“You are going to be okay. I am here to help you. Fight him—fight with all your might. Don’t let go.” The stranger’s voice pleaded.
Who was there with them? There was no one in the room, save for her and Mr. Patterson. It had to have been her internal voice. There wasn’t anyone that could save her now; it was only her self-consciousness speaking. They say when you are in a life threatening situation the mind has a way of protecting itself before letting go.
Allison mentally disconnected from the agony. She closed her eyes. Her body seemed to float into space. She felt peaceful, if that were possible, and allowed her thoughts to drift away. Her mind sifted through old memories.
The pictures were grey. They were not the happy imagines she had always dreamed of. Couldn’t she have another chance? A do over! She supposed that God had already given her nine lives by the time she made it to eighteen...how many more did she deserve?
Suddenly, she felt a touch. There was someone’s hand on her shoulders. Her eyes popped open. It wasn’t Mr. Patterson. His hands were busy below her waistline and were trying to hold her down. It was a wake-up call, a call to fight. She no longer felt alone.
Something unleashed in her brain, as if someone gave her a healthy syringe of adrenaline. With all the force left in her beaten soul, she slammed Mr. dPatterson hard in the groin with her bony kneecap. A swoosh of air escaped his lungs. Sweet success enveloped Allison. He fell hard to the side of her like a wet towel falling to the floor, gasping and cursing her.
“You rusty old, fuck!” She triumphed, blowing her horn and propelled to her feet. Victory.
Hovering above his crumpled up body, she rammed her rounded-toe Mary Jane’s into his groin two or three times. Each time she made solid contact, kicking him hard where it hurts the most. She turned to escape and then stopped. Without hesitation, she grabbed a lamp base and walloped him over the head for good measure. Blood poured from the gash in his forehead. “Go to hell,” she bellowed then fled from his home, leaving him quivering on the floor.
As Allison sped into the night, her mind did too. She was heading in the direction of the nearest hospital. She imagined all the questions and the police interrogation. The aftermath of even an attempted rape would make her feel like a victim once again. Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed, too ashamed and embarrassed to follow up with the authorities. Surely this was irresponsible, but the entire event was irresponsible. She had chosen to go to a distraught patient’s home unescorted. The sound of her father’s voice echoed in her ears.
Her father would say, “Allison you have disappointed me once again. What happened to you is your own fault.”
She could not bear to hear his unsupportive reproach of her. There were too many years of his white noise clouding her thoughts as it was. She failed her father again. He would blame her and rightfully so, she thought. Going to Mr. Patterson’s alone was an act of naivety. She should have known better, despite her good intentions. She quickly made a U-turn and headed home.
Fortunately, Frank and Allison never crossed paths again, professionally or otherwise. Weeks later, she heard through the grapevine that he committed himself willfully into a program. Perhaps, Allison had laid a foundation in her therapy somewhere along the line that Mr. Patterson conceded to.
Nonetheless, something broke, or more like erupted, in Allison that night and something boiled to the surface that felt all too familiar.
Upon arriving home that night, she removed her ragged clothing. Shame abashed her soul. She had a long shower and cried hard until it felt like her heart stopped beating and, perhaps it did in the literal sense. When the water washed over her tainted skin, it almost hurt.
However, there was more than water draining out of the bath and down the pipes into the wastelands that night. She would never be the same. She came face to face with the fork in the road, as many seldom do. Her only saving grace was that she fought and won her freedom to reign...like never before.
Allison reinvented her entire business approach. Out, with the old and in with the new. Her new motto, “It’s not the fall in life, it’s the climb back up!”
She began donning high-end fashions that showed off all her physical assets. There was no more hiding her full-breasts and slender curves beneath dowdy clothing.
She quit wearing her hair pulled back and wore it down in big waves that cascaded past her shoulders. Scarlet lipstick was her color of choice. The brand was Chanel, nothing but the best. Everything turned to a shade of red; she dyed her natural pale blonde hair to dark burgundy.
Garter belts and stockings became an everyday staple paired with six-inch heels. They’d doubled as a concealed weapon; if, a precarious event were to ever present it self again. If, her feet hurt, to hell with the pain. Besides, men loved the way her calves flexed when she strutted by. She was the devil’s daughter in the true form, red-hot and exploding with sex appeal.
Allison revamped her practice too. She incorporated New Age ideologies for her patients that did not appreciate the laborious Freud anecdote. Unfortunately, her father got wind of her modern treatment plan and reinforced the fact that she was an embarrassment to his legacy. However, his words fell on deaf ears. For the first time in her life, she didn’t give a rat’s ass what her father thought.
If her tyrant for a father ever found out what other services she had tailored into her new recovery plans, he would have had a heart attack. If he thought New Age was humiliating, what Allison did for her own recovery would take him beyond that.
