At Your Service

Chapter 24- Tantrum

    "I'm so happy and excited to finally meet you, Mister Vandiver!" Ansel sat on a comfortable couch in a square room of a counselling services building the next afternoon. There were potted succulents on the windowsill and a bamboo plant on the coffee table separating the couch that Ansel sat on and the chair in which Dr. Don Filetti sat. He appeared to be in his late thirties. His dark brown hair was balding on top, and he had pale skin, deep brown eyes behind glasses with black frames, which were adequately supported by a large hooked nose. Carlisle and Solomon were seated out in the waiting room while the other three servants were back at home.
Ansel sipped some chamomile tea before grinning at the psychiatrist. "It's a pleasure to meet you, as well, doctor. I've been waiting for this." They already felt better just from being in the room with him. The smell and appearance of the room was very soothing, as was the overall attitude and energy of the psychiatrist.
"Is there anything you'd like to know about me before we begin?" Don had a notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand, the pen poised and ready to glide across the paper with notes.
Ansel shrugged. "I suppose my only question is if you've ever handled a case like me."
Don frowned. "I don't handle cases. I help people. You are more to me than a 'case,' and you are not someone for me to handle, as if you're a problem, because you're not one, even if you have problems."
Ansel's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry. I guess I didn't mean it like that."
Don grinned warmly. "No need for apology." He clicked his pen. "Start wherever you'd like."
The witch and psychiatrist stared at each other for an uncomfortable few seconds. "God, I don't know where to begin," Ansel muttered before chuckling at their loss for words. "Even approaching this chronologically, nothing will make sense."
Don adjusted himself in his seat. "Telling everything how it is could help you make sense out of it yourself, let it sink in and process," he suggested.
"Most of it won't make sense to you," Ansel warned.
Don shrugged, wearing a little grin. "It's not for me to make sense of."
After a few moments of thought, the witch decided to start with the preparations his parents made prior to their death. "They had a backup butler lined up in case something happened and we needed to replace the other one, which ended up happening. My parents and I were kidnapped and taken to a warehouse. My parents had their hands tied. They were hung from meathooks next to each other, and I was chained to a metal chair. The men were pouring gasoline on them. They wanted them to watch me watch them die before they killed me, and they wanted to teach me something. They set them and everything else on fire, and they were starting to dump gasoline on me when they ran out of it. The fire got so bad that they left before they could finish the job." They rubbed their wrists, feeling the link-shaped burns, like permanent jewelry. "My legs got too burned to save by the time they got there. I was out as they were dragging me out, still in the chair and chains, because they didn't know how to get them off yet. The chains ended up burning my wrists. What's weird is that they used normal fire, like they wanted us to suffer more than they wanted us to die."
They paused for breath. "Either way, I woke up in the hospital with my legs gone and my throat and lungs fucked from the smoke." The psychiatrist raised his eyebrows at their language. He hadn't written anything down in his notebook yet, only listening to their story first. "I had the new butler, whom I'd never met before. His name is Carlisle. You met him out in the waiting room. He's wonderful, but he kinda creeped me out at first. He has this strange energy to him, and he can do so much... I wasn't sure if he was human, but he proved himself to me. At first, I thought he was only doing so much for me out of obligation, like saving me from being kidnapped again or saving me when I was about to be burned alive again, but it's become apparent to me through his actions that he does many things also because he generally cares about me. He taught me how to dance and... and helped me accept my gender... he didn't even question it or seem confused, or make a big fuss. He just acted as if it was the norm. He shows interest in what I do. He makes sure that I feel safe, not just that I am safe."
Don smiled. "It seems like you have developed some very fond feelings towards your butler."
Ansel's cheeks grew rosy. "Yeah, I think I have."
Don wrote one word down. Ansel thought he wrote "butler." "It appears that many out there want you seriously injured or dead," he stated bluntly. "There's no sugar-coating it for you, and I apologize for that; however, it's a fact that you need to face." Ansel's expression fell, really realizing this was a fact for the first time. "How does it make you feel?"

Carlisle had been sitting silently in the waiting room with Solomon reading a cooking magazine while Solomon skimmed through a sewing catalogue when he suddenly heard yelling coming from inside the psychiatrist's office, the source being his master. "Do these sorts of appointments always go like this?" Carlisle asked the old man, unaccustomed with the practice of therapy.
Solomon nodded solemnly, not looking up from the catalogue. "Sometimes," he sighed. Carlisle stared at the door. Though he could hear the yelling, it was hard to make out what the witch was yelling about, as the room was soundproofed for privacy and confidentiality. Being a demon, however, he could make more out than what Solomon could, which was little to nothing. Carlisle heard something about humans being untrustable, about their parents making deals with creepy butlers (which he found quite amusing), about how fire was their archenemy, and about "albino, French, tango-dancing-ass ex-boyfriend."
The yelling lasted for a few minutes before it suddenly stopped, and the psychiatrist stepped out with his pen and notebook and hand before closing the door calmly and gently behind himself. Carlisle immediately stood and walked over to him. "Is he all right?" he questioned, towering over the human.
"Ansel is currently detoxing right now in what I call a 'witch's tantrum.' Some people need to cry, like, really cry, to release everything they have pent up inside. Some witches need to release everything through letting their power and energy out, like in a solar flare." A deep purple light suddenly flashed through the other room. A ball of blue fire was lobbed at then bounced harmlessly off of the window of the door, which was thereafter sprayed with a blast of ice. Wind pounded against the walls, making them creak. "See? He will tire out and come out when he's ready to be done, and then you all may go." He smiled before heading out of the waiting room and into what appeared to be a lounge.

After about five minutes, the door slowly opened, and Ansel came out of the office in their wheelchair, looking quite tired and a bit distraught. Solomon and Carlisle stood and set their magazines down before walking over to their master.
"Are you ready to go home, Master Ansel?" Carlisle questioned, not being able to hide his grin as the witch nodded tiredly. "You're adorable when you're tired," he sighed as he walked around behind them.
With one hand pushing the wheelchair and one hand on the witch's shoulder, his thumb rubbing smooth, soothing circles into the tense muscle, Carlisle guided Ansel out of the office with Solomon trailing behind.