by KC Decker
Before I’m completely finished taking in the room, Sutton backs me into one of the folding tables and crowds me out of any personal space.
“What the fuck are you doing, Mercy?” he asks, somewhere between a growl and a plea. He is looking down into my eyes because he is so close to me. I don’t know how to reply to his question because every time I inhale, my chest inflates to the point I actually touch his body.
“Learning to do laundry, apparently,” I whisper on a cautious breeze.
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he clarifies as his eyes dart around the room. There are a jumble of voices somewhere beyond the row of machines, but no one in sight. “With Wes. What the fuck are you doing with Wes?”
“It’s not what you think. He is teaching me things,” I attempt to explain, but my voice is a shadow of itself.
“Mercy, remember when you asked me to be open, but to tell you when I was afraid of crossing the line?”
“Ye—” I start, but don’t get the opportunity to finish because his mouth is on mine. He puts his hands on my waist and lifts me to the metal folding table before stepping between my legs. I gasp at the sudden kiss, or maybe the coldness of the table against the backs of my thighs, but my eyes also flutter closed, and I kiss him back.
I’ve imagined kissing him so often, this feels like a dream. It also feels surprisingly natural, even when he slips his tongue into my mouth. I can feel him let up his grip on my waist with one hand, but only to entwine it in the hair at the back of my head. He is crushing my face to his. The act feels possessive on his end—however, completely needy on mine.
He backs off slightly and speaks into my mouth, “This is one of those instances where I’m afraid I might cross the line,” then he is back on my lips. I always figured tongue kissing would be sloppy and a little disgusting, but it’s not. Not at all. I’m afraid I might not be doing it correctly, but it feels right.
My vagina is screaming with all kinds of warning alarms. His kiss is affecting me in ways I wouldn’t necessarily expect, but I can only assume the amount of lubrication I’m producing is within the normal range.
“I want you to cross the line,” I pant as I embarrassingly press myself against his body. This is all very new to me, but it’s so perfectly savage that all I can think about is discovering more about the demanding hard-on in his pants.
“You don’t want Wes’ fingers on your pussy anymore?” As he asks the question, he drops his hand between my legs and within a second, has shifted the fabric of my panties to the side.
I actually moan into his mouth when he touches my bare skin. It’s flooded with warmth, and the discovery seems to incite something unchecked within him.
After a few minutes of wild kissing and a healthy familiarity with my newly uncovered privates, he tries to back his head away from me. I’m not done with his lips, so I close the space again. This time the insistence of the kiss is mine.
“I want your fingers. Not his,” I pant between kisses.
He pushes my legs wider apart with his free hand while the fingers between my legs continue to explore my body. When his thumb finds my clitoris and rubs it purposefully, a throaty moan escapes my mouth. He swallows down my excitement as he continues to kiss me with a recklessness I have never known.
I can feel the exact moment when the angel on his shoulder speaks louder than the devil. He pulls his hand away from the moistness he has created and steps back as if I’ve slapped him.
“Mercy, fuck, I’m so sorry. Jesus-fuck, what have I done? I’m sorry, Mercy, I’m sorry.” He is raking his fingers through his hair and watching his feet as they pace three steps in one direction, and then back.
“Don’t say you’re sorry! Fuck you! Say you want me, you bastard!” His revulsion with the situation hits a chord deep in my consciousness and hacks away at my hotly contested self-respect. He is disgusted right now. I learned how to kiss, and nearly came on his fingers—and he is disgusted.
I drop my head down as I adjust my skirt back into place. He takes a step toward me and lifts my chin. He may be expecting the tears of a broken, fragile woman, but he gets my barely contained rage. I can tell my eyes are flickering with it.
“Mercy, this isn’t about you. It’s about me. I will not let you make it about you.”
I laugh, but it’s really more of a cackle, “Sure, Doc. Why would you be any different from everyone else? Huh?”
“You do not understand, and you are reading this all wrong, Mercy!” He is kind of shouting right now, and his snarky tone surprises me. “I am so completely torn about wanting to be with you, but also wanting you to get better. I don’t know heads from fucking tails right now! I do know that I can’t have both. And you know what? Sometimes, sick fuck that I am, I want you so bad, that I don’t care if you get better! What do you think about that—especially coming from your doctor?” His words are hot and hateful, and they ring with self-loathing. He has never sounded less like a professional, much less, like a doctor.
“Why can’t it be both?” I challenge, clouding my fury with words.
“Why?” now his laugh is a cackle. “Because it’s unethical AS FUCK, that’s why.” Now he stops pacing and stands rooted to the ground, chest puffed out ready for battle.
“Then why don’t you teach me how to do the fucking laundry and we will forget the whole thing happened,” I say, just as angry as before. He plants his palms on either side of me and leans in close again. This time it’s not for a kiss, this time, he looks like he wants to rip my head off.
“You should report me. Kissing you was an extreme lapse in judgment, and I can understand if you don’t trust me with your care—or anyone else’s care for that matter.”
“Fuck you, Sutton! Show me how to work these machines, and we can be done with this.” I shove him back a step and hop down from the stainless-steel table. He closes the space between us again and sets his glare acidically on mine before he answers.
