The pills run out eventually.Of course they do. And my brothers, sadists that they are, refuse to get me more until I agree to go to therapy. Apparently, now that several weeks have passed, my injuries have healed enough for me not to require constant pain medication—or at least that’s what the doctor told them. Fucking bastard. What does he know?
Either way, I have no choice.
For the first time in weeks, I dress, put on makeup, and make my way downstairs, where the car awaits. I feel weak and nauseated, my legs shaking and my head pounding with each step I take. By the time I get into the car with the usual posse of bodyguards, I’m sweating and my stomach is cramping with anxiety.
I manage to compose myself a bit during the ride, but I’m still a mess when I enter the office of Yekaterina Belkova, the therapist. She turns out to be a thin, petite woman with warm brown eyes and an inviting smile. To my embarrassment, half an hour into our session, I break down crying, even though we’ve only spoken about the early years of my childhood, back when my parents’ marriage was just marginally terrible.
She waits considerately until I’ve pulled myself together, and then we talk some more. Instead of the usual hour, my brothers have booked me unlimited time with her today, and as we go on, I find myself glad about that. I haven’t spoken to any of my friends since that night. I can’t, not when they have no clue what truly happened. Nor can I really open up to my brothers. We’re not that close, emotionally speaking, and I’m certain they’re suffering from trauma also, in their own way. The last thing I want is to add to their burden.
That’s why it’s such a relief to talk to this sympathetic, nonjudgmental woman, even though I’d still rather have the pills. She doesn’t push, doesn’t probe, just asks thoughtful questions and listens. We meander from topic to topic, and somehow, I end up telling her about Alexei and the betrothal that has given me so much anxiety over the past three and a half years—yet another thing I’ve never told my friends about, nor discussed in any depth with my family.
My brothers knew I was against the betrothal, but they never understood how much Alexei terrified me and why. But Belkova understands. Right away, she comprehends how dreadful it would’ve been for me to end up like my mother, trapped in a love-hate relationship with a ruthless, violent man.
“You must be so glad the betrothal is over,” she says softly, and I nod, wrapping my arms around my stomach as it cramps painfully again.
She regards me with those warm brown eyes. “Have you spoken to him since your parents’ deaths?”
Deaths.My chest tightens agonizingly, and acid tears sting my eyes again. “Deaths” is such a bland way of putting it, so simple and generic.
Fuck, I wish I had the pills.
“I’m sorry,” she says, immediately intuiting the source of my distress. “Do you feel up to talking about that? About… the accident?”
I clench my hands together until my knuckles turn white. My stomach churns violently, and cold sweat pops all over my body, even at the roots of my hair. I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it—or if I’m even allowed. Then again, she said that last word carefully, with a pause. She’s not taking the official story at face value, either because of something I’ve let slip today or because my brothers have given her some kind of heads-up.
I swallow thickly and force the words past the tightness in my throat. “Is everything I say in here completely private? Even if it’s not entirely… legal?”
She regards me unblinkingly. “Yes. Not only do I have to abide by doctor-patient confidentiality as part of my professional oath, but I have a special agreement with your family. Nothing you tell me, no matter how disturbing, will leave this office.” Gently, she adds, “Not even if it’s about murder.”
Murder.That’s the right word. Or more precisely, uxoricide and patricide.
The memories bubble up, dark and toxic, and I turn away to take short, shallow breaths as bile rises in my throat. Maybe I’m not ready to talk about it, no matter how much I want to. Maybe all it will do is cement the images in my mind, etch them in deeper until that night is all I can think about and no amount of pills can help.
“We don’t have to talk about that today if you’re not ready,” Belkova says quietly. “It’s entirely up to you.”
Yes, yes, it is. I control this. The knowledge calms me. Maybe Ishouldtalk about it. That’s why I’m here, after all. Maybe sharing what I have witnessed will free me from the crushing weight of that burden, from the grief that chokes me and poisons every breath I take.
Maybe the doctor will work some magic, and I will stop thinking about how nice it would be to take the entire bottle of pills and never feel this way again.
Digging my nails into my palms, I turn back to face her. She’s waiting patiently, not saying anything, and slowly, haltingly, I begin to speak. I tell her about my encounter with Alexei and how it drove me to return home early. How I heard my parents fighting and called my brother. How I went to intervene, not waiting for him to arrive, and what happened after. As I go on, the words come faster until they’re pouring out of me in a torrent, a vile sludge that now feels as uncontrollable as the tears pouring down my face. As unavoidable as the one truth I couldn’t bear to face until this moment.
The knowledge that my parents’ last argument was about me.
“That doesn’t make it your fault,” Belkova says, leaning forward. Her face is pale—I guess my tale is too much even for her. Resolutely, she continues. “You have to know that. Anything could’ve set off your father in that state.”
But it wasn’t anything. It was Mama’s threat to take me with her. It was her telling Papa that I hated Alexei. And that’s not all. Violently, I shake my head. “I should’ve gone to them right away. As soon as I heard them fighting, I should’ve intervened instead of calling Nikolai. I—”
“Then you’d be dead as well.” Her voice strengthens with conviction. “This isnotyour fault. You are not to blame for this in any way. Your father—”
“Enough!” I shoot up to my feet, shaking. Why did I think this would make me feel better? Talking to this stranger who can’t possibly understand? There’s no magic assurance she can offer, nothing she can say that will bring the bloody lump that was my mother back to life or make my brother any less of our father’s murderer. Worse yet, she’s wrong. It’s one hundred percent my fault. There are so many things I could’ve done differently, so many ways I could’ve prevented this. If I’d stayed home that evening, if I’d said just the right thing to Papa before leaving, if I hadn’t been away at school in the prior months… The “ifs” are endless, infinite, each one burrowing into my mind, tearing away pieces of my soul. For weeks, I’ve been blessedly numb, my thoughts hazy, but with every minute that passes without the drugs, they become clearer and sharper until they slice as agonizingly as Papa’s knife.
Belkova is speaking again, saying some more soothing bullshit, but her words don’t reach me. Spinning around, I run out the door and into the elevator. I don’t stop running until I’m in the car, and even then, my heart won’t stop racing, my hands trembling as I stare out the window, unseeing, flashes of that night hitting me one after another, blasting me with all the emotions the pills have been holding at bay.
I’m only vaguely aware of the honking behind us and the black SUV pulling up alongside our car. It’s not until we swerve sharply and the bodyguards curse, drawing their weapons, that I realize something is happening.
From the front passenger seat, Vankov is shouting at the driver, “Don’t let that motherfucker force you off the—fuck!” The black car rams into us from the right, and the brakes screech as we veer left. If not for my seatbelt and for the bodyguard sitting next me, I’d have been thrown across the car. As is, I grab on to the seat in front of me with a strength born of a sudden surge of adrenaline.
Attack.