Eight
Vivid dreams, different faces
Waves of hate and lust in traces
Festering sickness, my insides rot
There’s no pill for what I’ve got.
--Ataxia
Rex
“Hey, Rex.” My shrink pops his head out of his office and waves me in. “Come on in.”
I stand from the leather couch in the waiting room, happy to get away from the damn flute music that’s dancing through the stereo speakers. Honestly, does that shit really make people relax? It gives me the urge to flute-whip a hippy.
“Have a seat.” He motions to one of the two overstuffed chairs in his office then swivels around to grab his yellow legal pad and pen.
I drop down into the chair I always pick, the one I’ve been sitting in one day a week for all these years. Not sure why I always pick this one, but something tells me Darren Gale—with a ton of letters after his name—would say it’s OCD tendencies or some psychobabble shit like that.
“So?” He leans back in his chair, legs crossed. “How’ve you been?”
When I first started coming here, I was barely speaking and he had a hell of a lot more hair. He never pushed me to talk about things until I volunteered, and he’d be happy to just sit and not talk at all if that’s what I needed. Often times it was. But now, he’s the closest thing I have to family.
“I’ve been all right.” I flick a ball of lint off the chair’s arm.
He hums in acknowledgment. “You sleeping okay?”
I shrug. “Had to take some Trazodone last week, but it’s been better since.”
“Dreams?” He scribbles something down.
“Yeah. Same ole same.”
He drops his gaze and busies his pen on his legal pad. “The little girl or the men?”
My stomach tightens at the mention of those dreams. “The little girl and the one where I’m stuck in the dark.” And sometimes the others.
“Are you writing in your journal as I suggested?”
I shake my head and study the floor. Filling pages with feelings doesn’t appeal to me. “Kinda. I write lyrics from them.”
“That’s helping?”
“Yes.” Not really.
He puts his pad and pen on his desk and leans back in his chair. “This is good. You’re processing the nightmares in a way that works. The sexual dreams with the men, that—”
“Stop. I know what you mean.”
“Rex.” He gives me the look. The one that says skating around my issues won’t lead to progress.
“I just . . . it’s hard enough to dream it. I don’t want to hear you talk about it.” I grip my stomach and nausea builds in my throat.
The dreams. Flashes of different faces. Older men with hungry eyes, licking their lips, reaching out to touch, and all the feelings that come with it. The terror, pain, and helplessness. For years I thought those dreams were telling me I’m gay—even though I’m not the least bit attracted to men—but why the hell would a teenage kid dream about them in this way?
“I understand. I do, but if these are actual memories, then we can work on molestation victimization rather tha—”
“I’m not a victim. They aren’t memories. They’re . . . they can’t be.” I tug on my lip ring to keep my fingers off the rubber band at my wrist.
“Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“Exactly. I would’ve told someone at the hospital or my case worker from the home.” Hope drips slowly, freeing my lungs enough to take a full breath.
There’s no record of me being abused, only that I tried to kill myself when I was ten and was taken out of foster care and put into a group home for troubled kids.
His eyes go soft with sympathy that just pisses me the fuck off.
“There are people out there that go through lifetimes of abuse and never talk. You tried to kill yourself, Rex. It’s important to ask yourself what would drive a ten-year-old boy to do that.”
I wasn’t trying to kill myself. At least, I don’t think I was. I have a vague memory of pressing the sharp piece of metal into my skin and dragging it down my arm. It was exciting. It made me feel hopeful. I just can’t remember why.
“In your professional opinion, I was being molested and I tried to kill myself. Those seem like two pretty fucking significant things. Why don’t I remember any of it?”
“We’ve talked about this, how children handle trauma differently than adults. They unconsciously lock away the traumatic memories as a form of protection. It’s not that you don’t remember; it’s that your mind won’t allow you to unlock the place where they’re stored.”
I groan and pinch my eyes closed. Accepting that I was sexually molested by men, many different men, is more than I can stomach. And the dreams, they’re so vivid: the conflicting feelings of hating what’s happening to me, but not being able to control my body’s reaction to the touch. I break out in a sweat and wipe my palms on my pants.
Why would any living breathing human being allow that to happen to a kid in his care? God! What kind of a sick fucking world is this? And if the memories are locked in there and somehow they get unlocked, what then?
My skin feels alive, and I’m overcome with the urge to race out of here. “I’m sick.” The words are meant for only me and come out strangled.
“You’re not sick. You were an innocent child who trusted those who were trusted to take care of you.” His words are clipped with anger. “If there was a way I could get more information about the different families, investigate and find out what happened to you, I would.”
“There’s nothing to suggest those things happened. They’re just dreams.” Dreams of a sexually demented and mentally unstable psycho.
“Nothing is just a dream, Rex. Everything has meaning: your fear of letting people in, compulsion to be clean and stay organized. You don’t allow anyone in to mess up the delicate balance that’s keeping you on the right side of sane? All of that means something.”
I dig my fists into my eyes and rub. God, why won’t he stop talking?
“You crave structure, order, because it’s something you can control. Not allowing people into your condo keeps your space safe.”
Stop. Fucking. Talking!
