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Light sits in his leather chair, drinking his soy latte and clicking his pen as he jots down notes, every day. Every day he leans back in his chair, carefree and aloof, observing the people that are sent his way. They’re all different, he doesn’t have a set type of person he works on. He specializes in everything.
The secret is that therapy never works. People like to think that they’re in control of their lives, that they’re doing something proactive and important to better themselves, and that they’re trying to fight against the darkness that threatens to consume them, but it’s all bullshit. Options for mental health treatment are medication or acceptance, sometimes a lobotomy, and that never really fixes the problem, rather, it simply makes it moot. The maladies of the mind are not easily fixed, if fixed at all. The abnormalities of the brain can never smooth themselves out and conform. Talking to a therapist for an hour really does nothing, it’s just extra time to bitch and moan about your coworkers, mother-in-law, the unfairness of the government, anything that isn't oneself.
Of course, Light would never tell his clients this. And not just because they pay his bills, though the money is good.
No, in truth, if you were to ask Yagami Light why he decided to pursue a career in the psychology field, he’d tell you that he’s passionate about helping his clients seize the power within themselves. He loves helping people, in any way he can.
And that’s not the truth, but the truth is ugly, and most people don’t care for it.
It is fascinating to see the inner workings of another person’s mind, to tinker with mechanisms, oil cogs, cut wires that should never be cut. Light is not simply a psychiatrist but a scientist, experimenting and theorizing and watching with clinical sharpness. It is especially thrilling to explore an empty mind, barren of anything at all. Hearing how trauma and life experiences alike contort and shape a person into their current form are graves Light eagerly unearths. He likes to give his clients a diagnosis for the insurance companies to put on paper, and he likes to keep an entirely different one secret for himself. All people are such interesting, intricate shapes, and Light likes to try and understand the workings of different people’s minds, he goes mad with it. These are such thrilling labyrinths to explore.
He likes understanding people. Many different people.
He likes holding their secrets. He likes learning of the wicked things people hold inside of themselves, poison and self-mutilation and lies, and he likes that he is the one who bears witness to the oblivious; these people don’t realize that they are everything that is wrong with themselves, the disease and their detriment.
Light is, basically, a legalized peeping tom, looking into the windows of other’s souls, all while they hold the curtain open for him.
His ten o'clock appointment is always two minutes late. Never one, never ten, always two. It is as if she meticulously plans when to walk into the waiting room, like she gets there at exactly the right time, but she waits until the little hands on the watch click two centimeters over before she makes her grand entrance. Not late, but fashionably so. If Light had to guess, he thinks she does this to be unique, different, special. She wants to be noticed and thinks this is the best way to do so.
Amane Misa is melodrama in its purest form. Most celebrities are, but she’s a Primadonna who lives with a golden spoon inside of her mouth and pressed up against her nose. Misa secretly loves that her life is a maniacal mess because she romanticizes the drama, she feeds off of misfortune like a parasite forever unsated. No matter how ugly, it can be made into something beautiful. This is the delusion Misa labors under and the one that keeps her put together. A normal life? Never, Misa would despise normal, she’d find life too boring without all of these little imaginary conundrums that helped her sleep at night and breathe during the day. Misa is the soft-spun quality of a dream, while possessing the fervent desire of a nightmare.
And she wants Light’s attention. No, she craves it, in a way that’s not strictly professional. Light pretends not to notice but he notices everything. How, when she first came to his office, she was wearing sweats and slippers and a worn hospital bracelet. Every time since her tights have grown more ripped, her shirts smaller, and she always leans forward on the couch while speaking to him. Her hair has been dyed more golden, meant to sparkle and shine with a radiance she does not possess. Light notices these things, and they are catnip to the likes of him.
She wants Light to be her savior, she wants the love that her father never gave her to come from him, to prove to herself that she is worthy of a man’s care and affection. It’s not unusual, especially for women, to fall in love with their therapists. Misa needs stability, she needs the voice of reason to constantly be in her ear, and that’s what Light is. That’s why she visits him not once, twice, but three times a week.
And Light’s happy to prostitute himself in the name of mental health. He seldom offers words, for Misa can talk enough for both of them, and she doesn’t really want advice. Not really. She wants a mannequin, a silent spectator to soak up her problems so they aren’t so lonesome, and if not him she’d probably be content talking to a pile of stuffed animals. She just needs to feel heard.
When he does talk, he offers self-affirming praises and whispers of kindness, and she melts like ice cream on a warm summer day. He tells her that her mother’s alcoholism and her father’s absence aren't her fault, of course not. He assures her that she’s worth more than just her looks, and he tells her that no one has ever strayed too far away from help’s saving grace. He shakes her hand, her hands that are soft from years of moisturizing lotion, and sometimes he lets his touch linger.
But, is he doing anything horribly wrong? No, not really, he’s never crossed a professional line, an emotional one doesn’t count, it’s imaginary and up for interpretation. Besides, if given the chance, he knows Misa would never actually date him. She likes what Light represents, he is more idol than human inside her supersaturated fantasy. If given the real thing, all of that mystery and illusive mist fades away. If given the chance to do to Light what he does to her, she’d look inside of his soul and find a mirror, because that’s what he is for people. No one knows Yagami Light.
