The Office
“Mr. Martin? Is there a Mr. Christopher Martin here?”
The voice sliced cleanly through Martin’s thoughts, sharp and melodic, like a note struck too loudly. He lifted his head and focused on the source: a young woman seated behind a small corner desk near the only door in the room. The waiting area was sparse. Rows of folding chairs stretched outward in neat lines, most of them empty. Martin occupied one near the middle, flanked by two strangers who stared straight ahead, their expressions fixed and unreadable.
“Is Mr. Martin here?” the voice rang out again, a shade higher this time.
Martin raised his hand. “Yes,” he said, his voice subdued. “I’m Martin.”
The girl’s eyes flicked to him immediately. There was a trace of impatience in her gaze, the kind that suggested she had expected him to answer sooner. She looked young, barely out of her teens. Fluorescent lighting washed her round face in pale tones, but it failed to erase the lingering softness of childhood from her features. Her nose was prominent, almost proud, and her deep blue eyes carried a curious brightness. A ponytail of golden hair fell neatly behind her head, lending her an air of practiced professionalism.
She studied him for a moment, from his shoes to his shoulders, then smiled. It was a warm smile, the kind meant to reassure.
“Mr. Martin, your appointment will begin shortly,” she said. “Just wanted to let you know.”
“Oh,” Martin murmured, already lowering his gaze back to the floor.
The air in the waiting room had the sterile, recycled scent of a place where people come to trade their secrets for a bit of peace. He focused on the pattern of the tiles beneath his shoes, watching a small patch of sunlight crawl across the linoleum floor.
The door opened and a woman stepped out first, her posture rigid, face drawn. She avoided eye contact as she passed the desk. Behind her emerged a man with a mop of white hair and a commanding presence. His voice was deep, practiced.
“Send the next one in.”
The girl nodded and glanced at Martin. He stood, straightened his jacket, and followed the man inside.
Light flooded the room as soon as the door closed behind him. Martin squinted, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted. The office he had left was dim and utilitarian. This room was the opposite. Sunlight poured in through expansive glass windows, revealing a sweeping view of the Hudson River far below. The office sat high, perched on the forty-fourth floor of a skyscraper facing northwest. The river glimmered faintly, its slow movement visible even from this height.
The room itself was modestly furnished, though its scale gave it an illusion of grandeur. Two couches faced one another at the center of the space. Behind the couch, bookshelves lined the wall, packed tightly with volumes of varying sizes and colors.
“Go ahead, have a seat,” the deep voice said.
Martin’s gaze drifted from the bookshelves to the man seated on one of the couches. He looked to be in his late fifties, his pale blue eyes framed by thick-rimmed glasses. He studied Martin carefully—not unkindly, but with a quiet, unmistakable intent. Without a word, the man gestured toward the empty couch opposite him.
Martin nodded and sat down.
“Hello, Mr. Christopher Martin,” the man said, glancing down at a brown notebook resting on his lap. “That is correct, yes?”
“Yes,” Martin replied.
“I’m Jack Bailey. Please, call me Jack.” He smiled, and this time the smile reached his eyes.
“Hello, Jack,” Martin said. Formality had long since lost its meaning for him in rooms like this.
Jack noticed the ease with which Martin settled in. His smile widened slightly.
“This doesn’t seem like your first time in an office like mine,” he observed.
Martin returned the smile, faint but knowing.
“Good,” Jack said. “Then we can take our time.”
Martin waited, uncertain whether a question would follow.
Jack smiled faintly, as if noticing this. “You don’t need to start with anything important. We can begin anywhere.”
Martin nodded. “Alright.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds. Martin became acutely aware of the wall clock—the way its second hand clicked forward, steady and relentless, like a nervous tic.
“What made you choose this place?” Jack asked.
“It was close,” Martin said. Then, after a pause, “And you came recommended.”
“Recommendations are unreliable,” Jack said mildly. “They usually say more about the person giving them.”
Martin almost smiled.
Jack finally opened the notebook. “Tell me about your week.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“That’s fine. Tell me the unimportant parts.”
Martin thought for a moment. “I wake up early. Earlier than I need to. My wife usually wakes up around seven. If I’m already dressed, she looks relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“Yes. Like I’ve passed some kind of test.”
Jack wrote something down. He did not comment.
After a while he asked, “And work?”
“It’s orderly. Numbers behave. They don’t argue.”
Jack looked up. “Do people?”
