This chapter is edited.
WARNING:
This story deals with some heavy topics i.e. mental health, depression, mentions of suicide, physical abuse, as well as eating disorders. Please read at your own risk.

"So, in this dream of yours, you are lost in the woods. You are alone, but you can still. . .hear voices? What are these voices telling you?"

Dipper kept his hands steepled together as he listened to the ridiculous doctor drone on. He absolutely despised the doctor's voice, but keeping him talking and analyzing a fake dream kept him occupied enough not to ask other questions.

However, there was only so many times you could lie to a doctor before they started to see through it, no matter how skilled of a liar you were.

"Ahem," the doctor cleared his throat, looking up from his notepad. "What are the voices telling you?"

Dipper hadn't blinked in over a minute, staring out into space, keeping his eyes glazed over and opaque.

The doctor sighed, adjusting his glasses that only made him look more ridiculous. The perfect representation of a psychiatrist that he probably got from a magazine in the early 2000s. "Dipper, we cannot move forward if you will not answer my question."

Dipper's head snapped up, finally, and he blinked the dryness out of his eyes. He schooled his face into boredom, and suppressed every instinct to grin, it would give everything away. "Sorry, I'm afraid I'm over it."

The doctor bore a confused expression, looking down at his notepad and then back up at Dipper. "Excuse me?"

"I'm over the nightmare." Dipper stated offhandedly, while not even explaining anything.

"Dipper, we've just spent the last hour going over your very detailed dream." The doctor appeared to be flabbergasted at the very notion that Dipper was over it. "You can't just avoid questions by claiming that you're over it."

Keeping his voice steady and monotonous, Dipper shrugged. "I'm sure this poses quite a problem for you. On the other hand, it hardly fazes me. I'm simply over it. Human emotions are so fickle and tricky. I assumed that as a practicing psychiatrist you would at least know that much. However, as a friend once told me, assuming makes an ass outta you 'n me."

The doctor, whose name Dipper hadn't bothered to learn, was hardly enjoying his performance. "Dipper—"

"Oh well," Dipper shrugged, adding a lilt to his voice once more. "Seeing as you are clearly incapable of understanding human behavior, perhaps our situations should be reversed? Let's talk about you." He leaned his chin on his hand and grinned.

"What?!"

"Let me see, clearly patient has no idea what he's doing, his professionalism could use some brushing up, I prescribe going back to college and getting a degree." Dipper stated. "All problems have a solution."

The doctor was failing to keep himself calm, and Dipper could see it. That was why his plan would work so well. Spend six months with each doctor and you'd figure out their ticks faster than they could figure out yours. Perhaps it helped that Dipper was insanely smarter than them, but perhaps not.

Another big help was digging into the doctor, learning about his past, and using that against him.

"All problems have a solution." Dipper repeated, gauging the shaking doctor's reaction. "Isn't that what your mother said to you right before she struck you?"

The doctor froze and the notepad dropped onto the floor beside him. "H-how do you know about that?"

"Oh, let's not bother with the boring details and skip to the good bit." Dipper waved a hand, dismissing the topic. "Isn't it so terribly interesting that you became a psychiatrist because of such intense trauma from your past? Is that why you think you can help others? Because you 'know what they're going through'? Ha. How foolish."

The doctor was seething, clutching the sides of his head, eyes devoid of expression. It was working.

"Isn't it amusing?" Dipper leaned forward, a grin plastered on his face. "Motivation drives us all, yet yours leads back to unnecessary trauma. Therefore you will never forget about it and will never help any of you patients because you will be thinking solely of yourself, what a waste of talent—"

It happened in a flash. The doctor snapped all too quickly —Dipper had been timing it and it appeared he was a little off with his calculations— and lunged across the table, grasping at Dipper's shirt collar, yanking the boy upward.

Of course, Dipper had been expecting such a reaction. It was slightly earlier than he calculated, so he was caught a little off-guard, however, he still knew it was coming.

Regardless, it was still too early for the next stage of his plan. So, he had to keep improvising and antagonizing the doctor who was about ready to strangle him.

Dipper let out a wheezy chuckle that was too breathless for his liking, but cutting off ones airflow often led to that. He had to remain calm and focused otherwise he would lose control of the situation.

"When he hears the truth. . .patient instant. .ly turns to v-violence." Dipper choked out, grabbing at the hands inches away from his throat. "Most. . .likely due," he gasped for breath for a moment, "t-to the. . .abuse inflict. .ed during c-childhood."

"Shut up!" The doctor yelled.

Dipper laughed once more, trying to keep his eyes open long enough to block out the darkness creeping in on the corners of his eyes.

The grip at his neck was loosened just enough for Dipper to breathe comfortably. Letting out a shaky sigh, with enough consciousness to make it come off as condescending, Dipper eyed the doctor. "So," he started, ballsy enough to continue the charade, "you've become your mother. Oh, the irony!"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" The doctor bellowed, tightening his grip as soon as the words left Dipper's mouth.

He'd let it go on long enough, no doubt there were bruises around Dipper's neck to prove his story. It wasn't terribly enjoyable, but you needed solid proof.

"HELP!" Dipper screamed, hopefully getting someone's attention. If someone thought that they were just doing scream-therapy, it would all be over. "HE'S H-HURTING ME!"

Luckily, that seemed to do the trick. The door burst open and in came a different psychiatrist as well as the receptionist Dipper had grown to know well. They were quick to action, with the psychiatrist wrenching the doctor away from Dipper and the receptionist taking Dipper and moving him safely to the other side of the room, examining him.

"Frank! What the hell?!" The psychiatrist demanded, keeping a tight grip on Frank's —so that was his name, huh?— arms.

"It's him!" Frank yelled. "He's lying! He's in my head!"

Dipper huddled safely behind the receptionist who was watching the scene before her with wide eyes. Dipper mirrored her look, trying to give off a disheveled and frightened appearance.

"Stacey, call security!" The psychiatrist took his eyes off of Frank for a second, which Dipper didn't think was the smartest idea. Sometimes it was a curse to be the smartest one in the room.

The receptionist took Dipper's hand and started pulling him out of the room, speaking very frantically and wrenching a walkie-talkie from off her belt.

Dipper took one last second, when he knew the only person who would be watching him was Frank, and met his eyes. He gave him a sly smile, and winked.

Frank was flabbergasted. "H-HE JUST WINKED! HE'S MAKING IT ALL UP!"

The door was slammed shut by the receptionist, already speaking rapidly to security, telling Dipper that a doctor would be by shortly to look at his neck.

When she turned away from him, Dipper simply smirked.