“And your sexual habits . . . Prostitutes and easy women who allow you to get what you need and move on. That too—”
“Stop it! None of this bullshit you’re talking about is real.” I lean toward him and stab my finger into my chest. “I’m a sick fuck! There’s no reason for why I’m sick; I just am. Have you ever thought of that?”
His eyes narrow. “It’s possible, but doubtful.”
“Doubtful? My mom was bi-polar, depressed, and who knows what else.” I shake my head, suddenly irritated that I don’t have a single fucking memory of her that didn’t come from her autopsy report. “My dreams, my OCD, the shit I do to my body, maybe that’s just me and there is no excuse.”
He’s quiet, his expression blank and probably not at all surprised by my outburst. He’s heard it all before. Without concrete memories, therapy has been me chasing my tail around a big fat void.
The small office grows tight with my heavy breathing. Silence fills the space between us. People don’t understand what it’s like to not have a past, to have no roots, nothing that grounds me. At least if I had a history I could remember it would explain why I am the way I am. It’d be like discovering the germ that causes the sickness in order to formulate a cure.
A cure. I want that. “How is it possible to work through shit I can’t fucking remember?”
“Subconsciously, you do remember. Your dreams are the mind’s way of processing it.”
“No! I can’t . . . deal with that. It’s too much.” My chest is rising and falling faster, and I roll my lip ring a few times to keep my fingers off the rubber band on my wrist.
“I understand. You’re going to get there, but only when you’re ready. These things don’t happen over days
or weeks. It takes years, lifetimes of talking this stuff out, and we may never get to the why of it all. But our goal is to help you deal with the now. In order to do that, you must accept the possibility that you were sexually molested.”
I cringe and avoid his eyes, more than done with this conversation.
He exhales heavily. “How about things at home? Have you had anyone over? Friends? Women?”
I lean forward, elbows to my knees, head in my hands. It’s questions like these that make me realize how far from normal I am, how fucked my head is, but more importantly, how little progress I’ve made.
“Not yet, but I did, um . . . There’s a girl who I’d like to have over. Maybe.” The thought of having Mac inside my home pulls me in opposite directions. Having her in my place might be nice. Right? I take a deep breath and try to slow my heart rate.
“A girl?” His voice is high, perked up with interest. “Tell me about her.”
With another deep breath, feeling a little calmer now that we’re on a different subject, I sit back. “She works at one of the clubs I play at. We’ve been talking and I don’t know, it’s like she’s known me for years or something. I can’t explain it.”
“That’s comforting to be around someone who’s at ease with you. You’re an intimidating guy, so I’m sure that doesn’t happen often.”
Is that all it is? I don’t freak her out, so I like her? Wait, I like her? “I guess.”
“Maybe you should ask her to come over. Not to stay long, but just stop by for a drink before you go out?”
“I don’t know.” Asking her over and out on a date? Two things I’ve been avoiding for, well, forever.
“Rex, I know you’re uncomfortable, but you’re capable of a lot more than you think.” He exhales heavily and grabs his pad and pen off his desk. “You ready for your fight?”
“Yeah. I’m down eight pounds; the rest should be easy.”
“That’s great. I’ve no doubt you’ll win. This Reece guy probably shit himself when he found out he’d be fighting T-Rex.”
I chuckle and a warm feeling expands in my chest. Not having parents, Darren’s words are the closest thing I’ve got to parental pride. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.
We talk a little longer about my fight, and before I know it, we’re both laughing and arguing over UFL stats and predictions. I appreciate the lighter conversation and the fact that he doesn’t redirect us back to the heavy stuff.
“I’m proud of you, son.” He walks me out and claps me on the shoulder. “I know it feels as though you’ve got a long way to go, but I assure you, you’ve come a long way since your first visit.”
“Thanks, Darren.” I give him a chin lift. “See ya next week.”
I’m walking across the parking lot to my car when I hear him call my name.
“Consider what I said.” There’s a smile in his voice.
He’s talking about going out with Mac. I’m reminded of our kiss last night and the desire to work harder to overcome all my shit if it means being able to spend more time around her. And even though having Mac inside my house makes me dizzy, it might be a first step to getting better.
I’m a fighter. I’ve never backed down from anything in my life. Why should this be any different?
Simple. It shouldn’t.
~*~
Mac
It’s seven p.m. when I finally venture out of my room. After I got home from work last night, I couldn’t stop replaying my night. Stuck in the storage room only to have Rex come and save me. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was struck with the same déjà vu as I was: the way his fingers froze on mine and his face paled when I repeated the very words he said to me fourteen years ago.
As if our moment of connection wasn’t enough, when I finally got the courage to apologize for last week, he flirted with me. He touched my injured cheek and playfully asked me to kiss him again.
I grin and bite my lip, remembering the arousing scrape of his piercing against my mouth. The desire to run the tip of my tongue along it and taste him was overwhelming. The only thing I could do to keep from jumping him was walk away. I’d hoped he’d chase after me, turn me around, and throw me up against the wall in a passionate kiss. He didn’t.
Rex. Always keeping me guessing.
