“Why?”
“Because I was the freak!” she shrieked, her hands clenching into fists in her lap, her jaw working over itself as she craned her head to look as far away from the doctor as she could. On a sob, she released the truth that clawed at her with the talons of a man who’d destroyed her long before Max entered her life.
“Because I was the one who kept him awake at night, who wouldn’t let him get to work on time because he was so tired. Because I was the one screaming so loud the neighbors called the cops. And because I was the girl who didn’t fit the picture of a perfect family that he’d created in order to hide the problems that were all his own. So he drank. And when he did, it was me who was locked away in a small closet at bedtime. It was my body that took the pounding blows when my mother was too tired to wake up and deal with me in the middle of the night. Everybody else was perfect. They knew to stay quiet and they knew to stay out of his way. But not me. I was too loud. I was too strong. I was the one who always drew attention to herself.”
Her breathing was erratic. Her pulse racing as the truth poured out in a viscous liquid that amplified the pain of memories in her heart.
“I was the one who became his target because, instead of getting better, I got worse. The more he hurt me, the worse I became. The worse the nightmares became. The worse my entire life became.”
The doctor didn’t react openly, but she saw a glimmer of anger behind his eye. Somehow managing to keep his voice steady, he asked, “And if you hadn’t been your father’s target, would your other family members have been safe?”
“No,” she breathed out, the confession a sharp razor that dragged across her tongue.
He sat back in his chair, his eyes flicking back and forth between her and the tip of the ballpoint pen that flew across his notepad. Giving her time to settle down, he jotted down his thoughts, his face twisted into an expression of grim concentration.
When her sobs had quieted down and when the tears had slowed to a trickling rhythm, he ripped a tissue from the box beside him, leaning forward again to hand it to her. Alice took it, but didn’t thank him for the small courtesy.
“One more question and then we’ll move on to the next dream.”
Through hot, swollen eyes, she glared at him.
“Is it possible that these dreams are nothing more than a metaphor, Alice? A memory seeping out from whatever secret place you’d kept it hidden?”
“No,” she shook her head and sniffled. “That’s not possible.”
“How do you know?”
She clenched her eyes shut to expel that last of the stinging tears, opening them again to look him dead in the eyes.
“Because of what happened next. Let me finish, Doc. Stop playing around with crap that has nothing to do with this and let me finish.”
He nodded. “Fine. But whatever you say needs to convince me that it’s not connected to your past. Otherwise, we’ll be having this conversation again.”
“Get dressed.”
Two clipped words spoken, one white dress tossed at her feet.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Alice had waited patiently for Max to get showered and dressed after he finally woke up. She’d locked eyes with him as soon as his eyelids fluttered open, her heart still swelling with the small happiness of having escaped the disorders that usually plagued her nights.
Not knowing what to expect when he opened his eyes to the early morning, the last thing she’d thought he’d do was grumble at the sight of her, thrash his way out from under the blankets they shared and march into the bathroom with heavy-footed steps.
He was angry, and she didn’t know why.
The small bit of pleasure she’d felt from waking up rested was lost as soon as the bathroom door slammed shut and a spray of water could be heard whispering from behind that wooden barrier.
Shivering at the memory of the events of the previous night, Alice had crept out from beneath blankets that were far too warm against the heat of anger that ran across her skin, and she’d shimmied her body down to the foot of the bed to wait.
Max emerged from the steamy bathroom with a white towel wrapped around his hips. She wondered for a brief moment if it was the same towel that he’d used to wrap her head when he’d dragged her into the shower. Remembering his need for clean and new, she brushed that thought aside as absurd.
Dropping the towel from around his hips, Max tossed it into a wicker hamper, the firm cheeks of his ass staring back at her from beneath broad shoulders, a strong back, and the indented line that ran along the length of his spine. Smooth skin barely contained the steel musculature of his body, and Alice became lost to the way his biceps flexed when he pulled clothes from his bureau.
Dark blue jeans and a simple white t-shirt. It seemed too casual for a man as complicated as him.