Page 14 of Framed Obsession

“They could win half a million dollars. Sometimes even more. Money like that can change a lot of lives. Putting oneself in danger for money is beyond me. That's why I host.” He taps his finger on his temple, indicating that he is being clever.

“And you don't feel any type of remorse? Any feelings at all? What about concern? Don’t you experience some type of feeling when you see others get hurt?” I ask, trying to dig deeper. If he really has no feelings at all for them and treats it as purely transactional, that says a lot about his character. Not making room, or being unable to make room, for how others may feel or what could happen to them raises a slight red flag in my mind of psychological disconnect or detachment.

When I have patients like this, a common mechanism or condition they have often resembles dissociation, alexithymia, or apathy. Any of these can appear from past trauma, PTSD, or being unable to express themselves due to high levels of stress. A part of me wonders if he has some sort of psychopathic tendency, leading to his narcissism.

It's so important to ask the right questions and get to know how someone has come upon such psychological detachment. Lots of conditions or diagnoses are similar, but also so different. It all depends on how one’s past has influenced who they are today, or how someone copes with emotions or stress in their current experiences.

His words pull me back to existence.

“No feelings at all. Like I mentioned before, they put themselves into these situations knowing the repercussions. One of the last times we hosted a race, someone snitched, and the cops showed up when the race was about to begin. There were over ten cop cars swarming the group. A lot got away; some didn't. It's like when you see a movie and everything is in slow motion. I watched racers get violently tackled to the ground and thrown into cuffs, organizers staring down the barrels of guns that threatened to end them.

I ran toward my bike, barely making it on, when a cop wrapped his arm around my neck from behind and put me in a headlock. So, I punched the motherfucker. Once he let go, I hit him again and again. I couldn't stop.” I watch Axel intensely. His eyes are fixated on the window in my office, lost in memory.

The expression on his face contorts as if he is reliving the moment, noticing his hands have balled into fists. I can see the blanching of his knuckles as they turn whiter the stronger his grip gets.

I don’t want to add to his anger, but it is healthy for him to release these emotions. He is also giving me a lot of important information about how he manages his emotions with actions. He may not want to admit it, but anger is a feeling. This is a good sign.

“Once he was a bloody mess, I hopped on my bike and took off. I only got so far before they chased and caught me. I typically would’ve been able to get away, but the snitch had released my name. They waited at my home. Fuckers hid from me, then ambushed,” he finishes, his tone now monotone. I’m taken aback thinking about how physical he became with authority. I knew when I read his record that it listed Assault and Battery on a police officer. A part of me wanted to believe it wasn't as intense as he described.

Bad people do bad things, and sometimes, good people can do bad things too.

I give him a moment of silence to collect himself. He looks back in my direction, giving me a piercing stare. His hands are now unclenched, his shoulders relaxed, and he leans back against the couch, returning to his previous demeanor.

“And that's how I spent two years in prison,” he remarks, shrugging his shoulders like it’s no big deal. I glance down at my notepad, wanting to find something I could ask him further about, but I was listening so intensely I had forgotten to write anything down. So I focus on asking him how the consequences of his actions felt and if it had changed his behavior or thinking.

“Has prison had any impact or given you any reflection on how you dealt with the situation? I can imagine being there for two years has given you some time to reflect. Do you regret assaulting the police officer or fleeing from them?” I pry a little more. I don't expect anything more than a “no.” If he had no remorse for those who were harmed during his races, I’m sure he wouldn't for those in authority.

“Motherfucker had it coming; he put his hands on me. It was only fair that I did the same,” Axel says, showing no empathy. Was two years worth it? If he had complied, I'm sure the time served would've been less. It probably didn't even occur to him, acting so quickly.

“I can see where you are coming from. The situation escalated quickly, and you reacted. How did you feel during the experience? I'm sure you were angry, which I assume is why you hit the officer?” I dig into the fact that he reacted in anger. He pauses a moment, not straying eye contact from me. It's like he is trying to read me. Like he is wondering why I’m asking about his feelings.

It's why he’s here, isn't it?

“I was pissed. Someone snitched. I’m still trying to find out who. Once I do, they better fucking pray to the god they have that I’ll show mercy and end their life fast.” The words leave his lips in a threatening promise. W… what? My mouth is open, but no words come out. I’m stunned. I’m speechless. Did he just threaten someone's life in front of me? I’ve never had this happen before.

I watch as he stands, circling the coffee table that separates us. My body stills. I can feel every muscle tighten and constrict. I don't move. I can't move. I just watch as he stands in front of me, peering down with his grim presence. Can he hear how fast my heart is beating? Can he hear my fast-paced breaths? Will he hurt me?

He bends over slightly, positioning his face only a few inches away from mine. Not realizing my jaw is actually open, I feel his large fingers caress my chin, closing the distance between my lips. My eyes flicker back and forth searching his, looking for any sign of what he is about to do next. His gaze moves down to my lips as he licks his own.

“I believe our session is done, Ms. Rosen.” His words coat my lips in a flirtatious declaration before he gives me a wink, and leaves the office, leaving me in silence.

Chapter 13

The Stalker

Honey & Hemlock - Noah Thorne

My skin is drenched in perspiration as I sit on my bedroom floor. My fingers are tangled in my long black hair, feeling the roots of each strand being pulled. My breaths are shallow and fast, as if I’m running a marathon that seems to never end.

I rub my eyes, trying to get rid of my tears. My eyes are swollen, puffy, and tender. My body aches all the time. I haven't been to school in weeks because of the bruises. They are bigger and darker. So purple they almost look black. My finger grazes the skin on my arm, feeling the swollen welts. There's so many, I can barely see the color of my own flesh.

I rock back fourth, feeling my fists slamming into my skull. Over and over. I need to pull myself out. I need to pull myself out. I need to pull myself out. Damn it, Axel.

The bruises are taking longer and longer to fade away. I’m being punished as if I have any control. I’m not allowed to go to school or see anyone until they’re barely visible or gone. They seem to never leave. My mom and dad come into my room every day to hit me. How are they supposed to disappear if they keep making more? I wish I could be the one to disappear. It would fix all ‌the problems.

My stomach feels uneasy, but I can’t seem to find the strength to get up. My skin is clammy, hair is stuck to my face, and the floor seems to be the only familiar place I know. I usually have my flashbacks under control, but they have been getting progressively worse, and I don’t know why. They appear like some sick game of jack-in-the-box.

I try to get away. I try to scream. I try to beg. Nothing helps. My mom tells me I ruined their lives. They always tell me they wish I wasn’t here. Why? What did I do? I try my best to stay out of their way. I try my best to be as quiet as possible. I try my best. I try.