It's the third time this week.

You're trying to find something within reach, anything you can get your hands on. The pillows and blankets had already incurred your wrath.

I look at you. Helpless.

You're done with the bedroom. You make your way to the kitchen, making it past the living room because you already know there's nothing suitable there. It's like a practice.

And I can't stop this practice.

That was supposed to be my job, though.

You are the only patient I can't handle. The only one who renders me useless. It was like my psychology degree has nothing on you.

It hurts. 

It's painful watching you unleash your hatred on mere objects. 

You start out mild, aiming at plastic cups and metal teaspoons, and possibly the nonexistent choppers and knives that I've already hidden away after this week’s second occurrence. Your face is crimson, scorching, in a bad way. Tears, collected at the base of your trembling chestnut orbs, make their way down your burning face in uncontrollable streams. Your incessant screaming rings in my ears, pulling my heart into deep trenches that seemed to have been there ever since I read your name off my case file.

“Doctor Kang, new patient. Son Seungwan, diagnosed with PTSD a month ago.”

By now the clanking of metal and loud thuds from fans and desktop lamps had been replaced with your desperate scrambling for more. Seems like the things laid out for you didn't satisfy you enough. 

You're now like an angry bull let loose, allowing the peak of your rage to overwhelm you. Your swift arm reaches for the breakable glass as you rob it of its precarious position on the kitchen counter.

I just hope that's enough for you.

The shattering of the glass pieces pierce my already numb ears. Your breathing slows down and you step back, staring hard at the way the broken glass litters the floor beautifully. I stumble and watch you kneel down slowly. Your body is shivering and flaccid, your soul wounded. I take careful strides towards you as the sound of your weak sobs travel to my ears. 

I carefully sweep the broken glass away, creating a path for me to walk as I carry your trembling body to your bed.

You're tired now. You usually are after each occurrence. I witness you slowly close your eyes, and I let out a heavy sigh that melts into your regular breathing. You're now calm. You're asleep.

“I love you”

I whisper into your ears for the third time that week. I sit beside you on your bed, and listen to the sound of your heart thumping blend seamlessly with your timid breaths.

I sit with you, among the beautiful broken glass shards littering the floor flawlessly.