Western Psychologist

The Psychologist sat in his big leather armchair drilling his small eyes into the next patient who sat shyly on the opposite side of a giant wooden desk. Despite the amount of years he had spent pursuing this juicy career the Psychologist felt extremely tired. It truly had been a long long day and all the people that came and went all took their time, all spoke too much, and all spilled out their problems one after another, one after another, one after another.

The Psychologist exhaled a hard sigh.

"How old are you?" he asked the young man.

"Nineteen. Will be twenty, soon"

In the minute of silence that followed the Psychologist blinked once, at most. His eyes were pulsating as dust landed on them but the Psychologist was far, much-much too far from all that. He stared across the giant wooden desk at his patient and couldn't help but welcome the blood rushing to his face.

"Get up," the Psychologist said.

"Escuse me?"

"UP!" barked the Psychologist.

The young man jumped to his feet, startled.

"OUT!" yelled the Psychologist. His face wasn't red anymore, it was PURPLE. His eyes flashed long hairy bolts of lightning and large droplets of spit jumped out from between his distorted lips and flew across the room. "Get out! Get out! Go!"

The patient staggered backwards, stumbled a small piece of furniture, fell with a loud crash, by a sheer miracle did not break his face, scrambled back onto his feet and ran, RAN for his dear life.

"And don't come back! EVER!" the Psychologist bent in half over his side of the desk as he yelled after him. He shook his small fists in the air and, as the door slammed, he added: "You come back when you're forty! You hear me?"