“Not usually,” Martin said. “But sometimes I do.”
There it was. Jack did not touch it immediately.
“When did you first notice that?” he asked instead.
Martin leaned back slightly. The couch creaked, then settled. “After my son was born. Or maybe after we moved back. I’m not sure. Things overlap.”
“And what happens when it comes?”
Martin searched for words. “It’s like something steps forward. I don’t want to but I lose control.”
Jack’s pen paused mid-word.
“And afterward?”
“I feel embarrassed,” Martin said. “Even if no one saw it.”
Jack turned a page. “You called it anger when you made the appointment. Could you explain what you mean by that?”
“It is anger,” Martin repeated, his fingers interlacing unconsciously. “I have no better alternative to describe it.”
Jack removed the cap from his pen, his gaze steady. “Go on.”
Martin cleared his throat. “I have anger issues. They’re not constant. They come and go. One moment I’m fine, and the next I’m furious over nothing.” He paused to catch his breath. “Please don’t misunderstand—I rarely act on it”.
“We all succumb to impulses at times,” Jack said, his voice a soothing balm. “Why don’t you start from the beginning? How was your childhood?”
“Normal,” Martin said, shaking his head. “Maybe better than most. I was an only child. My parents showered me with enough love. I also loved them. This issue... it’s recent”.
Jack jotted a question mark in his notebook. “Please, go on”.
Martin paused, then nodded. “I grew up in New York. After college, I took a job in California. Accounting manager. Good pay. Good company. My parents didn’t love the idea of me moving away, but they accepted it eventually. That’s where I met my wife.”
A smile touched his face briefly.
“She was studying at the University of California, working part-time as a teacher. We met at a party. Everything moved fast. We got married. Lived in a small apartment. Things were good.” He swallowed. “Then she got pregnant.”
He reached for the water bottle beside him, took a sip.
“Her parents also lived in New York. They suggested we move back. My parents agreed. Around the same time, my company opened a New York branch and offered me the lead position. We moved while she was pregnant. Stayed with her parents. Bought a house later. That was four years ago.”
Jack waited.
“Our son was born healthy,” Martin continued. “But the stress... it built up. I started snapping. Yelling. Over small things.”
Jack wrote three letters in his notebook. IED.
“I told my wife. She suggested therapy. I tried classes. Psychiatrists. Diagnoses. Nothing worked.”
Jack looked up. “Tell me about the incident. The one that brought you here.”
Martin’s jaw tightened as if the memory was a sharp shard of glass. “I was working. Auditing papers for the firm. It was late. Nick was playing near my desk. He’s three, Jack. He’s just a baby. He took a red marker and drew a circle on a page I had been working on for six hours. It was just a circle. A red, wobbly circle.”
Martin’s hands began to shake.
“I didn’t yell. I didn’t even think. I just... I slapped him.”
“A single slap?” Jack asked.
“No, you don’t understand,” Martin interrupted, his voice cracking. “I hit a three-year-old with the full might of a grown man. He was thrown off balance. He hit his head on the corner of the table. There was blood. He lost consciousness”.
The room went silent. The Hudson River continued to flow, indifferent.
“Luckily, no major injuries,” Martin whispered. “He didn’t even remember it. But every time I look at him, I feel the guilt. I promised my wife it wouldn’t happen again”.
“And now?”
“Now I’m afraid,” He met Jack’s eyes. “They say you’re the best hypnotist in the area”.
“Why hypnosis?” Jack asked carefully.
“Because you’re the best,” Martin replied. “And because nothing else worked.”
Jack leaned forward, the clinical skepticism he had honed over years sharpening his voice. “Hypnosis isn’t a miracle cure, Mr. Martin. It’s a polarized field, and the science on its reliability is thin at best. You need to be certain.”
Martin didn’t flinch. “I’m certain. I have spent months exhausting every other lead, and I’m still standing in the same place.” His composure fractured then, his shoulders dropping as if a physical weight had been added to them. “I’m avoiding my own home. I lie to my son, Nick, about why I’m not there. I just want to be a father again—to be near him without the constant fear that I’ll lose control.”
Jack let the silence stretch, measuring the man across from him. After a long moment, he gave a slow, decisive nod. “I’ll take the case. But we don’t start today. Hypnosis isn’t a performance; it requires a foundation of trust we haven’t built yet. Come here three days a week for the next month. We’ll build that rapport, attempt a session at the four-week mark, and see where the land lies.”