And it’s not just women who come to him for validation. Many men, even the ones who claim they’re straight, fall for his charm and his sensitivity. And, his looks, though everyone would claim they love Light for his mind so as not to seem shallow, Light appreciates aesthetics and uses them to his advantage - it is always the elephant in the room, among many others client and psychiatrist alike are content to ignore.
Mikami Teru comes every Friday night after work. He’s Light’s last appointment of the week and Light thinks Mikami likes it that way. This tells Light that he doesn’t have anything better to do to prepare for the weekend, no friends and no women or men of interest. Light is it. Mikami comes to see him on Friday nights because Light is his hit of cocaine after a mundane and stressful week at the office.
Mikami is such a strong believer in justice, so much so that he often overlooks what he himself has failed to do in its shining name, but he’d rather focus on others’ shortcomings and wicked ways first. It’s easy to talk to Mikami, in a way, because Light finds more often than not that he agrees with most everything Mikami preaches. Sometimes, it almost feels like Light’s the one laid horizontally on the soft leather couch.
And Light understands that the only reason Mikami gets a hard-on for justice is not because he’s a particularly pious man, but because he has mommy issues. His mother never protected him from school bullies, so as a result, he had to learn to protect himself. That went as far as needing to save others, which is why he goes for women and men who are in abusive relationships. Mikami has this innate need to save everyone, not because he cares about their suffering, but because it is an attempt to rectify the past, and he needs to offer the helping hand no one ever bothered to offer to him.
Mikami adores the idea of a clean world but fails to understand that a true heaven on earth would mean almost everyone inside of it would have to perish. He talks with such conviction, but he lacks confidence. He snarls at police officers and the system but is a lawyer himself. His hypocrisy does make for a delicious pastry on the side paired with delightful earl grey tea, so Light entertains his radicalism. If Light did somehow find a way to take all of the undesirables out of this earth, however, he’d start with Mikami first. He can’t stand whining.
This means that if he could, he’d condemn almost every single one of his clients to the pits of hell.
But the ones that make him feel something, however, he’d let them stay.
There’s this one boy, well, man really but he acts like a boy who never exactly graduated high school, who comes to see him every two weeks and Light’s not really sure he needs therapy. Not the traditional kind anyway. He’s not depressed, no, he is almost alarmingly cheerful, like a robot set to the highest setting. In all honesty, Light doesn’t believe he has the emotional capacity to feel any such feeling. He goes to therapy because he believes it’s ‘healthy.’
Oh, but Light does enjoy hearing about police matters that are supposed to be kept confidential from citizens. Just more secrets to add to his collection, more skeletons to hang in his closest.
He learns that the young police officer’s mother died too young, from depression, which manifested into a disease as terminal and agonizing as cancer. Matsuda voice trembles when he recalls it. Light makes the tentative diagnosis that while Matsuda is not depressed, he’s terribly afraid of it, and that’s why he comes to Light every so often. To fight off the possible monsters under his bed. He fears that if he ever becomes sad, as sad as she was, than he will have no choice but to die as well.
It’s all so very fascinating. Sometimes, late at night when Light can’t quite fall into elusive sleep's embrace, he’ll sit at his desk, watching dying stars burning out in glory, and make a map of his clients and theorize over which one will burn out first.
Takada Kiyomi is a woman Light thinks will live well into bitter old age purely fueled by spite alone. She claims she doesn’t need therapy, she comes to keep a level head, but really, she just needs his signature on a slip of paper that provides endless pills. Kiyomi is a bit of a perfectionist, OCD with a touch of anxiety, but she cannot let these chips in her façade show, so she glues them precariously together and hopes that if she keeps other’s always held away at arm’s length, they won’t be able to see the faint fractures spiderwebbed through her skin. It’s an intelligent, well-executed tactic, and Light somewhat admires her for it.
He tells her, obviously, that letting others in, letting people close, is okay. It’s safe. Not a weakness. But that’s not how he really feels, that’s just textbook information flowing mindlessly from his lips. People are mad, sick, wild creatures and only few can predict their motives. The people who have painted their wickedness into a convincing portrait of virtue are harder to see. Letting people close enough to look inside your eyes carelessly to see what lurks inside is stupid, self-harm, suicide. You can’t really trust anyone, not if you value your own sanity.
Light is a therapist, and he doesn’t trust anyone, no one at all. He’d be a fool too.
But he is so fascinated with the human condition and its cataclysmic worst nature that, no matter how far and fast they all run, they can never quite escape from. He can't help but draw closer to it.
He has a client whose name he knows, but it’s not his real name, so Light won’t even bother using it. He has no tangible evidence to show that it is not his real name, but the proof is his whispering instinct. Liars recognize others of their kind.
And this client has never told him the truth about anything. This is odd, because a therapist is the one person to who you should feel free to tell all of your secrets. Legally, they cannot tell a soul, but this man knows better. He sees that Light is not the trustworthy sort, and Light...
