the camera man says, adding the final finishing touches to the camera setup.

“I got an appointment soon--”

“Three, two,”

“Ah! Jesus, okay!”

“One...” the man presses the “record” button.

Another man, next to the camera man, speaks. He’s holding a set of flashcards. “Who is Henry Hassan to you?”

“He’s my psych. Best head doctor I ever had. The guy’s a bit creepy at times, though...”

“Why?” the flashcards man asks. “‘Creepy’ how?”

“He tries to know all about you. Like,all about you. Like I mean, ‘creepy’, but it’s not to the point of making me feel weirded out at all. He always tells me ‘you can tell me to shut up whenever.’”

“Sounds like a funny guy. He’s probably like all the other therapists, though.”

The scene changes. Now it’s a Jamaican man sitting on the stool.

“Hell no! Not even close. Dude’s a great guy. I feel like I can invite him to a baseball game and he’d accept--and he doesn’t even like sports!”

“Really? Well, with a doctor like that, I bet the cost would be...”

It changes once again. Now it’s a younger, skinnier man with a bowl cut.

“Not even close, yo. My grandma almost killed me when I told her I was gettin’ therapy, homes. We don’t got much money, you feel me? Shit’s tough...”

“Please don’t swear...”

“But you know what?! The goat himself, Dr. Hassan, didn’t even charge me for the first visit! Like, that ain’t even a smart business practice n’ shit,”

“Please--”

“But the dude doesn’t care! He puts the patient first and the money last!”

It changes once more. This time to a long, black-haired, pale-skinned teenage girl, her hands clasped together.

“But why risk the patient using the free day and never coming back?”

The girl lets out a bemused chuckle. “Never come back? Because Dr. Hassan’s healing is so effective...”

We see all of the volunteers say the following at once, side-by-side...

“It’s criminal.”

We cut back to the original woman.

“You can’t help but come back to it.” she says with a smirk and a wink.

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...Hassan is waiting. Sitting in a chair. A soft, comfortable desk-chair. The office that he’s in looks comfortable and with undertones of orange in the atmosphere, coming from an overhanging lamp in the corner of the room. A pleasant smell of oranges caress the air and his soul. In front of him, a circular, cheery-wood desk with a bronze nameplate that reads “Dr. Kate Bernard.”

‘Interview time,’ he thinks, his legs quietly bouncing up and down. ‘Interview time... Interview time. Don’t mess it up.’

The door creaks open behind him. He instinctively turns around, though his anxiety wishes that he would’ve taken his time. He gives a nervous smile to the curly-haired, Celtic-looking woman walking into the room with an orange in her hand.

“How are you feeling today, Henry?”

“Hi. I’m well.” he says, eyeing the orange.

She sits down in front of him, scooting up. “That’s good. Hopefully no stress? No worries?”

“Well, that’s not possible,” Hassan says, smiling awkwardly. “Life wouldn’t be life without that uncertainty.”

“True. And uncertainty breeds stress. We can’t always mold and manipulate things to our liking,” she says, peeling the orange effortlessly with her hands. “Sometimes we can do things our way, under our control, like how I can easily peel this orange. But other times,” she presses too hard, causing the orange to gush juice, “things don’t go according to plan.”

“You need a tissue?” Hassan asks, reaching into his suit’s breast pocket.

She puts up a hand, looking down at something on the table. Camouflaged is a bowl, the exact type of wood and color as the desk. Hassan hadn’t seen it. It collected the gushing juice.

“But as long as we understand the unexpected, what we can’t control, and accept that some things are out of our control, we can even use the unexpected, in a way. Like how I can use this orange juice to make a scented candle.” she says, pointing with her thumb to a row of ignited orange candles.

“You really like oranges, huh?” Hassan asks, a bit bewildered.

“Mhm. They’re like people, in a way. Some oranges are too hard to cut with your hands, so you need a knife. But others are soft enough to peel with your fingers. Like any good mental health professional, it’s important to distinguish between people who can be pried open willingly and painlessly, and those who do not want to open up. We have to respect the latter and let them go, just like one would when an orange is too tough.”

“You discard the patient? Because they’re too sour?” Hassan pauses. “Wait... is this part of the interview?”

“It’s actually almost over.”

“What?!”

“Just two things I need from you. One, do you agree with everything that I’ve said? And two, of course, I’d need to have you undergo a psychological evaluation.”

Hassan feels a lump form in his throat. He heard what he heard. He should’ve expected it, but nevertheless, it feels as if he’s been threatened in some way. His blood becomes cold.

“Right... yeah. That sounds reasonable.”

“So, do you agree?”

“If I say ‘yes’, will you hire me...?” he asks half seriously.

She lets out a slight laugh, shaking her head. ”Will you say ‘yes’?”

