Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

I bury my thread in my pocket and cup my hands together, concealing the scar along my palm that’s started to throb. “I’m experiencing countertransference,” I admit.

Sadie doesn’t react. Countertransference is a normal occurrence in our field. “So this is the real reason for why I’m here.”

“I am considering the surgery…but I also need to know if I should discontinue this particular patient’s sessions.”

Sadie sits forward, and I notice for the first time that she’s wearing a V-neck, allowing me a glimpse of the scar along her collarbone. Something she’s hidden since the day we met. “Are you irritated during the sessions?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Is your back pain distracting? Could the pain be the outside source for projected emotions on your patient? Are you agitated? Anxious?”

Again, I shake my head. “I wish it was that simple. I’ve dealt with that before.” I pause, mentally arranging the words before I’m able to voice them. “I’m attracted to him.” But it’s more than that…

There’s no judgment in Sadie’s green eyes. “Is it purely physical?”

I lick my lips. “It’s physical…and emotional, in part. Grayson is intelligent. Self-aware. Intense.” I inhale deeply. “He might be the first patient I actually believe I can help rehabilitate.”

“And you want that for him.”

“Of course.” Thoughts on our last session spring up. “He’s a manipulator. And I know the danger with manipulators, but I witnessed a breakthrough during our last meeting. I just need to work through what I’m experiencing, because I’m afraid without me he’ll be sentenced to death.”

Sadie leans back. She’s seated in my chair. I’m the patient today. “You said afraid. Fear is a strong emotion. What else are you afraid of?”

I give my head a quick shake, a mock laugh held at the base of my throat. I know these tactics, I know the process, and yet it doesn’t make being in the hot seat any easier. “You want to know if there’s any correlation between my thoughts of surgery and my patient being on death row?”

She ticks her head to the side in a half shrug. “Is there?”

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “I don’t think there is. The reasons for why I’ve put the surgery off have nothing to do with how I’m reacting to my patient.”

“London, we’ve never fully addressed your survivor’s guilt,” she says. “Are you taking any steps to finally confront it?”

“I’m considering the surgery, aren’t I?” I glance at the fish tank. “Sorry. I’m snappy today.”

“No, you’re right. It is a major step to finally confront the fact that you are not responsible for your father’s death.”

Like a slap to the face, her words smack hard and fast. My reflexive response is just as sharp. “I have never admitted that I blame myself—”

“You’ve refused surgery that will correct your L-five and L-three injuries since the accident,” she presses. “You live with the pain daily because you were driving the car that night. It doesn’t take a professional to see the guilt you suffer, that you force yourself to suffer, London. And now that a patient, who you believe can make progress for the better, is about to be sentenced to death, you want to suffer that guilt, also. You’re projecting your shame onto a patient who—if you don’t save—you will bear the guilt for his death. Do you want to risk your career because you refuse to deal with this guilt? Have you ever asked yourself why you feel this need to seek mercy for murderers in the first place?”

Brutal honesty. The reason why I allowed Sadie into my mind. I wipe the perspiration from my forehead. When I look at my hand, I glimpse the inked key beneath the layer of makeup. My temples pound in sync to my increasing heartbeat.

“I need a break.” I stand and head toward the mini-fridge to grab a bottle of water. I take a long pull before I bring a bottle back for Sadie.

She accepts and sets the water on the floor. “Too deep for a reentry session?”

I huff a laugh. Then more serious, I look into her supportive gaze. “I killed my father.”

I’ve never said those words out loud.

Sadie doesn’t flinch. “The car wreck killed your father.”

I nod, even though I know better. “I identify with him,” I say. That I’m referring to Grayson is understood. “My patient is the Angel of Maine. He kills ruthlessly. Without mercy, though his moniker suggests otherwise. And there’s not a bone in my body that can find fault with his logic. All his victims were deserving of punishment. And I identify with him, because I’m glad they’re dead.”

Silence falls between us, the quiet growing too loud until I can’t stand staring at the floor any longer. I glance up. Sadie’s expression still harbors no hint of judgment, and somehow, that makes this worse.

“I know.” I clear my bangs from my vision. “I need to stop the sessions with him.”

“No,” she says, shocking me. “You need to delve deeper, trusting yourself to explore both transference and countertransference for you and your patient.”