Well, it’s hard not to be pulled in by this creature’s charms.
Light asked him once why he came to therapy, since he too believes it’s nothing more than nonsense and feel-good ceremonies. The man shrugged, biting down on his thumb, which is a nervous habit Light never really took any notice of because habits are habits and even he fidgets with the dial on his watch when he grows too restless.
“I thought it would be fun,” he answered, so simply, because sometimes answers are simple like that.
But from the way his silver eyes sparkled like broken glass, Light knew the man had come if only to study his therapist. He was analyzing Light as much as Light was analyzing him, writing down even how the man smelt and how much he smiled and what exactly made him smile.
It became a game. They pulled out their respective scalpels and began the metaphorical, mental dissection.
It is bloody, it is violent, and it is thrilling.
The man never schedules a set time. His schedule is erratic and his sense of responsibility is flighty, he comes in about three times a month. Sometimes two, sometimes one, and then sometimes four months will pass before Light hears anything at all. But every time he gets that email requesting his presence at his earliest convenience, Light cancels all of his appointments for the next day.
Sometimes they don’t even speak. They have shared long appointments consisting of only silence and a ticking clock, but it’s never uncomfortable or unwelcome. They speak words that the air cannot hear, it’s almost telepathic, spiritual, and sometimes the man will leave before the hour is up because he simply knows there is nothing more to say.
It’s a two-sided deal, Light gets something more out of this man than he has anyone else, even his own mother, who gave him life.
This man is like the oxygen Light breathes, polluted and sick, something that will kill him, but not for a long, long while, and - well, Light needs to breathe, after all.
It is a paradox.
“Do you find your clients boring Doctor?” The man asks one day, slurping from the straw of his overly pink, overly sweet beverage with whipped cream on top.
“Where is this coming from?”
“Just a question, I get curious about it sometimes. I don’t think I could ever have the patience to do what you do.”
“Why is that?”
“Listening to other’s minuscule problems sounds so dreadful, there are so many bigger things to be worrying about in this life I don’t think I could stand the mundane retellings of lives that are unimportant to mine. But I answered your question, now answer mine. Don’t think that I didn’t notice you trying to gloss over it.”
Light ducks his head, fighting to hide his smile. Anti-social personality disorder? But he’s telling the truth, some days it takes all of his willpower not to stick a gun in his mouth because hearing some lady wailing about how it’s her husband’s sixth affair, yet she still won’t leave him because she has crippling self-worth issues and his infidelity only makes it worse, really is more painful than any bullet could be. A vicious cycle of self-harm she’s not strong enough to pull away from. Tragic, but expected of those who grew up with an absent father and narcissistic mother who practiced emotional incest rather than any actual parenting.
“I wasn’t glossing over it; I did intend to answer. Hm, let’s see...no, I don’t. Because no matter how unimportant it may seem to me, it’s important to them and it’s important that I show I care about how they feel. So many of these people come to me because they don’t have anyone else to listen to them.”
The man shakes his head dismissively, and he looks almost fond. He knows Light’s lying and Light knows he knows, but it’s never spoken of. Rather, it is silently accepted and understood. “Do you like some patients more than others?”
“If I did, it would be highly inappropriate to let you know.”
“Ah, I see.” The man smiles, drumming his fingers on the plastic cup, half-empty. “Blink if I’m your favorite.”
Light laughs.
He blinks twice, eyelashes fluttering.
It’s like looking into a mirror. Light knows nothing about this man except for what he is allowed to know, and everything that he lets him see he only catches glimpses of, because it’s more fun to peel the tape from wrapping paper slowly than to shred all the paper at once and ruin the pretty design. Maybe Light feels he knows this man so intimately because he’s exactly like himself. Or, perhaps that’s what he’s tricked him into believing. Light never knows, and he agonizes over the uncertainty of it all, he agonizes and suffers as much as he craves it.
Though he is a doctor, in this sacred office of his where the walls are thick and the secrets never leave, he feels like a surgeon. Meticulously slicing people open, carving delicate lines into the smooth virgin skin, gazing upon the rot inside (because everyone’s insides are equal in that way, humans are all fleshy disgusting creatures on the inside, but they are functional because that’s how God made them, a perfect paradox, a design) twisting the innards and bones into shapes of his own design, healing the wounds Light himself created and planting more hidden thorns that make the maladies almost worse in a way, and sealing his patients up just how they were, only know he knows the secrets inside.
And, in the darkest corners of his mind, when he’s really honest with himself which he rarely is, Light thinks that perhaps he lives inside the minds of others because his own his rather dull. Not intelligence-wise - it’s what to do with it that’s the problem. He’s so incredibly bored, sick almost to death of his own existence, because nothing really makes him feel alive. Nothing gives him purpose. The world is just so grey and colorless that sometimes he wants to throw up just by waking up and looking outside of his window to see the same sights around him that always remain, unchanged. Maybe he likes the unpredictability of others, because he has nothing left. Reading other’s stories is better, because his own is just unfinished, and the author has run out of plot points. A blank page is his ending, the ink’s run out of the pen and his hand has grown tired and weary.