Hassan considers it for a second. His legs start bouncing again as he looks down at the orange on the bowl.

“I partially agree with what you’ve said.”

“What do you disagree with?” she asks, leaning in, her hands clasped.

“I don’t like the idea of giving up on a patient. Even if you’re right that there’s no saving them, how can I call myself a mental health professional if I don’t try till the very end?”

“But you’d be making the patient suffer if you force them.”

“...But they’d suffer twice as much by their own hands.”

“It’s admirable what you’re saying, but I’m afraid that that way of thinking isn’t accepted in the mental health world.”

“Wait, I didn’t mean--”

“Don’t worry,” she says with a warm smile. “Believing is one thing, but acting is another. I know you’ll follow the rules to a “T”. Right?” she offers a hand with a grin.

“...Yes. I will. You have my word!”

They shake hands, both grinning.

“Now we just need that psyche eval from you. I’ll schedule it and let you know later today.”

“Sounds good. Thank you so much, Dr. Bernard!”

“Of course. You can just call me Kate, y’know. You’re now a fellow MHP.” she says with a playful wink.

Hassan grins, overfilled with joy.

...Hassan leaves the psychologist’s office. It’s a bright night, the full moon is blasting its light on to the downtown of Baltimore. Besides the moon’s blue hue, the multiple different colors of the buildings in the city illuminate the dark and warm atmosphere.

♪I move in, now move out (hands up, now hands down) Back up, back up (tell me, what ya gonna do now?)♪

Hassan picks up his phone, his eyes downcast. “Yes...?”

“How’d you do, kiddo?” his dad asks, the sounds of metal clanging in the background of the call.

Hassan walks down the stairs, undoing his suit’s upper buttons; It’s grown too tight and hot.

“Son...?”

“He rejected me, too.” he says, the cars zooming past him as he makes his way through the empty sidewalk.

“Fuck!” his dad curses. “You serious?!”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t this, like--”

“The twentieth one, dad.” he says with a dead voice.

“Don’t sound so defeated, kid! I’m sure--”

“No, dad,” he says, holding his thumb over the end-call button as he looks at the phone. “It’s been months. They even told me that I should quit while I was ahead; someone with my... disposition can’t be an MHP.”

“What disposition? Why the hell do those bozos always treat you like you’re choosing to be the way you are?!”

“It’s okay. Seriously. I’ll just... settle for online therapy.”

“But, son... that’s... that’d be giving up on your dream!”

“Sometimes you have to accept the unexpected. Though, to be honest, I should’ve expected it.”

“Please, son... don’t do this. You’re hurting your poor, old man here...”

“Keep working hard dad. Maybe I’ll join you at the refinery if things get worse.”

Booooop...

Crossing the street, defeated, Henry Hassan has now fully learnt to expect the unexpected. Where previously he knew of the concept’s existence and its importance, now he’s experienced its practical form. His hands in his suit’s pockets, he makes his way to the parking lot across the street...

When suddenly...

“For fuck’s sake!” A high-pitched, young man’s voice sounds from within an alley. “Put the money in the fucking bag! Gimme all you got! Fucking do it!”

Hassan’s heart sinks. He’s witnessing a mugging. Or what he hears to be a mugging. He doesn’t want to check the sound, but unfortunately for him, it’s coming from an alley that he needs to pass by no matter what. Should he run past? Should he hide behind the wall and call the police? But to call the police, he’d need to get a close look at the man’s face. That, and the street name. He can’t see it anywhere at the moment!

‘Why me?!’ Hassan asks, peaking from one of the building’s walls. ‘Why is there no one else around?!’

“I don’t have any! Please! Just let me go! I’m as broke as you, man!”

“That’s a pretty watch, though! You fuckin’ lyin’ to me?!”

“No, man! It’s my dad’s! He lent it to me!”

“So I can sell it! Give it here!”

“You don’t have to do this--”

Smack!

A guttural scream rings out in the night. The mugger, a young man, no older than eighteen, wearing a black cap and sporting orange hair, and the victim, a much larger, wider adult man with a thick, black beard look on at the unexpected sight.

“FUCK! OH, JESUS CHRIST! OW! AAAAH!” Hassan screams, holding his sprained ankle.

“Did... did you just try to save me?” the victim asks, bewildered and barely able to speak from the attacker’s hand on his throat.

“Yeah, bro, what the hell was that?” the mugger asks in disbelief.

“I WAS TRYING TO SAVE YOU!” Hassan screams in pain, pointing to the mugger.

“M...me?” the mugger asks, letting go of the victim.

“I think he’s in too much pain to even point... yowch,” he says, able to speak now. “Also,” he darts off at full speed. “I’m outta here!”

