"I'm not your little research monkey boy!"
Lemon Turner sighed deeply as he sunk inside the black Frau armchair inside his psychologist's waiting room, aimlessly looking around the room, switching slowly from the bare lime green wall at his left, to the footstool-like black sofa topped by an Impressionist picture of a still life in front of him, and to the low white wooden table coated in small plush animals randomly placed one atop the other.
<> he muttered under his breath, his lower torso was lightly pulsing -- an improvement over the major pain he had been suffering of until seven days ago -- and his fingers were tapping onto the armchair's arm like drumstricks. <>
He groaned as he briefly looked at the narrow alley that lead from the waiting room to the studio proper, picturing the sight he had seen many times before of a cream-coloured door and a bronze tag reading "Dr. Mild Balm" and the usual inhabitant, a tall lean woman with amber skin and black cherry hair, a toothy smile that spanned from ear to ear, greeting him with a shrill <> and nodding along Lemon's words as he spoke, before piping up with a phrase taken from the list of phrases needed for the occasion, followed by an tendency to act like an answering machine until the canonical hour was up, at which point he asked for money and dismissed Lemon, leaving him more upset than when he walked in.
<>
Lemon Turner slightly jolted up at the mention of that nickname, before he got up with a groan to walk towards Mild Balm's studio with his head hanging low and a grimace stamped on his face, looking down at the gray stone pavement even when he sat down onto the red-and-black plastic and metal chair inside the studio.
<> She asked with her usual overly-cheerful demeanor.
Lemon Turner slowly lifted up his head, seeing the frosted glass surface of the table being occupied by a green low box containing a stack of sheets of paper in the rainbow's colours next to a black-and-while dog-shaped phone on the right, and several colorful pen holders coupled with tins of silly putty of several tonalities on the left. In the center, Mild Balm's hands stood closed in a tent.
<> He said. <>
<> she said, forcing her smile to stretch even further. <>
Lemon Turner grumbled, cringing as he felt his old wounds ache a little once more, at the mere thought of exchanging a few words or even seeing them ever again.
<> He said, glaring and pouting. <>
She nodded vigorously.
<> She said still with a sickeningly sweet tone, one that made Lemon roll his eyes and groan. <>
<>
She gasped and set both her hands onto her mouth, recoiling and widening her eyes as she did so.
<> She said, stretching her hands forward, almost in the attempt to give Lemon an head pat, only to prompt a snarl from him as he slapped her hand away.
<> He said. <<When I fap alone, I sometimes imagine little kids, I feel uncomfortably horny around beaches because of this, I have started buying foreign comics about this... what else do you need?"
<> She waved her hand back and forth, as if she was sweeping the table's surface clean. <>
He facepalmed and massaged his forehead, rage mounting inside him as he felt mocked.
<> he said as he massaged his own forehead. <>
She shrugged and looked around her slowly, as if she was following a fly’s flight.
<> She adjusted her coat’s neck. <>
<>
<> She shrugged, her fingers twitching as she did so. <>
He glared and frowned, turning his face in a veritable sea of wrinkles and feeling his heartbeat speeding up and his blood warm up in his arms.
<> Lemon Turner's right hand started to tremble. <>
Suddenly Mild Balm frowned and got up from her chair, glaring at him with pinprick pupils and placing her left hand on the table while his other arm was bent in a v-like shape against her side.
<> She shouted, her tone suddenly authoritative, or at least, as authoritative her shrill voice could get. <>
Lemon Turner cringed and almost curled up in a ball, despair and rage battling together. He felt the hopelessness of the situation and the desires to repress his own instincts battle against his fiery will to dominate and channel them instead and fight what he was going through.
Soon, before his eyes, scenes of his past encounters with other psychologist of the same mettle as Mild’s flashed before his eyes, each and everyone stating with slightly different words the same exact lie about his mind.
A stare piercing the void formed on his face.
<> he muttered, his previous angry grimace being restored. <>
He felt the spark of rage ignite his heart. At first, it burn was as mild as a matchstick’s, but it soon grew, turning into a candle, then into a bonfire, which then spread through blood, warming up each and every limb, somewhat clouding his vision and prompting him to see bloody images of his fight against Mild Balm. His defeatism withered away, and, soon, his heart had turned into a blazing inferno, while the rest of his body felt powered by courage.
<> He jumped up, screaming with all his might as he grabbed Mild Balm by her coat’s neck in one fell swoop, looking her straight into her eyes. <>
Mild Balm’s eyes had instantly dug up a trench in her orbital cavities, as she flailed her arms around.
<> She cried out, in her last attempt in showing any authority.
<> He said, strengthening his grip, as he let her go, which made Mild take several deep breaths in a row. <>
Lemon Turner scrambled his hands in his trousers, pulling out a banknote.
<> he said, before turning around and slamming the door behind him, while Mild still babbled in shock.
