Why was he thinking about the angel again?
Abaddon didn’t exist and couldn’t tell Gabriel what to do or protect him.
Deep inside, there was hope he hadn’t lost his mind again, and that Mr. Watson had missed work for an unrelated reason, but something was not right in ways he hadn’t experienced since childhood.
His stomach sank when Dr. Rogers cleared his throat after releasing a gray cloud of smoke. “In normal circumstances, missing a single dose shouldn’t have an adverse effect, because the medicine doesn’t leave your system so abruptly. It might have been a nightmare.”
A dark side of Gabriel, the one that wanted the chanting demons from his childhood to die, selfishly whispered to him that he was an adult. If he had hurt Mr. Watson, then he might live out the rest of his sad existence behind bars.
“If… if I did do something to the cook, could I claim insanity?” he uttered. “You do have years of records to back that up, right?”
Dr. Rogers frowned. “What is that nonsense?” he asked, and his polite British accent became even more pronounced. “There is no reason for you to hurt Mr. Watson. Shall we do more hypnosis to take you back to the day your delusions started?”
Nausea rose in Gabriel’s throat, and he recoiled on the sofa. “I’m not sure.” He’d rather stab himself in the eye, because while his injuries had been self-inflicted, his brain remained convinced otherwise. And each time his mind traveled back to being that helpless, naked twelve-year old, tormented by people he’d considered his guardians, his world crumbled.
And the worst thing was that despite the doctor's claims that such sessions were meant to heal him, each one left him in pieces. And what about now? Was using a treatment as a threat really beneficial to Gabriel’s mental health? Because the doctor damn well knew Gabriel hated the hypnosis.
Anger bubbled up in him and threatened to spill over as bitter smoke filled his lungs, but when he looked up, intent on telling Dr. Rogers what he thought about his conduct, he found himself staring into the stormy eyes of someone who shouldn’t be there.
Abaddon loomed close behind the doctor like a manifestation of Gabriel’s fury. Dressed in one of the oversized T-shirts Gabriel sometimes slept in, he was a mix of tangible and surreal.
He’d appeared out of nowhere, and Gabriel had to avert his eyes to avoid being seen as even more of a nutcase. He shouldn’t have talked about his distress. He should have treated this like any other session with Dr. Rogers, taken his new bottle of pills, and moved on from this lapse in sanity.
The doctor tut-tutted. “I’m afraid, I insist. Maybe you’re holding on to some unreasonable anger toward Mr. Watson even though you know he hadn’t actually done anything to you. We should unpack that.”
Gabriel’s hands shook, and he stared at the blue sky outside, hoping to chase away the phantom, but he kept noticing movement as unnerving as the sight of a snake at the edge of one’s vision. It slithered toward the doctor, and Gabriel knew it was waiting for an opportunity to strike.
Black hair tickled tweed, but when Rogers gave a choked cry, Gabriel’s resolution to ignore Abaddon crumbled. He glanced toward the desk, in time to witness the vengeful angel dragging Rogers off the swiveling office chair. His bicep bulged as he squeezed it under the Doctor’s chin, cutting off any words the poor man might have wanted to utter.
Gabriel dropped his cigarette to the floor and jumped on the sofa with a sharp yelp while the two bodies danced to the melody flowing from the gramophone. “You’re not here! You’re not supposed to be here!”
But Abaddon was able to not only touch Dr. Rogers but also hold him up as he thrashed, going red in the face. The fight was as real as the scent of smoke and the leather sofa. Life and death grappled right in front of Gabriel, the doctor’s desperation so palpable he could taste it. Trying to get away from the choking, Rogers kicked his chair over and shoved his burning cigarette at Abaddon’s bare forearm.
The angel hissed, and his face contorted as if he couldn’t take such disrespect from a mortal. The vice of his arms tightened, and he twisted his body, causing a bone-chilling crack.
Dr. Rogers went limp.
Gabriel covered his mouth in shock, still standing on the sofa like some damsel hiding from mice. “What have you done?” he whispered, even though he hated Rogers for every session that had brought him to uncontrolled sobbing.
He’d made Gabriel relive the torture and explain in vivid detail how he’d been held down by this imaginary Rogers whom Gabriel detested so much he would have gladly killed the bastard himself.
But the real doctor’s only fault were his methods. He hadn’t done anything wrong!