“I don’t know how to use them.”
“Then how do you propose I learn that particular life skill?” I shoot back, having summoned as much sarcasm as I can muster.
“Laundry is easy. Mindless even. You separate the whites from the colors, toss in a detergent pod, and push start.” He still hasn’t backed up, which is aggressive for someone who supposedly feels bad for what he just did.
“Fine. Now let’s go eat some fucking birthday cake, Doctor.”
Chapter 16
My friends have a lot to say when I get back, but I can’t risk telling them about it. Wes, having felt the tug of testosterone, had wandered over to watch the football game while I was gone. Tracy, apparently having felt the tug of Wes, now cheers and shouts at the refs with the rest of them, so it’s a little hard to justify my clamped-shut mouth.
Matty, Lyla, and Veronica knew something was wrong the moment I stepped off the elevator, and the fact that Sutton made a beeline straight to his office didn’t go unnoticed either. Something about my laundry story didn’t quite ring true, so each of them called bullshit in their own way.
Matty crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side while squinting his disbelief in my direction. Veronica tapped my knee three quick taps while saying, “Nice try.” There is zero chance she bought the explanation. And Lyla pinched her lips together while giving a slow nod, the non-verbal cue indicating that we will be discussing my big, fat lie once we’re alone in our room.
I can’t tell them. Never mind my progress toward a healthy mind; Sutton is their doctor too. Despite my initial assessment, he is working wonders through this wing of the hospital. I don’t think Sig ever had a real handle on the people here. His understanding of their problems was very one dimensional. He would medicate Matty’s depression, but never try to understand why he might be depressed. And Sutton wasn’t here two weeks before he started breaking through Matty’s iron curtain.
Veronica is even making progress with her OCD, though she’s been mighty resistant to the
Cognitive Behavior Therapy that pushes her so hard and so often. Sig treated her for anxiety, but something like OCD requires more than just medication. Enter, Sutton. Now the doors are blown off, and she is making noticeable progress.
I would also be remiss in not mentioning Tracy. She has opened like a clam. She now shares some pretty horrific stuff in group and is starting to process some intensely bothersome childhood abuse. Abuse we all suspected, but somehow sat just below the surface of her consciousness. Turns out, she used the singing to disappear from herself. Imagine that. Having to escape from traumatic events by going so deep in your own mind, you lose touch with what is happening to your body. Yeah, all of us are a little more tolerant of her singing now. As well as feeling like a bunch of judgmental assholes.
Anyway, Sutton did all that. He has accomplished more in a couple months than Sig did in years. I can’t take all that away from my friends. They need Sutton as their doctor. If I pull back the curtain and reveal him as a man and not a God, it would never be the same.
That’s how I feel one minute anyway. The next minute, I want to tell them everything and divulge every detail. To hell with everyone’s progress. I want to analyze every second of what happened and come up with a game plan for moving forward.
The honorable part of me would back down and show all kinds of restraint as his patient. The newly unleashed hedonist in me says, fuck it, green light. For now, all I can do is stick to my laundry life skills class story and try to derail everyone by bringing up something from earlier.
“Can you believe Wes showed me his dick?”
“If Sutton didn’t crash the party, you could have seen it hard too. He had a semi when his hand was up your skirt. Only needed about ten more seconds,” Veronica says before cutting to the quick. “So, when do you think you’ll tell us the truth about your little sojourn with Sutton?”
I think about her counting everything before I answer. “Honestly, he took me to the laundry room, showed me how to separate the lights and darks, tossed in a detergent pod, and that was all,” I say, trying like hell to keep looking her in the eyes.
“He didn’t even stay for cake. Must not like sugar,” Matty says with a knowing glint in his blank expression.
“Or he already had some sugar,” Lyla points out, to an enthusiastic round of head nods.
Chapter 17
After Lyla had fallen asleep, I cried into my pillow for an hour before resurfacing with a new steely resolve. I was even able to maintain that resolve this morning through breakfast and group. Now, it sits heavy on my shoulders as I make my way to my session with the sexy doctor. I’ve come prepared too—for war or submission, I’m not yet sure.
I walk in and sit down, Sutton remains standing behind his desk, arms crossed. Besides the very physical barrier of his workspace, there is a less obvious barrier behind his eyes. But it’s a roadblock just the same.
“Don’t bother with apologies, Sutton.”
“Mercy, I’m not sorry. I’ve put my job and entire future on the line, but I’m not sorry I kissed you.”
“Ok, then. Why the standoff?”
“Because it can’t happen again.”
“Suit yourself,” I say as I lean against the back of the couch and open my thighs past the point of decency. I’m wearing the same skirt as last night, but this time, I’ve skipped the panties. I’ve come to the conclusion that I want him more than I want to get better.
I still haven't discussed him with my friends, but in the beginning, Lyla said to dress sexy and talk dirty, and Wes said it’s sexy to forgo the panties. So, I’ll start there.
Sutton notices my spread legs, and for a few minutes, time stops altogether. The fact that I know he is looking at my body intimately right now is enough to twist my carnal tingles into a tightly coiled snake. The act is lewd. It’s salacious. It’s so fucking sexy; I can hardly contain myself. I have never flashed my body in this way, and shockingly, the deed has just as potent of an effect on me as it does on him.
