Page 30 of Endo
The leather chaircreaks as I shift uncomfortably, staring at the tiny clock on the therapist’s desk. It’s modern but soft, like everything else in her office—warm wood tones, muted beige walls, and shelves packed with books that probably hold all the answers I don’t want to hear. There’s a framed photograph of the ocean behind her, and the edges of a salt lamp glowing softly on the side table. It’s designed to feel safe, like you can spill your guts here and not hate yourself for it later.
But I hate every second of it.
Dr. Mara Kelly sits across from me, legs crossed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She’s in her late forties, with streaks of silver running through her dark curls, and her hazel eyes have a way of cutting right through whatever wall I’m trying to put up. She doesn’t push; she doesn’t prod. She waits, like she knows I’ll talk eventually, even if it takes me the entire damn session.
“How’s your sleep been?” she asks, her voice calm and even, like a stone skipping across still water.
“Fine,” I lie, shifting in the chair again.
Her brow lifts slightly, and she jots something down in her notebook. “That’s good to hear. The nightmares aren’t bothering you as much?”
I want to laugh, but it sticks in my throat. “I said I’m fine, didn’t I?”
She doesn’t react, just waits like she always does. I drag my hand down my face, the coarse stubble scraping my palm. It’s exhausting, being in this room. The silence here isn’t peaceful; it’s loud, echoing every thought I try to bury. And somehow, she knows that. She lets it sit until I finally crack.
“It’s not like they’re going away,” I admit, my voice low. “The nightmares. The flashbacks. They’re still there.”
Her nod is slow, deliberate. “And how are you handling them?”
I bark out a laugh this time, sharp and humorless. “How do you think?”
Her pen pauses, and she leans forward slightly, her tone softening. “Reign, you can’t keep trying to numb the pain with alcohol or fighting. It’s not sustainable.”
“Sobriety feels worse,” I snap, my words spilling out before I can stop them. “Every sober second, I’m stuck with it. The crash. Cruz. All of it. I’d rather feel nothing.”
Her gaze softens, but it doesn’t pity me. It never does. That’s the only reason I keep coming back here—because she listens without trying to fix me. “It’s hard to sit with those feelings, I know. But the only way through them is to face them, not bury them.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Yeah, well, burying them works just fine for me.”
She doesn’t argue, just nods like she knows the battle’s lost for today. “You said last week that opening up felt impossible, but you mentioned a shift recently. You said you talked to someone—Lena, right?”
The mention of her name sends a pang through my chest. I don’t answer right away, but the memory creeps in anyway—her sharp, steady gaze on me as I spilled secrets I hadn’t even told myself. It was terrifying. And... nice.
“Yeah,” I admit, grudgingly. “I told her some things.”
Dr. Kelly’s expression remains calm, but there’s a subtle shift in her eyes, a flicker of interest. “Who is Lena?” she asks, her tone gentle but probing.
I hesitate, the question catching me off guard. “She was Cruz’s girlfriend,” I mutter, my gaze dropping to my hands. “I guess... we’re just trying to figure things out together. She’s someone I can talk to. Makes things feel a little easier.”
Dr. Kelly nods slowly, her pen pausing midair. “That makes sense,” she says, her voice soft but knowing. “The two of you have both suffered the same kind of loss. It’s no wonder you find it easier to open up to her. You can relate to each other’s pain in ways no one else can.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I rub the back of my neck, feeling the heat of the conversation burning into me. It feels like she’s digging too deep, but at the same time, there’s a strange comfort in the way she understands.
She jots something down in her notes, sensing the shift in the room. I feel my walls creeping back up, a natural defense. I shift in my seat, signaling that I’m done with the conversation. She takes the hint without pushing.
When the session ends, I’m up and out of the door before she can say anything else. I’m already half out the door, trying to push the weight of everything back inside me where it’s easier to ignore.
The Iron Pitis buzzing when I arrive, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and adrenaline. It’s a place that feels alive in a way I don’t, and that’s why I keep coming back. The lights are dim, flickering overhead, the concrete walls scrawled with graffiti in angry streaks of red and black. The smell of sweat and rust clings to everything, mixed with the faint tang of blood. It’s chaotic, raw, and exactly the kind of noise I need to drown out my own thoughts.
I sign up for a fight without thinking, scribbling my name on the clipboard like I’m signing a confession. The guy running the table barely looks up, just gives me a quick nod and motions toward the makeshift ring in the center of the room. The crowd swells around it, bodies packed tightly together, a cacophony of shouts and laughter echoing off the concrete walls.
My name is called faster than I expect, and I strip off my hoodie, tossing it onto a bench nearby. The weight in my chest grows heavier as I step forward, but I shove it down, letting the roar of the crowd drown it out. The air is thick with sweat and anticipation as I take in the scene around me.
I pull off my shirt, revealing the array of tattoos that snake across my chest, arms, and stomach. The ink is a mix of old and new, faded memories and recent regrets etched into my skin. My abs flex as I move, but the tightness in my core doesn’t come from strength—it’s the tension, the nerves. My body feels like a battle map, each scar telling its own story.
I’m wearing loose-fitting shorts, the waistband riding low, revealing the edge of my Calvin Klein boxers. My Air Jordans squeak against the mat as I step forward, the familiar feel of them giving me a sense of false confidence. My hands arewrapped, but I don’t know why I bother. They’re already so cut up from the fights, the damage done is more than the wrap could ever fix. But I do it anyway, as if it’ll somehow make me feel like I’m still in control. It probably does more harm than good at this point.
The crowd’s noise is a distant hum in my ears, and as I step into the ring, I push the weight on my chest aside for now.
