Hopelessly Obsessed (KomaHina)

1: Pencil

Nagito's POV:

I sit on my own in the waiting room, unable to stop my right leg from bouncing with anxiety. I've done this time and time before, yet it never gets less nerve-wracking. What if it's not a disorder, what if something really does happen? And since I knew it would, does that make me a murderer? Is it the same as pulling the trigger on a gun?

"Direct your thoughts elsewhere," I think to myself, in my therapist's voice. I look around at the other patients speckled in the chairs across the room. There's no way to tell what we're all here for. After all, this is a doctors' office, it's just that there are a few psychologists working here. Some of the people here must be needing help for back pain or a persistent headache, but what are the chances that there's someone else in here like me? Anxiously awaiting what must be certain doom? I wonder if anyone other than the receptionists notice that I come here every week. If anyone does, can they guess why? With my thin figure and pale skin, I probably look like I'm slowly dying. Which I am, in a way.

"Komaeda."

I look up when I hear my name, and sure enough, my psychologist is standing just out of the hallway. He's giving me that warm smile, he can probably tell how nervous I am. I would be concerned if he didn't, surely after years in psychology school, one could recognize when a worthless wreck is panicking?

He gently gestures down the hall with his head, and I slowly get up. I watch the floor as I follow, careful not to step on any of the cracks between the floorboards. My foot even slightly touching one of those devilish lines could be the difference between my classmates' life and death. It could be Koizumi being hit by a car. Or Tanaka getting horribly sick. Or Pekoyama getting murdered. Each careful step ensures their safety.

We sit down on the couches and I fiddle with my fingers while my therapist gets his notes ready. I didn't even notice how horribly my hands were shaking until I tried to check if one of my cuticles was bleeding and all I could see was a blur of shaking flesh. I really don't want to do this. But the only way forward is to do it, I guess. But...but still! It's a pencil! I can't just touch that thing like it's nothing...!

"So Komaeda, how have the past few days been for you?"

We talk causally for a few minutes about how I've been going, the usual therapy stuff. It's hard to focus on the conversation when all I can think of is what lies ahead.

Our conversation comes to a close, and with a quick clear of his throat my therapists addresses the elephant in the room, and it starts. "So, are you ready?" he says softy, in his mellow and calming voice. "I-I guess so..." I reply. There's nowhere to run, I may as well just rip the band-aid off. He nods and takes in my expression for a bit before continuing. "Well, it's going to be the same as the last few times. I'm going to bring out a pencil, you don't have to touch it or anything. Every thirty seconds or so, I'll get you to rate your anxiety on a scale of one to ten. Once we get to around a four, we'll take a break and go again. Remember, you're perfectly safe, it's scary at first but you already know it gets better." He gives me the rundown of Exposure Response Prevention, as if I haven't done this before. I've gotten over a few things, but it's in no way easy. I just nod in response. "Okay then. Three, two, one..."

And there it is. Pencil. Sitting in his palm. Perfectly balanced and perfectly deadly. I can feel the heat radiating off it. An angry hiss in the back of my head, as a headache starts around that spot. Flashing before my eyes is the rapid imagery of the aftermath of touching a pencil. Tsumiki's dead body in a pool of her own blood after being hit by a truck, her bloodcurdling scream tearing through the air seconds before. No...no, no, no, no, no-

"Where are you now, Komaeda?'

Shut up, shut up, shut up. Tsumiki's...Tsumiki's going to die, and it's your stupid fault, Mr. It's-Just-Your-Disorder-It-Can't-Hurt-Anyone. Maybe you're the murderer here.

"Komaeda."

"An eight, I suppose," I practically growl at him. This is tortuous. And deadly. Knocking on each of my thighs three times with each hand would save Tsumiki, but I'm not allowed to do that here. Ugh, this is too much.

"And how about now?"

"...A seven or six, I guess." I can feel myself slowly calming down. "Yeah, a six."

"You're doing so well, keep going," he reassures me softly.

This continues until I eventually answer four and we stop. He expresses how proud of me he is for doing so well on my first exposure with the pencil, and we do another round after a bit. The session eventually ends and I'm exhausted.

Soon I'm walking out of the office and begin to walk home. I carefully avoid the cracks and the leaves scattered across the footpath. I frown, while that wasn't so bad after all, and although I can touch and use a random assortment of objects and I'm on my way to touching pencils, there's still so much I can't do. I'm still weird. I'm still crazy.

Living with an obsessive brain is more difficult than people think.

A/N: Wow, first chapter. This is just setting up Nagito's perspective so you can better understand him and his OCD. I shall update this...when I remember to. Have a nice day/night and drink some water, my guys, gals and non-binary pals.