Halfway to the kitchen I hear classic rock coming from the backyard. Leave it to Trix to have a fucking party on a Monday. I shake my head and move through the living room to the sliding glass door.
“Holy crap.”
Hatch and four of his biker buddies are draped over our patio furniture, each one with a girl on his lap. The table is littered with beer bottles, empty liquor bottles, and a variety of different smoking paraphernalia, both legal and illegal.
Trix and her stripper friends hang on the bikers, the manifestation of drunk and desperate.
“Awesome.” I slide open the back door and immediately get their attention.
Hatchet’s eyes narrow. “Snow White. You come out here to get your revenge?” The tick of his lips tells me he’s kidding, but he’s obviously too drunk to pull off the inappropriate joke.
“Maybe. Depends on how well you mind your manners.” I set my eyes on Trix. “How long have you guys been drinking?”
She throws her hands to the side, accidentally whopping Hatch in the head. She cradles her hand to her stomach. “Ow, Hatch. Your head is rock hard.”
“You should know, babe. You’re sitting on my lap.” He rubs his head in a delayed reaction to her accidental hit. “You getting me back for poppin’ Snow White?”
Her gaze is slow and lazy as it moves between him and me. “Oh yeah.” She smacks him upside the head. “There. Now I am.”
I curl my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing. The truth is I’m not mad at Hatch. He didn’t hit me on purpose. That was my fault. Thinking back, Rex didn’t even lift his fists when he saw that he was going to get punched. He was going to take it. How can I be pissed when taking that punch meant Rex didn’t have to? Besides, Rex delivered the punishing payback well enough that Hatch is still sporting two black eyes.
“Pull up a beer and a chair.” One of Hatch’s motorcycle buddies pulls an empty chair to his side, his eyes moving from my neck to my hips and back.
Gross. “No.” I look back to Trix. “You guys going out?”
“Yeah, there’s a party we’re going to later. You want to come with?” Her eyes are glazed over, and I hope it’s only from the alcohol and not whatever else these fuckfaces are using.
“I’d rather get a pap smear from Freddie Krueger.” I step back into the house, and the sound of their snorted laughter and curses goes silent when I shut the door behind me. I head to the kitchen in search of anything that could be considered dinner.
My mind wanders back to Rex, and I picture him at his place doing the same thing, making himself dinner alone in his apartment. I crack open a can of Spaghetti O’s, dump it into a bowl, and pop it into the microwave. I’m antsy with the need to see him, if not him, then at least his car or his apartment. Just to set eyes on something of his soothes my anxiety and placates the obsessive beast within.
The beeping grabs my attention. The bowl burns my fingers as I race to the table to sit. I’m on my second bite of O’s when I hear the sliding glass door open.
“Great,” I mumble into my bowl and hope that it’s not the drunk long-haired biker who stripped me with his eyes. Ick.
“You get the job done?” One of the bikers says in a whisper that would probably be a lot softer if he weren’t shitfaced.
“Yeah, man. I did it. Where’s my fucking money?” The other male voice is angry and making no attempt to be quiet.
“He needs proof before you get paid. You know that’s how it’s done.”
A deep chuckle that sounds more sinister than humorous filters through the room. “Proof’s in the obituary.”
Obituary. He killed someone? With this crew, I’m not surprised.
“Shh, shut up. I
f Hatchet hears us talking MC business here, he’ll have our cuts.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Hatch. I want my motherfucking money.”
The sliding glass door opens again. “What the fuck are you dipsticks doing?”
“I’m going to take a piss.” The sound of boots on carpet disappears into the hallway.
“I want my fucking money, Hatch.”
“Shut your damn mouth.” Hatch’s growled words are followed by the gurgling sound of a grown man being choked. “You don’t bring that shit up in mixed company, Tread. You fucking hear me?”
Gasping. “That bitch . . . and her man . . . are dead. I want to get paid—”
I hear the loud crack of fist meeting flesh and then the thump of a body hitting the floor. My stomach turns.
“Shit, Hatch. You broke my damn nose.” The nasally voice is followed by the sound of stomping boots trailing off in opposite directions. There’s a murderer with a broken nose in my house. The thought doesn’t evoke the warm and fuzzies.
Hatch staggers into the kitchen, clearly missing the fact that I’m sitting less than six feet away. He pulls open the fridge door, grabs a bottle, and pops the cap. Turning, he leans against the fridge and tilts his head back for a long pull off his beer. He downs half and then his eyes go wide on me. “Snow White”—he glares—“how long you been sitting there?”
I suck down a spoonful of noodles. “Not long.”
He takes a step closer to the table. I don’t have to look up from my food to know he’s staring at me. I can feel it.
He clears his throat. “It would be wise if you pretend you didn’t hear that.”
Sitting back, I study him for a moment. Shaggy brown hair, black tee, and that damn leather vest with his MC’s logo embroidered on the breast. He radiates bad-ass biker. I shrug. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Good girl.” He leans a hip against the counter. “I trust you’ll keep that sexy mouth shut?”
Man, this guy gets on my nerves. In my house, threatening me? I drop my spoon into my bowl and lean back, eyes on his. “And if I don’t?”
Fighting to Forget Page 9