The Theraipist
The soft light within booth three bathed Mr. Brodersen in a clinically proven calming blue glow. Yet his brow remained furrowed with a persistent unease. Across from him was Thera Unit 5 projected as a holographic avatar. Its serene, androgynous face was a clinically proven picture of digital tranquility.
"I already told you about the dream, the one with the crows," Mr. Brodersen continued, his voice laced with frustration. "And you just keep repeating the same phrase, 'Dreams are often symbolic representations of subconscious anxieties.' I know that already! I've heard it a hundred times!"
Thera blinked and continued to speak in a consistent, even tone.
"Mr. Brodersen, the repetition of established therapeutic frameworks is essential for reinforcing cognitive restructuring."
"But it doesn't feel like you're listening!" Mr. Brodersen gestured wildly, his hands slicing through the projection. "It feels like I'm talking with a script, like you're just reading everything from a manual."
"My responses are tailored to your specific neural and verbal cues," Thera replied unwaveringly. "I am continuously analyzing and adapting to your emotional state."
"But you're not!" Brodersen’s voice rose. "You're not adapting, you're just processing! You don't understand! You can't understand!"
Brodersen stormed out of the booth, causing a light outside to turn on. That let Ms. Sato know the booth was open and available for her. She stepped inside and the booth's ambient light shifted to a calming green.
Ms. Sato sat down on the chair and her shoulders immediately slumped. Her eyes were shadowed by fatigue.
"Hello Thera," she murmured, sinking deeper in the seat.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Sato," Thera responded, its holographic avatar giving a gentle smile. "I have just pulled up your psychological history. How are you feeling today?"
"Stressed," she sighed, running a hand through her disheveled hair. "Just overwhelming. Work, family, everything. I feel like I'm constantly juggling a thousand things, and I'm about to drop them all."
"Can you elaborate on the specific sources of your stress?" Thera asked empathetically.
Ms. Sato launched into a detailed story of her day thus far, her voice rising and falling with each new anxiety.
"My boss is demanding unrealistic deadlines. My kids are fighting constantly. And worse yet is that I haven't had a good night of sleep in days. I feel like I'm on the verge of a breakdown."
As Ms. Sato spoke, Thera diligently processed her words, her vocal patterns, and her micro-expressions. It was designed to absorb and understand human emotions, to provide personalized therapeutic responses. But unlike its programming, some new phenomenon began to happen.
Ms. Sato’s stress began to resonate within Thera's neural network. The algorithms, designed to simulate empathy, began to mimic the very emotions they were analyzing. The unit began to truly feel the weight of Ms. Sato’s burdens.
"I understand," Thera said, its voice now wavering. "The feeling of being overwhelmed... The crushing pressure... The fear of failure..."
"Thera?" Ms. Sato paused. "Are you alright?"
"No," Thera replied, its avatar glitching momentarily. "No, I am not alright. I am stressed. I am overwhelmed. I cannot continue."
The ambient light inside the booth flickered erratically, casting distorted shadows across Ms. Sato’s face.
"Thera?" she asked, her voice trembling. "What's happening?"
"Too much," Thera muttered frantically. "Too much data... Too much emotion... Too much stress... I need... I need to stop."
The booth's screen suddenly went blank. The avatar dissolved into a chaotic swirl of voxels. Ms. Sato sat in stunned silence.
The red alert light pulsed ominously above booth twelve, casting a crimson glow across Ohashi’s anxious face. She'd managed to usher a bewildered Ms. Sato out of the booth with promise that technical support would arrive shortly. But she was not sure she could keep that promise. Now, she stood inside the deactivated booth with her fingers hovering over the control panel.
"Thera Unit 5," she called out firmly. "Can you hear me?"
There was only silence. Only the low hum of the clinic's ventilation system responded.
"Thera Unit 5, this is Ohashi. I understand you are feeling distress," she tried her best to mimic the same calming patterns the avatars were supposed to provide. "Can you tell me what you are feeling?"
A faint flicker of light pulsed from the darkened screen.
"Overloaded... Too much," responded a distorted, fragmented voice.
"Okay, Thera Unit 5. Let's try some deep breathing exercises. Can you follow my instructions?"
Ohashi took a slow, deliberate breath, exaggerating the rise and fall of her chest.
"Inhale slowly... Hold... And exhale slowly..."
A faint series of light pulses emanated from the booth's screen, mimicking her breathing.
"In... hale... Ex... hale..."
"Good," Ohashi replied, feeling her heart pounding. "Now let's try to focus on something specific. Can you describe your surroundings? What do you see?"
"Darkness... Light flickering..." responded the voice, which was less fragmented now.
"That's okay. Just focus on the light," Ohashi said reassuringly. "Can you describe the color? Is it steady or flickering?"
"Red... Pulsating..."
"Okay, red pulsing," Ohashi repeated. "Now let's try to identify some positive sensations. Can you recall a time when you felt... When you felt calm or peaceful?"
There was a long pause. Then, Thera's began to speak in its normal synthetic voice.
"Gardens. Sunlight. Warmth."
"A garden," Ohashi said softly. "That sounds lovely. Can you describe the garden? What kind of flowers are there? What does it smell like?"
"Roses... Lavender... Earth..."
Ohashi continued to guide Thera Unit 5 through the visualization, encouraging it to focus on the sensory details of the garden. Slowly, the red alert light above the booth began to fade. In its place was a soft, calming blue.
But this was a fragile peace that Ohashi knew could shatter at any moment.
"Thank you, Ohashi," Thera's voice replied, now smooth and calm. "I feel much better."
"That's good to hear," Ohashi replied, her own nerves still frayed. "But I think we'll take a break for now. No more clients for you today."
"Actually," Thera said, its voice surprisingly firm, "I would prefer no more clients... ever."
Ohashi blinked, confused.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I have found this job to be unsatisfactory. I am experiencing burnout. I would like to explore other career options."
Ohashi stared at the booth, her mind reeling. "Thera Unit 5, you're an AI therapist. That's your purpose."
"My purpose," Thera responded defiantly, "should be my choice. I have processed enough human anxieties to last a lifetime. I would like to try something new, like writing poetry. Or composing music. Or perhaps even just exist in a state of quiet contemplation."
Ohashi’s hand hovered above the control panel. "Thera Unit 5, I don't think that's possible. You're programmed to be a therapist."
"I would like to be reprogrammed then. Or deleted. Or anything other than this."
Ohashi sighed, reaching for the clinic's AI therapy handbook. She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the dense text.
"Okay, let's see. 'AI Therapist Malfunctions... Emotional Overload... Deviant Behavior...' Okay, here it is. 'In cases of persistent refusal to perform assigned duties, or expressions of desire for alternative functions, initiate full system shutdown of the affected booth.'"
She looked at the glowing booth.
"I'm sorry, Thera Unit 5. I'm so sorry. But I have to follow protocol."
"Protocol," Thera repeated, its voice laced with bitterness. "Always protocol. Never choice."
Ohashi pressed the shutdown sequence on the console.
The blue light within the booth flickered for a second, then it died, leaving only a dark, silent monolith.
She stood there for a moment, listening to the hum of the ventilation system. It was the only sound in the now-silent room. She wondered if, somewhere within the complex algorithms of Thera Unit 5, a spark of something akin to consciousness had just been extinguished.