“Mercy,” he whispers before licking his lips and going mute.
“I want a new doctor, Sutton.”
“No.”
“I’m serious. If I have to choose between my mental health and you. I choose—”
“Don’t say that. It might kill me, but we have to get back on track. Mercy, we have to.” His eyes are pleading with me, but they still blaze with fire.
“I don’t want to. I want you to touch me here,” I say as I drop my hand between my legs, and widen my thighs even more. He gawks for a solid minute before he answers. His voice is broken apart, but his rejection is stitched back together before presenting it to me.
“Dr. Gingham will run your session tomorrow. He specializes in hypnosis, and I think it will be helpful. I’ll be here for support and to take some notes, but the session will be his tomorrow.” He drags his gaze up to meet mine.
“That’s all for today, Mercy, you can go join the group.”
***
When I get to the rec room, I see Lyla and a hospital porter carrying her stuff down the hall, and my anxiety spikes. She can’t move rooms now; I’ve only just decided to tell her everything about Sutton.
I stop moving my feet and feel my lips go completely numb. My attraction to Sutton was just handed back to me in the form of scorched rubble, and now Lyla is being taken from me. I’m trying to process the enormity of my feelings all in the space of a few seconds.
My frozen demeanor must set off a distress flare because Veronica hurries over and slips her arm through the space beneath my elbow, then walks me to our couches by the windows.
“This is only temporary, Mercy. In a few months, you can sleep on top of Lyla if you want to. What you are feeling is not a permanent condition. Breathe, it’s only for a short time. Breathe, this is only temporary.”
Veronica’s whispered mantras are lengthy enough for me to get a handle on my face. I have to control my emotions, or I will find myself under all sorts of scrutiny. The truth is, no one knows about Sutton, so I have to act accordingly only about Lyla’s room change.
“I guess a bed finally opened up, huh?” My words indicate stability, but my voice doesn’t sound like my own.
“I can see the anxiety written all over your face, do you want me to do a guided meditation with you?” Veronica asks. She still hasn’t unlatched her arm from mine, and I swear she can tell something bigger is at play.
“I’m fine V. Isn’t it almost time for yoga anyway?”
“Mercy, did he hurt you?” she asks, and it cracks my heart open. She knows I should still be in session with Sutton, and she has always been so tuned in to everyone else’s state of mind.
“Not like you think,” I whisper as my throat dries out.
“Honey, did he try to force himself on you?”
“No. It’s the opposite. He rejected me,” I say flatly, resigned to my new situation.
“I’m sorry, Mercy. If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe he would have rejected you if he wasn’t your doctor. You know? He can’t really dip his cock in a vulnerable patient and still keep his medical license. There will be hundreds of men available to you in a few months. You can take your pick of them, just hang in there, ok?”
“You’re right. Thank you.” I’m saying all the right stuff, but Veronica can see right through it.
“Do you want me to tongue my Ativan, and give it to you tonight?” Her offer is sweet but unexpected, so it makes me laugh.
“No. I can handle a little rejection. Like you said, I’ll have tons of other options in a few short months.
***
I feel four or five sharp cracks from what feels like a whip, and jerk awake. I’m soaked with sweat, and my sheet is wound around me as if to restrain me from fighting back against the angry mob. There are spots on my body that still burn with wild intensity under the moonlight, but upon further inspection, nothing remains to speak to the residual pain. Not a single burn, or welt, or wound remains. But the nightmare is real.<
br />
I’m fully awake, but can’t speak to the presence, or lack of angry men in my room. Their hatred has followed me into wakefulness. I can still remember their bearded faces and the ominous chanting. I can hear them even now.
I’ve never heard them clearly before, but now they sit between my ears and harass the quiet I know exists. They scream at me to renounce the wickedness that compels me. They spit on me and slap my face. I scurry into the corner of my bed, but they persist. Then I feel it. Another bite. The pain is indescribable, and it pulls from me a tormented wail.
“Stop! Please, nooooo!”
Chapter 18
I’ve hardly slept. The threat of the men returning had me huddled in a ball all night, shivering from the persistent dampness of my clothes. My numbed-mouth pleading hadn’t elicited the same response as screaming in the night, and the empty bed next to me had offered no comfort.
I needed Sutton. I needed him to talk me down. To hold me and explain away the terror. But he was nowhere to be found. Lyla was gone too. It’s clearer than ever before, this psychosis is mine to bear. Now, I’m all alone to face the hallucinations, and the thought of them being a figment of my sick mind is too crippling to acknowledge.
I’ve never knowingly hurt a soul; I don’t even kill spiders. How is it possible that I would create this horror, only to unleash it upon myself? All morning, I have sipped my coffee while landing on the realization that I am exactly where I belong. The little crush on Sutton was a distraction from the fact that I am sick.
The problem lies in the fact that the devil inside is only harmful to me. I can never lead a normal life or hope for normal things. I am a monster for turning on myself like this. In the past, everyone feared I was a danger to them, or their children, or to the staff, but the truth is, my brain only wants to destroy me.