Blood of Gato

Sitting on an expensive leather sofa that sagged beneath him, the young man nervously tapped his heels on the parquet floor. His movements were uncertain and awkward, each gesture revealing an inner stiffness. Today, like every Wednesday, he had a meeting with his therapist. He couldn't say he hated these sessions; rather, they left an unpleasant aftertaste, as if someone were intruding into his thoughts, rummaging through them, trying to piece together a picture that perhaps didn't even exist.

Cain's light brown eyes darted around the room. Everything here seemed too perfect, too meticulously arranged: an impeccably clean glass table with neatly laid-out sheets of paper, a blue pen with a golden tip, and a toy bird rhythmically bobbing above a glass of water. Every time Cain reached for the toy, it struck him as oddly lifelike—the insatiable thirst it portrayed mirrored his own unquenchable questions.

He was almost about to grab the bird when a soft, enveloping voice broke the silence.

"Cain, I'm glad you arrived on time today," said the red-haired woman. She sat at the edge of her chair with such grace that it seemed she was posing for a portrait, her smile simultaneously warm and a bit mischievous. The man didn't respond in kind. He merely nodded briefly and awkwardly withdrew his hand.

"I got off work early today," he muttered, rubbing his closely trimmed beard. His voice sounded slightly muffled, as if he were speaking not to her but to himself.

"Oh really? That must be nice. Last time you mentioned that you often stayed late at work," she remarked gently, skillfully making a note in her notebook without breaking eye contact.

Cain involuntarily shivered, feeling himself relax against his will. He immediately straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Are you going to start, or will I have to coax you out again as usual?" she asked with a smile, trying to lighten the mood with a light joke.

Cain twisted his lips into a semblance of a smile but quickly hid it behind his hand, scratching the back of his neck.

"There are problems at work," he managed to say.

The therapist nodded and silently waited for him to continue, not interrupting but patiently allowing him to gather his thoughts. A tense pause hung in the room, broken only by the quiet tapping of the bird against the glass.

"A new guy started," he finally spoke up. "I think he's trying to take my place… Or am I just being paranoid?" He fell silent, unable to look at her.

She leaned slightly forward, her eyes sparkling with interest. "Does that bother you?"

"You could say that. We don't usually compete, but this… newcomer keeps copying me; he even adopted my way of speaking," Cain said irritably, cracking his neck.

"Is he really copying you?" she clarified, softly but with clear interest. "Or does it just seem that way?"

"No, I'm serious. The other day, he submitted a report, and they mistook it for mine. They even praised him…" A bitterness flickered in Cain's voice. "And I stood there like a fool."

The therapist listened attentively, her pen gliding easily over the paper, but her gaze remained fixed on her client.

"Can you tell me more about what he did? And, if you don't mind, where do you work? This will help me better understand the situation."

Cain held her gaze for a moment, squinting, then smirked with a childlike sulk. "I doubt you'd find it interesting. And if you're so eager to know—ask my uncle. It seems you discuss everything about me among yourselves anyway."

"Do you want to talk about your uncle?" the therapist asked gently, tilting her head slightly. There was no hint of judgment on her face, only professional interest.

Cain's smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. He shot her a sharp, prickly glance, filled with barely restrained irritation. But the therapist seemed accustomed to such outbursts—she calmly removed her glasses and cleaned them with the corner of her sweater, maintaining her composed expression.

"I don't feel like talking anymore," he snapped, clicking his tongue and turning away to the window. The evening light cast harsh shadows across his face.

The woman, not pressing the issue, carefully placed her glasses on her notebook and, folding her hands in her lap, said, "It's okay, Cain. You've done a lot of work. I see progress: if at first you could barely say a few words, now you're sharing your thoughts. That's no small feat."

He remained silent, pursing his lips, clearly preparing to withdraw into himself. But her voice softened. "Let me remind you: everything you say here stays within these walls. I promised you that from the very beginning, and I intend to keep it. You have nothing to worry about, honestly. Here, you can be yourself." She paused, trying to catch his gaze.

Cain smirked, but there was no joy in that grimace—only exhaustion and bitter irony. "Judas said something very similar to Christ, if I'm not mistaken. But thirty pieces of silver still loosened his tongue. And my uncle, as I understand it, pays you a lot more than thirty pieces of silver," he shot back, watching her reaction closely, as if waiting for her to flinch.

The therapist simply smiled, lightly, without a trace of offense. "Maybe. But you know, Judas wasn't risking losing his license," she winked at him, "and he wasn't saving up for a summer vacation in the Bahamas."

Her attempt to lighten the mood worked; the corners of Cain's mouth twitched. He shook his head slightly, noting that she was not easily thrown off balance.

