She gives me the cautious look I assume she reserves for all victims of abuse. “And the man, what…does he actually try to kill you?”
I nod. Seems as though my memories are intent on making themselves known—intent on making their displeasure known. I’m not supposed to share this dark, shitty piece of myself with anyone. I am supposed to hide it away and let it fester inside me. Let it rot me from the inside out. I’m hit with the stale smell of alcohol as I think about what I’m going to share with the woman sitting on the other side of the room. I’m hit with the sour tang of body odor and the taste of my own adolescent fear in my mouth. “He comes for me every time. He comes at me with his fists. His skin is slick with sweat, naked—”
“And does he assault you sexually?”
I told Sloane I was never assaulted sexually, and that is the truth. But it’s also true I probably would have been if I hadn’t have fought back so hard. “He was…he was always hard. I could feel his cock against me as he wrestled with me. But I never let him get close enough to do anything.”
“He never touched you?”
I close my eyes. “No.” I was never touched, because I bit, I kicked, I gouged, I fought with every last ounce of strength I had. I fought with the abandon of a person who would rather die than undergo such a humiliation. Young as I was, that was enough. But it didn’t stop the beatings.
“How often did this happen?”
“I don’t know. Every night. Every night for years.”
“But when you dream, it’s always the first time it happened that you relive, correct?”
“Yes.” I already know why that is: the first time was the worst. The first time it happened, I was the youngest I was ever going to be at the hands of the monster that crept into my room each night. And later on I expected it. I knew it was coming, and I was waiting. I was used to beatings, even at that age given my uncle’s proclivity for alcohol abuse and quick fists. But yeah, the first night was different. That first night, in the dark, when the shadowy, naked figure told me he was going to kill me, I heard the intention in his voice and I knew he meant it. I knew I was going to have to fight for my life.
“These aren’t nightmares you suffer from, Zeth,” Newan says. “This is your mind begging for help. Your subconscious is pleading with you, demanding that you deal with the trauma you experienced as a child, because a part of you is still fighting that dark figure inside your head. Even though you’re an adult now and you’re physically strong, every night you’re still affected by this blow-by-blow account of what happened to you because you’ve never felt like you’ve stopped fighting for your life.”
Newan’s words strike a chord somewhere deep down in the very core of me. The idea of it, though—the idea that I’m still a scrawny little fucker, fighting this same damn fight, after so long—is enough to make me feel sick. “So, what are you saying? I need to man up and face this thing head on? What is there to face? I never knew who the guy was. There were always at least twenty or thirty guys hanging around Charlie’s place at night. It could have been any one of them.”
Newan shakes her head. “You know exactly who it was. When you’re ready, you’ll be able to come to that realization on your own. In the meantime, yes, I suppose your rather brief summation’s correct. You need to man up. And that means continued therapy. This isn’t a simple fix, Zeth. You’re pretty fucked up.”
I laugh. “That your official diagnosis?”
“I didn’t need to talk with you to know you were fucked up. But yes.”
“So I have a lifetime of head-shrinking ahead of me? A lifetime of journaling and talking about my feelings? And then I might not try to murder anyone who happens to be in the same room as me while I sleep?” I say anyone, but it’s pretty clear who I mean—Sloane. Newan tips her head to one side, giving me a curious look.
“You really care about her, huh? I knew you did, but this…this is totally against your archetypal behavior. I never thought you’d be able to get yourself here.”
“Don’t be too fucking impressed, Newan. I’m still me.”
She shrugs. I note with some amusement that the Taser, at some point during the last few minutes, has been abandoned on the arm of her chair. “Okay, then,” she says. “In answer to your question, yes. You have a lot of work ahead of you. I can help you, though.” She scowls, as though offering her assistance causes her physical pain. “To say I’m conflicted in this matter would be the understatement of the century, but if you’re willing to put in the hard yards for Sloane, then I’m the last person likely to talk you out of it. We can see each other twice a week. Get the ball rolling. In the meantime, if your violent outbursts are concerning you, I can give you some medication to help with that.”
“Sleeping pills?”