“We talked about you eventually dating again and what it might be like to sleep with a woman after your years of self-imposed celibacy. Wasn’t this what all our time together has been working toward?”
“Me dating was always a hypothetical,” I say. “And Jesus, no, all this therapy has been to try to keep these fucked up desires from ever coming out again. It’s been about learning discipline to keep myself in fucking check. So I don’t hurt people. Hurt women.”
“Like your father did.”
“Yes, like my father did.”
“Do you think what you did last night and what your father did to your mother all those years are the same?”
“Yes!” I explode. I stomp back toward the window and drop my hands to the small ledge, staring out at the city. “No. I don’t fucking know.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and image after image flashes through my head. There was the time Dad shoved Mom against the kitchen counter and bent her over until her face was buried in the burned casserole until she couldn’t breathe, arms flailing.
Or when he grabbed her by the neck and forced her upstairs. When she tripped near the top, he got so mad, he threw her back down them. She rolled and screamed as she fell down half the staircase before catching hold of the banister. He yelled at her for being a dumb, clumsy slut. Not checking to see if she was okay, he just yanked up her skirt right there on the staircase and…
I open my eyes and look out the window like the sky can banish the memories that form the fundamental core of who I am.
I kept my little brother Darren from seeing the worst of it. He’s a kinky bastard but he never pushes it near the line. We’ve shared women a time or two in the past and he doesn’t have the same sick urges I do. He’s the fun one, always the life of the party.
Darren, yes, Darren, I protected from Dad.
But Chloe, just a year younger than Dare? Jesus Christ, little Chloe…
I swallow and my eyes fall shut again.
“Even if it’s not the exact same as what my dad did to my mom, it’s still too fucked up. To get off on that… when I know what it— what it can do…” I shake my head and swipe my forearm roughly against the tears stinging at my eyes.
“It sounds like last night brought up a lot of the things you’ve been trying to push down and ignore for a long time,” says Dr. Laghari. “And that’s okay if that’s how you needed to deal with what happened. But at least consider that this might be an opportunity to reconsider how you approach dealing with the trauma you went through.”
“Trauma I went through—?” I turn back to the doctor. He’s got to be kidding.
“Have you thought any more about trying to contact your sister?”
Jesus, doc, way to kick a guy when he’s down. “She wouldn’t want to hear from me.”
“How do you know if you don’t try?”
I scoff and shake my head. “I’m pretty fucking sure. I let her down her entire life. Besides, if she wanted to talk to me, she has my number.”
Dr. Laghari just shrugs. “Maybe she thinks the same about you. If he wanted to talk to me, he has my number.”
Jesus Christ, why do I even come here? I rake my hands through my hair. Okay, so after all the shit hit the fan, Dr. Laghari helped me through the worst of it. There was awhile there when I didn’t think I deserved to live. It was only doc and knowing my brother needed me that kept me from swallowing the bottle of pills on my nightstand.
Darren had lost everyone, and he didn’t even know why. I couldn’t just cut out on him, too.
But how the fuck was I supposed to live with the knowledge that my father was the worst kind of monster and I was just like him?
I thought discipline was the answer. I’d just never give in to those desires. Ever again.
But now doc is saying that, what? That that kind of discipline is impossible? That he always knew I’d fail and be back here, fighting this shit?
“I swore I’d never be like him.” My voice is so low and guttural I barely recognize it. “I’ll die before ever becoming anything like that fucking bastard.”
“Dylan.” Dr. Laghari calls my name but I don’t look at him. “Dylan.”
A few seconds later, he moves into my field of vision. Damn, I actually made him get up off that chair he always sits in. This really must be a crisis.
“Dylan,” he says again, his lined face gentle with compassion. “You grew up in a violent household. You witnessed horrific things, not just once, but over and over again. The women you loved, your mother and sister, were hurt by a man you loved, your father.”