“Wha--hey!” the mugger exclaims, running after him.

“Stop right where you are!” Hassan says with an authoritative voice.

The mugger turns around slowly, sweat growing on his forehead. His heart starts pounding, and his hands instinctively start raising. Did he cause too much commotion? Are they here?!

“Guys, listen, hahah,” he says, turning around. “It’s all just a big...” he sees Hassan, standing with a limped leg, “misunderstanding... That was you?! I thought the cops were here!”

“Please, don’t go after that poor soul. I won’t tell anyone about this. I won’t--”

“I wouldn’t worry about that guy if I were you. Why would I go after him?” he says, an angry smile growing on his face as he reaches into his pocket. “And youdefinitely won’t snitch.”

The young man pulls a butterknife from out of his jacket’s pocket. “Gimme all your money, idiot.”

“You... you’re seriously threatening me with a butterknife?” Hassan says in monotone disbelief.

“It’s all I got, okay?!”

“You couldn’t bring a kitchen knife... or...?”

“Shut up and give me your money!”

Then it clicks. Hassan’s eyes light up. “That’s why that guy got away! Because you don’t actually want to hurt anyone!”

“Back it up, buddy! That guy got away because you FUCKING RUINED EVERYTHING--”

“God only knows what you must be going through... to have to resort to mugging someone with a butterknife.”

“I said shut up...!” the young man says, his voice shaky, his eyes teary.

“What?!” Hassan asks, stepping closer. “Hey! I’m sorry!”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?! You have no idea what I’m going through! I’m a killer! A real, blood-thirsty killer! I just don’t got the money to get a proper weapon! Like you’d understand the struggle of finding a life! You have no idea how hard it is to have to deal with the shit that I have to deal with, man! You wouldn’t know! You’re wearin’ a suit! A suit and fucking tie! You just got employed at some big company, and you’re gonna be makin’ bank soon and spittin’ all over me!”

“Actually,” Hassan says, somberly looking down at his tie as he undoes it. “I just got rejected by my dream job for the twentieth time. They don’t want me, y’know?” he lets the tie fall to the ground, his foot squashing it. “This suit and this tie mean nothing... they won’t be put to use any time soon. And neither will my skills.”

“What...?” the mugger asks, wiping his tears, calming down slightly.

“I’ve been left by my own mother, backstabbed by my two jealous best friends, and been called an ‘insufferable schizo’ by the only girl that I’ve ever liked. I studied hard my whole life, thinking that those events would be worth it in the end when I’d achieve my dream and be able to help people.”

“Big woop! I got left by my mother too! Got abandoned by my dad just recently, practically homeless, and my sister thinks I’m a lost cause! That it’s a fucking shame that I’m even related to her!” his tears flow once more, his voice becoming more intense and sorrow-stricken. “And you know why?! You know why?!”

Hassan walks closer to him, an empathetic expression on his face. “No. I don’t. But I’d like to know.”

The young man covers his eyes with his cap, the butterknife falling on to the ground with a “clang”. He grits his teeth.

“Tell me why. I want to know why. Don’t leave me in the dark. Please. I can take you out of it.”

“Who the hell even are you, man...?!” the man asks through a set of sniffles and chokes. “Why am I opening up to a fucking stranger?!”

“Because you couldn’t take it anymore,” Hassan says, offering a hand. “This is what happens when you repress those emotions and thoughts. When you let them fester, unresolved. And I’m not talking about you crying or opening up.”

The man falls silent, collecting himself. His cap still covering his eyes, he lets out a shaky sigh.

“Just... tell me who you are.”

“My name is Henry Hassan, and I’m a schizophrenic psychotherapist. A lost cause, just like you,” he raises his hand slightly higher, and the young man finally sees it. “Let me be the help that you need. Let me heal you. You know that what you’re doing is wrong.”

“I don’t got money...”

“I don’t do it for the money.”

“Love of the game? Bullshit...”

“I tried saving you for no reason, when I would’ve easily gotten killed.”

“You’re... just gonna call the cops.”

“You’ve got a bright soul under those sunken eyes, and an even brighter future. Jail for someone like yourself... I couldn’t forgive myself.”

“You don’t even know me. Why do this?”

“The love of the game. As you said.”

The young man notices his own hand slowly getting closer to Hassan’s. “I...”

He slaps his hand away before darting into the darkness of the alley.

“No! Wait!′

“Fuck you, cop!”

Hassan reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out one of his business cards. In the nick of time, he manages to just barely slide it into the man’s jacket pocket as he runs away, unaware. All but the echoes of his footsteps remain as they slowly fade out and become one with the silent air.

Hassan limps to the exit of the alley. Looking back, his eyebrows furrowed, he says one last thing before going back to his car.

“Iwillheal you.”