Страница 10 из 117
“In other breaking news, Pe “Two weeks ago, voice recordings surfaced of a minor disclosing information on the senator, accounting for the incidents in which Ted Anders forced the child into sexual acts against his or her will. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is looking into these recordings and is in search of the child in question. The identity of said minor is remaining confidential until more information is gathered to support these claims.” My shaking leg halts as my eyes snap up at the monitor, seeing a photo of the man they’re speaking about. A fucking senator, for Christ’s sake. Someone in charge of making decisions for the welfare of our country. A fucking rapist and child molestor. I turn my attention back to my phone, doing my best to drown out the sounds of the news and all the bullshit they spew. One way or another, news stations are always biased, which is why I can’t stand watching. Our country is constantly in a state of turmoil. School shootings. Sex trafficking scandals. Terrorism, either domestic or foreign. Police brutality. People with power, abusing children. Sexually or otherwise. I don’t need the fucking news to tell me the world we live in has gone to shit. It’s present on every form of social media, where people will post whatever they feel like without bothering with things like research or fact checking. But why would they bother attempting to educate themselves when they can simply post whatever they want, hidden behind a phone or computer screen without fear of any backlash unless it comes from a comment thread? “Ciaráin, are you ready?” the receptionist calls my name, pulling me from my thoughts. As ready as I’ll fucking ever be. Pocketing my phone, I follow her through a door and down a hall to an office, where she stops. She motions me to enter with a smile before retreating back the way she came. Twisting the knob, I push open the door, spotting a woman who appears to be in her early forties sitting in a lounge chair, notepad and file folder in hand, scribbling away. I take a moment to observe her before she notices me. Dressed in a pencil skirt, blue blouse, and pumps, she fits the cliche of a female therapist, just looking to help. A Birkin bag sits on her desk across the room and when she uncrosses and resituates her long tan legs, I notice the familiar red soles of her shoes. Rich bitch. Her blonde hair, hanging loose around her shoulders, sways as her head pops up at the sound of the door closing behind me. Her eyes, bluer than any I’ve ever seen, lock onto mine and she smiles. It does nothing to permeate my scowl. “You must be Ciaráin. I’m Doctor Erica Fulton,” she says before standing, reaching out to shake my hand. Ignoring her, I stride over to the couch opposite her chair and take a seat. Let the games begin. To her credit, she doesn’t seem perturbed about my brush off, just sits back down in her seat. She’s probably dealt with worse, being a therapist and all. Fucking therapy. “Well, Ciaráin, are you ready to get started?” she asks, flipping her notepad to a clean sheet. She glances up when I don’t respond. Taking my silence as permission to speak, she continues. “All right, then. Usually I start my first session going over some basic information with you. The topics you would normally talk about with your previous therapist, that kind of thing. Get a little more comfortable talking with each other before we dive into the heavier issues.” I remain silent, staring at her, a mask of indifference on my face. Actually, scratch that. That’s just my fucking face. “Let’s start with the big, ominous question. What brings you in today?” I have to force my eyes not to roll as I lean back in the seat with my fingers resting against my temple. I was fucking forced by my cunt of a mother. She decided, out of the blue, she wanted to be a decent human being. For fuck’s sake, I had to take it upon myself to ask Nana to schedule a therapy appointment when I was a kid since Mom was too busy self-medicating to notice I was drowning. But now she has an interest in my mental health? My fucking happiness? Blink. “According to your file and the notes from your previous therapist, you’ve been in therapy for about nine years, starting at the age of twelve. You were diagnosed with depression and PTSD and have been on and off a wide range of antidepressants for seven of those years, correct?” Yes, yes, and fucking yes. Except you missed the anxiety. Fear of abandonment. The fact that I never took a single one of those pills because I don’t need some chemical trying to turn me into someone I’m not. Blink. “Your file also states you’ve had suicidal ideations, but have never made any attempts. Is that still correct?” Hearing those words, suicidal ideations, brings the night rushing back to me. The empty bottle of Jameson. The mirror, dirty with white powder residue left behind from the cocaine. The barrel of a gun pressed into my temple. My finger on the trigger. I bury the thoughts inside my mind, breathing deeply through my nose. Nope, Doc. Can’t say that’s correct. Blink. “Tell me about your childhood.” I snort involuntarily. Is this bitch serious? What fucking childhood? You have my file right in front of you. You know, while I might have come from money, my childhood was stripped away from me by the people who were supposed to be in charge of protecting my i She lets out a subtle sigh, flipping her notepad closed. I’ll give her credit, she lasted longer than I figured she would. Most would’ve given up when I refused to shake their hand. “Look, Ciaráin, I’m here to help you. I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me. Yes, we can sit in silence if that’s what you need, but that isn’t the point of therapy.” She leans forward in her chair, her blue eyes softening around the edges. “I know you’re going through a lot right now—” “You don’t know shit,” I snap. “No one knows shit. And I’m so fucking sorry my last piece of shit, incompetent therapist somehow lead you to believe you have any fucking clue into who I am or what I’m dealing with.” Dr. Fulton leans back in her chair, absorbing my outburst. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to insinuate. All I want is to do my job, to help you. Will you let me do that?” Her words, her question, it comes out like a command. I meet her eyes. She’s got balls of steel, this one. Briefly, I nod, allowing her to continue. “All right, let’s try another approach. Why don’t we talk about your relationship with your family? No siblings, just a mother and father?” “I have no father,” I grind. “He died when I was a kid. I have my mother, if you can call her that, and the man she calls a husband.” I meet her eyes with a hard stare, daring her to push me. She accepts the challenge. “Tell me about your stepfather.” “If you want to talk about him, you should set up a meeting with him. God knows the fucker needs a shrink way more than I do,” I smirk, leaning forward in my seat. “After all, adding another client to your list can help you afford a matching wallet for that purse.”