Allison stuck to just enough of the old school textbook philosophies to keep up appearance. However, the aftermath of her ordeal with Mr. Patterson gave her a new lease on life. The route she took was drastic. She needed to feel empowered, especially when it came to men. Her control was taken away that night and it was time to take it back. She accomplished this by farming an unconventional twist into her therapy—very unconventional. Her prices when up and her overhead literally went down, if you get the point.
Not a single tear has fallen from Allison’s eyes since the night she had gone out on a limb for her suicidal patient. No one would ever take control or take advantage of her ever again. Her modest, charming and kind attitudes turned cold and shifted to fuck’em first, or get fucked. And, that’s what she did.
***
As she finished buttoning up her white cotton blouse, she turned to confront her seemingly drunk patient. There was a distressed expression on her beautiful, flushed-crimsoned face.
“This can never happen again. I feel...” Allison paused as she wiggled into her skirt, zipping it up in a hurry.
She studied her patient. His handsome face contorted, a despaired expression replaced his demands to stay. He looked painstakingly chocked full of guilt.
“Please, Wesley…you need to go, now. I can see we have made a terrible mistake. We can never do this again,” she half-heartily whimpered.
Wesley Jordan, her guilt-stricken, sexually dysfunctional patient of two years spoke softly, “Allison, don’t say a word. I didn’t mean for this to upset you. I thought you wanted this—please,” he said with a slight slur, tracing a path toward her.
“You must leave Wesley. Put your pants on,” she said firmly, turning her back on him, smiling to herself. He placed his hands on her shoulders, massaging them gently.
“It’s okay…I give you my word, I will never tell anyone. You can trust me as I have you the last few years. And, in return, you will learn to trust me. You know tit for tat,” Wesley spoke condescendingly, narrowing his eyes. His breath eased into a chuckle. The alcohol was definitely kicking in.
Allison picked up on his intoxicated mannerism. She wasn’t sure if he was being cheeky or out of line. He had a lopsided grin plastered on his face that she found very sexy. In the moment, she brushed off his ballsy comment. What got into him? He was always so gracious. Surely it was the alcohol speaking. Wesley has never been so audacious, she thought.
“I appreciate your reassurance, but—�
�
Wesley interrupted. “Allison, I am really torn. I must share something with you before I leave.” He groaned exhaling, as he swiftly got dressed.
“I think we shared enough today, Wesley. I am sorry our celebration is over and it has to end here,” Allison said wistfully as she took a seat on the edge of the sofa.
He looked astonished, as her words left him feeling equally verklempted.
What did Wesley mean by his comment? That she will learn to trust him? After all, she swore to an oath of patient confidentiality.
If anyone found out they had a sexual entanglement, her career and his marriage would be over. They both had something great to lose.
Allison certainly knew that she would never breathe a word about what happened between them. Although, she was not confident that Wesley would keep his word. She feared his bi-polar condition would rear its ugly head, rendering him incapable of keeping his word.
Allison stretched forward, resting her elbows upon her knees. She then covered her face with her palms.
“We both have too much to risk. You must never return here—forget today. If our—if the little fun we had together ever got out it could destroy our lives—oh, Wesley,” she sighed swallowing her words hard and covering her face with her palms and sobbed quietly. She hid her eyes in case any insincerity showed on her face.
The room grew quiet, save for her sobs. It troubled her that Wesley was speechless. He could have said something. What the hell? She was crying so why wasn’t he comforting her? Allison’s curiosity got the best of her. She had to be certain her tears were affecting him in someway. Why would she go through all this for nothing? Damn him, she thought. How could he be such a heartless bastard? After all she had done for him through the years, why wasn’t he showing her some sympathy? Fuck, she listened to his long boring stories too many times for him to turn on her now.
Between the spaces in Allison’s fingers, her big green eyes discreetly roamed toward Wesley. She evaluated him carefully and saw a degree of shame but nothing to alarm her pretty head about. She felt confident that her tears were working on him like a charm.
All was going according to plan and, judging by his expression, her tears prevailed. Allison learned years ago that her tears were not cheap, just like the old adage claimed.
However, after closer observation and several minutes later, Wesley was clearly losing it. He kicked the leg of the leather chair and began combing the room back and forth. Her eyes followed in his footsteps. Where was his compassion for her? She thought. A back-up plan was in order. Allison began to bawl louder. Her sobs echoed in her own ears. Still, she received no reaction from Wesley. This triggered a knot of authentic anxiety in the pit of Allison’s stomach.
Wesley appeared extremely burdened—way beyond guilty. He ran his hands through his coal jet-black hair, seemly out of control. His eyes vacillated to Allison then back to the floor. Could he be acting too? Had she met her level? Impossible.
“I feel so awful...for you,” Allison whined. If he could not show her any empathy, she would have to show compassion for him. However, Wesley’s feelings were the last thing on her mind. What a classic strategy.
Wesley approached Allison and smoothed down the strands of her just been fucked hair-do. She buried her face deeper into her palms and continued to cry. Finally, he showed a touch of consideration for her feelings. Allison exhaled and peered up toward Wesley. Her eyelashes fluttered, adding at bit of drama to her performance. A typical female maneuver.
