Chapter 1

Harlow

“Someoneaskedmethe other day if I’d ever had my muffburger fucked by a can of Redbull.”

Hazel eyes peered at me over spectacles, and I resisted the urge to laugh at my therapist’s concerned face. Just when I thought he had probably heard and seen it all, turned out my life was just that fucked up and I could still surprise him.

“And… uh, what was your reaction to that?” Thomas asked, his blue pen tapping on his notepad. My eyes tried to peek at the writing, in particular searching for something along the lines of “certifiably in-fucking-sane“.

I rested my chin in my propped-up hand, my elbow digging into my jean clad leg. “I obviously told him he was drunk, and he needed to go home to his wife and pet rocks.”

Thomas nodded slowly, his pen making scribbles as he processed my words, no doubt wondering if he was charging me enough to listen to this mess.

“If I’m being honest, Harlow… your ability to hide distress with humor is getting worse. I think we should talk about the real reason why you are here.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my face straight. “Maybe I’m just a sarcastic, funny person, Doc.”

With a sigh, Thomas put his notepad down and crossed his arms.

“Harlow, despite the stigma around it, mental trauma…. PTSD… is a very real thing. You need to internally acknowledge that instead of trying to run from it. You can only do it for so long before everything just shuts down.”

I crossed my arms defensively in return. “Doc, I’m fine. Shit happened, and I moved on. This is just a small bump in the road until things return to normal.”

“Normal…” he echoed, pulling his spectacles off, “What does normal look like for you? What’s your ideal world?”

My green eyes found the floor as I pondered his question. I had many wishes for a normal life, but none that I wanted to voice to him. It felt silly, like when you were a child blowing saliva onto your birthday cake and making wishes to fairies or some shit. You want to believe it, but deep down you know it won’t ever happen.

My thoughts trailed off as my eyes traced the generic patterns on the hideous beige carpet. Stains… I could see stains if I looked long enough. I blinked and looked away, my eyes drifting over the rest of the room. The two chairs facing each other were a horrible purple velvety texture, and except for the old dusty bookcase behind Dr. Thomas, there was nothing else in the room.

I had been in this room many times over the past 6 months and each time I found a new imperfection. Last week it was the crack in the ceiling. A month ago, it was the faint disguise of fresh paint over new plaster on the wall from someone’s assault. Today it was the stained carpet. I always found a physical reason to hate being here, yet each week I still came. I hated talking to Dr. Thomas, almost as much as I hated thinking of that night. But I guess the truth was …  I came because at least someone was willing to talk to me.

My eyes widened in horror as I realized something. I was paying someone to talk to me. It was escort level bullshit.

“There’s no such thing as normal, Doc. Normal is a bullshit hallmark word used to make people feel like they are failing.”

Hesitation.

“Harlow… you aren’t failing. What happened to you is enough to make anyone question their reality.”

I looked at him through light green eyes. “Do you believe me?” I asked, my voice cracking with desperation.

Thomas’ eyebrows touched as he frowned at me. “I don’t think there’s a right answer that you want to hear. But please, rest assured, I am here for you.”

As long as you pay me.

My fingers made indents in the purple fabric as I pushed up from the chair. “Same time next week then?”

He sighed as he placed his notepad down on the murky brown table.

“Yes, same time. But Harlow,” he paused, “the longer you take to come to terms with the truth, the longer it will take for you to recover.”

I snorted as I stopped in the doorway, my black nails gripping the frame as I turned my head back to look at him.

“The truth? Fuck. This whole goddamn town believes a lie and they seem to get on just fine.”

The door clicked behind me and as I stomped down the corridor towards the exit, my face dropped as it twisted with the emotional damage I fought so hard to ignore.

The truth never set anyone free. The truth only sets every fucking thing on fire.

Tags: Steph Macca Erotic
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