Chapter 4
Sky
"Get the fuck off her," Patriot's voice came roaring behind me. I was reclined on the large couch while my therapist sat in the chair across from me.
I’d been working with Dr. Wallace for over a year and we’d finally gotten into the grit—the shit that was triggering and the hardest to bear.
I shot up like a cannon, years of living on the streets making me quick on my feet. Dr. Wallace, with his age and in his profession was not quite as agile as me. Patriot was upon him in what seemed like a matter of milliseconds, tearing him from his leather chair and yanking him up by the collar until his feet were literally up off the floor.
“Patriot, stop!” I shouted. But he wasn’t looking at me, and even if he had heard, he had no intention of stopping. Patriot drove him across the room and shoved him into the bookcase, causing hardback volumes of books on psychology to crash violently, first into Dr. Wallace and then onto the floor. His wire framed glasses had come off and he appeared to be bleeding from one ear.
"Patriot, stop," I shouted, making my way toward him hoping he could sense my horror at what he was doing. He had my doctor in a choke hold and I could see the color draining from his face. "I'm fine, Dex. I’m fine! It’s part of the methodology!" But because his back was to me, he couldn't hear. I knew what I had to do even though it might cause more of a commotion. I took a breath and screamed again with everything I had in me.
Patriot dropped my doctor in a heap on top of his books and turned his full attention on me. He rushed to me and pulled me into his arms, covering me entirely with his big body to shield me from any harm. With a flattened hand, I touched my fingertips quickly to my chin. Then I turned my hand vertical and touched my chest with my thumb. I’d been watching videos on YouTube and I hoped these simple signs would be enough.
I’m okay.
I’m good.
Patriot’s posture immediately relaxed and I smiled at him, repeating the two new signs I knew. He stood and turned to Dr. Wallace, a look of regret shadowing his face.
"It's part of the therapy," Dr. Wallace said, holding some tissues up to his bleeding ear. He’d stepped to his desk and likely pressed the button for security.
"He can't hear you if he can’t see your lips," I said before turning my glance back to Patriot. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Wallace. Patriot works for my father. He suffers from a traumatic past too and as you can see, he has quite the trauma response. I won’t have him pick me up again. Please call my father for any damages, including your ear and bookcase. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“Is the young man in therapy to work on these outbursts?”
I turned to Patriot already knowing the answer.
“He’s, uh, working on processing—in a sort of support group type thing with my dad and some other folks.” I was trying to paint the Valor brotherhood as a group therapy. It had all the elements, albeit organized slightly differently. An outlet was an outlet, who was he to judge?
“I’d suggest you either come without an escort, Ms. Miller, either that or leave the driving up to your parents.”
“Agreed. See you next week, Dr. Wallace and make sure to call my father.”
I took Patriot by the hand, his chest was still heaving from the attack. He wasn’t bleeding or hurt, but his eyes shone with a luster I recognized immediately—bloodlust. Patriot’s therapy was hurting people. I knew all too intimately how it worked. Years of abuse made you hate yourself, made you murderous with rage, taking it out on the bad guys was numbing, it silenced the pain and loathing. A vicious cycle of violence that I was actively trying to stop in myself. Patriot was so far gone that he craved the fight because it was what made him feel worthy—saw it as the only justification for being alive and having survived himself.
I wove my fingers through his as I marched swiftly toward the elevator. As ours arrived, the other was opening and out poured security guards communicating rapidly on their walkie talkies.
"We were having a session. Sometimes the memories are tough to process," I explained, as our doors dinged closed. I made sure to look at him so that he couldn't misunderstand anything I had to say. "Dr. Wallace did nothing wrong. It’s all part of the practice. I’m trying to learn to conquer the panic and sometimes, I relive the memories in order to finally exorcise them from my mind and my body."
"The scream sounded real. I can’t let anyone put a hand on you, Sky. I’d lose my fucking mind."