Allison’s amateur years performing in the theatre seemed to be paying off. While she was growing up, it was her dream to be an actress but her dear old dad told her that dreams were for sleeping. His favorite phrases were: wake up to reality, take-off your blinders and there are no roses to smell. He was such a bitter old man. No wonder her mother walked out on them. Nonetheless, she took his advice. She gave up so much by trying to please him.
No one would have believed that her decision to practice psychiatry was a compromise on her part—not even her closest friends. Of course, her so-called friends never gave a shit about her anyway. So who really knew if, in fact, Allison was settling by chasing her father’s dreams instead of her own?
“Wesley, I don’t think I can continue seeing you, at least not on a professional basis. I have breached my code of ethics with you today,” she cried as tears streamed down her face. Allison figured that if she took the blame for their tryst, he would leave without a fight.
“Stop crying,” he said demandingly, stumbling over his feet.
His harsh words caused Allison to shudder from head to toe. Wesley’s jaw clenched tightly. His eyes glazed over. “I can’t stand to see a woman cry.” He grew more agitated by the second.
Wesley’s odd behavior was the last thing Allison expected after their romp. The inappropriate sex that she instigated was to help jolt Wesley into reality. It certainly worked on her other patients.
All she wanted was for him to lighten up and to have fun, even if that meant behaving a little naughty with her. The sexapade was not meant to make him freak out.
Her sexual tactics were supposed to work like shock treatment does but without the electricity. Personally, she felt major shockwaves. Sparks were flying off their flesh just moments ago. What was Wesley's problem? She contemplated.
“What is wrong with you, Wesley?”
“I feel guilty for what we have done,” he confessed.
“Why? You are cured,” she replied proudly with a huge grin plastered on her face. So much for her tears. Talk about falling out of character.
“Not, exactly. And, your tears aren’t helping either one of us. My wife—Wesley’s wife will know what happened. I might as well confess before she finds out. Hell, how do I know you won’t be the one to tell her?” He fumed.
“What, no, I would never—wait, what do you mean, Wesley’s wife?” Allison asked, biting on her fingertip. She looked puzzled.
However, her confusion paled in comparison to how mixed-up Wesley seemed to be. It was apparently the aftermath of their naughty deed that had clouded his thoughts. This was not good.
What Allison had hoped was that her tears would have mushroomed a small degree of guilt in Wesley, just enough to keep him quiet. Instead, he was putting her career in jeopardy. Her unconventional treatment to cure Wesley of his sexual dysfunction was suddenly backfiring.
There was one goal in Allison’s mind and it was to stop Wesley from confessing to his wife. It was time to go to plan B and her role—a damsel in distress. This role would not come easy to her. However, no one could be as charming or more convincing than sweet Allison when she wanted to be. For plan B, she would use her skills, a perfect combination of psychological manipulation, and would pull in all of her assets and, if absolutely necessary, bribery. She had to balance her odds. No more tears but, instead, a woman in need of a man’s—Wesley’s help!
The truth was Allison hadn’t felt like she needed a man in years, at least she had not needed one to save her. Men simply were not reliable, and no matter what they promise, they all go away in the end. They will all let you down and make you hurt.
Her own father abandoned her for a year of her life when she was a kid. Before she left for Los Angeles to peruse her dream to be an actress, he gave her hundred bucks and kicked her to the curb. He told her not to come back until she learned that he was her provider and king. One day she will learn that blood is truly thicker than water. She crawled back to him after learning some tough life lessons.
Allison had more walls around her heart than a prison and she kept it guarded very well. She only allowed herself to get close enough to a potential suitor so that he could act as a healthy substitute to her vibrator. Her motto was love’em and leave’em. She had no interest in building a lasting relationship with anyone. Holding hands and behaving like a giddy teenager was not her style.
Yet, she was all woman through and though. Her male gynecologist could contest to this; after all, the
y had been known to make private house calls to each other on a regular basis. They dubbed their fuck buddy relationship, Bartering Booties. This was their inside joke.
Allison was very resourceful and chose both her male friends and her patients wisely. She bartered with many men. One of her close patients was a top executive for AT&T wireless phones. He provided her cell service and, in return, she engaged in sexting with him. This turned her on. He wanted to hear her voice but she flat out refused. He didn’t really have a sexy voice and talking to him just didn’t do it for her.
Besides, Allison talked and listened to her patient’s problems all day long and did not want to do this with a man when she got home. In her opinion, there was no reason for intimacy with a man. Most romances last for the life of a dream, one morning you wake up and it’s gone. What was the point? Statically, the honeymoon cycle lasts a year but, afterwards it shrivels up and dies just like the flowers he promised he’d always send. The life expectancy of romance is short-lived. At least that is how Allison saw it.
Bad Doctor Page 3