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I’ve had four failed sessions with the doctor, but today, well...why the hell not?
Julian’s persistent; he kisses me every morning. Simple yet filled with the promise of a future. Harper brings me baskets of new scents. I told them all to stop with the pumpkin, although Julian still calls me that.
Henry, well, he brought me a box filled with broken items he could pull out from the debris of our house. I haven’t looked in that box.
I’m going to talk to Dr. Peterson today. I didn’t take the sleeping pills last night, and I didn’t sleep. Andrew was there with me, and Julian slept on the small couch in the room.
I opt for sitting on the floor and not that beanbag-like couch. I don’t want to be comfortable because what I have to talk about isn’t comfortable.
Dr. Peterson looks pleased. The bitch should; she’s winning.
Am I a loser everyone gets to claim victory over?
"I... see his face," I admitted, hating the shiver that ran through me.“My ex. It’s like he’s still watching me. I hear him talking to me." I dig my nails into the Berber carpet, a piece of it snagging on the edge of my nail, trying to break it.
"What does the voice say?" She tries to keep her expression neutral.
"I'm not crazy," I shake my head.
"I didn’t say you were," she quickly interjects.
Then what are you writing down?
"I don’t hear him like a voice in my head. I’m not hearing things," I clarify sharply. My exhale rumbles through me. “I hear his threats, his promises, and the memories."
She nods and scribbles some more on her clipboard.
"That sounds incredibly tough," Dr. Peterson said gently. "How does it make you feel when you see his face?"
"Haunted," I muttered.“Like, I’m never going to be free of Andrew. Tell me, Dr. Peterson, do they still do lobotomies? Can you just scramble my brains around and erase him?" I snort a laugh.
"You see what just happened. I said 'brains' to make a joke. I make jokes because they make others stop probing. Harper and I started doing it after my parents died." I admit. "Anyway, I said 'brain,' and then I thought about Andrew’s brains. Most of it went on Peter’s gravestone. You know what?” I glance up at the ceiling.“Andrew killed the maintenance man, so now I’m wondering if his brains are still there staining my brother’s memory."
I look her in the eye, "Did anyone scrape off Andrew’s brains yet?"
She presses her lips together, spreading her pink gloss over them.
I shrug. "I can't erase my memories. I don't think you can either. Maybe there is a drug out there that can make it all fuzzy, but then I'll just be a shell. What's the point of living as a shell?"
"Is that why you didn't take the medicine last night?"
I shrug again.
"True, memories can be persistent," she acknowledged. "You can make new ones, though. What are your thoughts on what healing might look like for you?"
I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "Healing? I just want a Band-Aid to cover up my wounds. You’re the best, so they all say. So tell me what I need to do so I can slap a Band-Aid over this and move on."
“Band-Aids are temporary. Wounds fester," Dr. Peterson says. Finally, she looks up from her clipboard, meeting my eyes with a steadiness that irks me. "Poppy, healing is a journey, not a destination. It’s not about forgetting or erasing—it’s about reclaiming your space and your peace."
"Reclaiming peace," I echoed mockingly. "Sounds like a romance novel from the eighties," I jest. "You make it sound like a crusade. I’m not the soldier; Julian is."
"In many ways, it is, and you are a fighter. We all are. It’s ingrained in our DNA. You’ve survived a lot of hardships, and you’ll survive this," Dr. Peterson replies softly. "Can you think of any goals you might want to set for yourself, small or large?"
"Is not blowing my brains out a good one?"
Her pen freezes.