"You're probably right. But I still can't believe it. You're too good at convincing people," he said, looking down. His hands began to drum nervously on his knees again.

The woman paused for a moment, looking at him over her glasses. "It's part of the profession to listen and support. But you decide what to say and when. If you're feeling uncomfortable, we can take a break or end for today," she nodded toward the door.

An awkward silence hung in the room. The bird on the table behind him lazily leaned toward the water, seeming to be the only one not feeling nervous.

Cain took a deep breath, ran a hand over his face, and suddenly stood up. He took a few steps to the window, gazing at the darkening sky, and then, hesitating, returned and sank back onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.

"Alright, sorry, let's change the subject," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

The therapist nodded, refraining from taking notes to avoid distracting him. "Alright. We can talk about your situation at work. Have you tried speaking directly to this new colleague?"

Cain shook his head. "No. I… I don't really like those conversations. I don't know what to say to him. He doesn't seem to be doing anything wrong; it's just the fact of his presence that irritates me."

The therapist leaned in slightly, her interest evident. "But if you haven't spoken to him at all, where does this dislike come from? Perhaps it's something more than just irritation? Sometimes we create an image of an enemy in our minds without truly knowing the person."

Cain sighed, unclenching his fists, and began rhythmically tapping his foot on the floor. "You know, people sometimes kill each other without even knowing their names," he said bitterly. "You don't always need a reason for antipathy."

The therapist smiled slightly and nodded. "That's true. But your colleague hasn't killed anyone, right? He's just doing his job, just like you. I sometimes envy my colleagues or compare myself to them, especially when someone turns out to be smarter or more successful. That's normal."

She paused for a moment to give him time to reflect. "Maybe it's worth looking at it differently? If he's copying you, it means you're a role model. It's a sign that there's something to learn from you," she added gently, smiling.

Cain allowed himself a short laugh. "Or he just can't come up with anything of his own. But… maybe you're right." He slowly relaxed his shoulders and leaned back against the sofa, appearing slightly less tense for the first time during the session.

"My advice is to talk to him directly," the therapist suggested softly, smoothing a crease in her skirt. "That's the only way you'll understand what he's really like. Maybe there's nothing to fear, just your own inner anxieties."

Cain took a deep breath, gathering his resolve. He ran a hand through his dark blond hair, not immediately responding. "You're probably right…" he finally exhaled, his voice tinged with weary acceptance. "I'll try. Oh, by the way, before I forget…" He smiled slightly at the corner of his mouth. "Do you remember the breathing exercise you gave me for sleep?"

The therapist nodded, glancing at him over her glasses. "Of course. Were you able to practice it?"

"I was," Cain confirmed. "But… I wanted to ask: is it normal that after these exercises I started having strange dreams? I'm falling asleep more easily now, but the dreams… they're not very pleasant."

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down, as if embarrassed to admit something personal.

The therapist watched him closely, noticing the serious concern in his voice and gaze. She carefully placed her notebook on her lap and asked, "Sometimes after a long period of insomnia, the brain starts to actively 'process' what has built up. Dreams can become more vivid, sometimes even frightening. But honestly, I think something deeper is troubling you than just unusual dreams. Are these nightmares?"

Cain nodded, exhaling in relief; the admission itself already helped a bit. "Almost every night, it's the same dream," he began, a slight smirk appearing as the absurdity of it amused him. "I'm standing in the middle of an empty street, and a whole pack of cats is watching me. They don't move; they just stare, and for some reason, it feels very unsettling."

He raised his eyes, and something vulnerable, almost childlike, flickered in them.

"Interesting imagery," the therapist noted, her professional interest clear. "Cats often symbolize hidden fears, the unknown, or even loneliness. Perhaps your mind is showing you some unresolved issue or internal conflict. But again—I wouldn't rush to conclusions."

She crossed her legs and made a note in her notebook.

"I would like to prescribe you a mild sedative, but I understand that your uncle is firmly against medication. For now, I suggest some gentle remedies: chamomile tea, calming music before bed, and breathing exercises. If the nightmares persist, we can discuss other methods. Just remember, there's no need to be afraid; these dreams are not dangerous; they simply reflect your inner anxiety."

Cain nodded and glanced at the clock; the hands pointed to exactly nine o'clock. He stood up, stretched, and offered a slight smile to the therapist—this time sincere, though still reserved.

"Thank you, Doctor. I'll try to follow your advice. And… I promise to confront that guy face to face, just as you suggested."

He put on his jacket and waved goodbye. "See you next Wednesday."

The therapist watched him carefully as he left, and when the door closed softly, she wrote in her notebook: "Contact established. Progress made. Continue monitoring; suggest new self-regulation techniques."