23
Skye
“Can you tell me about your family?” the therapist asks as she crosses her legs.
I draw a long breath and drop my chin into my fist. I’ve told her everything I can. I’m not being defiant. Not intentionally, at least.
“My dad’s the mayor. My mom stays at home . . . all the time.”
“I know about them. What about your extended family? Do you have any cousins or aunts or uncles you might be close to?”
Uncle.
My muscles tense at the word. She senses it and uncrosses her legs, leaning forward with her stupid fucking clipboard on her lap. I close my eyes to focus on my breathing, trying to calm it down. Pleading with it to withhold my darkest secrets.
“No, I’m not close to anyone,” I say through clenched teeth.
That’s not a lie. If the blood running through someone’s veins resembles mine, I hate them. We are unequivocally shit. Even me.
I envisioned murdering my father with my hand around a knife handle when I was twelve. No one should envision something like that, especially at such a young age, yet I’ve murdered him in my mind a hundred times since. I’ve thought about stabbing him, cutting his brakes, and even lacing his food with poison. None of it felt right. I want him to suffer, and no death I come up with is horrific enough for that piece of shit.
“Is there anyone you’re especially distant from?” She pivots the conversation because of my body language.
Pivot all you want, lady.
“Nope,” I say, leaning back with a huff.
“Skye, I can’t help you if you won’t open up to me, and we haven’t made much progress since our first session. Did you consider writing the letter?”
“I considered it.” I take a deep breath. “Listen . . .”—I glance at the placard on her desk—“Linda, I don’t know what you expect from me. I haven’t said some of these things out loud to myself, let alone to a stranger.”
“That’s why I asked you to write a letter.” She places the clipboard down and leans forward. “Sometimes it’s easier to write down the feelings you can’t express out loud.”
“Yeah, and read it to you . . . the stranger.”
She tightens her lips. “I don’t care if you read it to me or not, but I think you’ll be surprised by how much lighter you feel when you write it. The secrets won’t seem so black once they’re on that white paper.”
Poetic.
“I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask. I need you to give yourself a chance to move forward instead of living in this state of mind you force yourself to stay in.”
There is no “forward” when you’re constantly locked in memories. There is no “ahead” when you can’t stop looking behind. It’s impossible to escape this state of mind when everyone you care about hurts you. I’m not talking about getting grounded or even abandonment. I mean physical pain. Broken bones, bruised flesh, and unspeakable acts. I live with constant pain in my head, and how the fuck do you evict that?
Thoughts of Kevin fill the gaps in my mind and battle the intrusive ones. A strong soldier. I think of how I pleased him last night, and I swell with pride. I felt things. For a moment, I forgot how broken I am. I felt normal. It’s so hard for me to feel that way. Until now, I thought it was impossible.
“Same time next week?” Linda says as she breaks me from my thoughts.
“I have to, don’t I?” I say with a forced smile.
I grab my backpack and leave the office. My footsteps echo along the long hallway, my boots dragging along the linoleum. I take a breath before opening the heavy glass door and looking across the parking lot for Kevin’s car. He isn’t here yet. I draw a cigarette from my pocket and light it.
If I wrote a letter, who would I write it to? My father? My mom? The piece of shit who stole my childhood from me for his own sick pleasure? I don’t know what to say to any of them. Probably a whole lot of fuck you’s.
Kevin beeps as he pulls up to the building, and the tug of a smile pulls at my lips. He rolls down the window and reaches his hand out to me. I take a final drag of the cigarette and hand it over to him. He takes it and puts it between his lips before leaning over and popping open the door on the passenger side. I exhale the smoke as I get into the car and lower the window. The way the cigarette hangs from between his full lips makes me clench my thighs.
He changes the music coming from the radio because he knows I don’t like rap. I watch his cheeks puff as he inhales and exhales the cigarette. My stomach twists at my attraction to him. It feels wrong for me. This isn’t who I am. Men hurt women like me. They take from me. But Kevin? He gives it all back.
“What did you talk about today?”
“The damn letters again,” I say as I roll my sleeves up and lower the window. The spring sun warms my skin as Kevin takes off out of the parking lot. It snowed recently. New York is bipolar as fuck.
“What did you do today?” I ask.
“Applied to some jobs. It's a bit hard to get a call back, though.”
I nod, though I shouldn’t. I never had to work. I had all the luxury of Daddy’s money. But it was blood money. Kevin lives a simple life, with basic things, and I’m okay with that life. I would live in a damn cardboard box if it meant I could stay with Kevin.
“Can we stop at the grocery store? I need cigarettes and probably some snacks.”
“I’ll be damned. Skye is asking for snacks?”
I scoff, though a smile pulls at my lips. “Oh, don’t make a thing out of it.”
He nods and takes the next turn. We drive toward the grocery store and pull into the parking lot. As I go to get out of the car, he clears his throat.
“I’ll wait here.”
“No, come on,” I say. “I don’t want to go in by myself.”
“I really don’t want to.”
I lean into him, my lips pouting. “Please?”
“Fine,” he says with a tight jaw.