My pulse spikes, and I place my hand in my pocket, pressing my phone against my leg.
The policy is clear. No contact outside sessions unless clinically appropriate. I reinforced it not an hour ago.
The phone chirps again.
I close my eyes briefly, then pull it out, with irritation flickering, but it's directed squarely at myself. I should be able to not answer. Instead, I dive headfirst, dying to know what she's sent me.
Blue: I have some follow-up questions from today. I don't want to cross a line. Is it okay if I text you?
The elevator continues its descent. My thumb hovers above the screen.
She asked.
She didn't assume access. She didn't push past the boundary. She requested permission, careful and restrained, exactly as instructed.
A sharp, unwelcome surge moves through my chest. Not panic or concern but something I don't want to acknowledge. I waituntil the elevator opens and I'm walking through the lobby before responding.
Me: If this is about your safety or something urgent, yes. Otherwise, we'll discuss it next session.
I send the message and slip the phone back into my pocket, telling myself that's sufficient. I'm sure we'll deal with it in our next session.
The air outside is cold against my face. I welcome it, and the bite of it grounds me as I head toward my car.
My phone chirps again. I pull it out of my pocket and freeze. There's no text preview, just an image.
My jaw tightens, and I unlock the screen. The photo fills my phone, making my heart sink.
Blue's stomach, pale beneath soft lighting, with a dozen red pin marks, tells a story without saying it aloud.
Me: Did you just do this?
Blue: Yes. I'm sorry. I couldn't stop myself. I wanted to use a knife, but thought the pins were safer.
I squeeze the phone tighter, peering closer at the dots of blood on her stomach.
Blue: I'm sorry, Dr. Mercer. I guess I'm really upset and not sure how to handle everything we discussed. I'm scared I'll do more tonight. I don't feel in control.
My pulse kicks hard, then settles into a steady, deliberate rhythm. The city's noise fades, replaced by a single, narrowing focus.
This is no longer about boundaries.
It's about risk.
My fingers move without hesitation.
Me: Are you alone?
Blue: Yes.
My breath slows, and the static under my skin stays steady. I should check her into a hospital since she's harming herself, but my fingers swipe the screen.
It rings once, and Blue breathes, "I'm sorry."
"Where are you?" I ask.
"Home."
"What room?" I prod, unlock my car, and pull out of the lot.
