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Reflecting on his long days, I shiver at what his body endures. Half of his work is physical, and the rest is desk work. No wonder his body is acting out.
“What is it?” he asks when I don’t say anything.
“I don’t like your job,” I admit.
“Don’t pout like that. You’re going to make me reward your needy pussy. I do what I must do, and you don’t have to pity me. I’ve programmed myself to endure it,” he argues. I clench my thighs in anticipation of his promise. Yet, I’m conflicted on the rest of his statement.
“You keep telling me that you can’t sleep,” I remind him. “You smoke because you can’t sleep. When you smoke, you’ve mentioned that you sleep lighter.”
“Are you going to give me some more hints at how to live my life?”
I shake my head. “I’m giving you my honest opinion. In my professional opinion, you’re vulnerable, and you shouldn’t be smoking. If you ask—”
“What does my needy little doe say?”
I inhale deeply, letting his words sink in. “I say you should do as you please since it helps you sleep.”
“Good little doe.”
Gripping my pen, I start at a new line on the notepad. “You should give yourself two hours a day after work where you don’t do anything for anyone. Pick something that you like doing and go through with it.”
“I like doing you. Does that count?” he asks cheekily.
I ignore his question. “Do you masturbate?”
“Sometimes.”
“How often?”
“Spend a day with me, and you’ll find out.”
“Try it twice a day daily. It should straighten up your broody face,” I say while making a note.Masturbate twice a day.
“I know what can fix my face, little doe. It’s not my hand.”
My heart pounds heavily in my chest, robbing me of my concentration. I’m breaking out in sweats, and I haven’t even moved. Briefly, I contemplate what I’m about to do, but there’s no saving me. I’ve been lost in limbo for five years.
The first time I saw Mr. Winters, he didn’t want to be in my office. He came in, took a seat, stated his name, and then he left. I had already endured hours of work practice, and fragile personalities weren’t a new concept to me.
For the first five times we met, he kept a routine. He answered my first question, and then he left my office.
Five months passed, and one-sentence responses were all I received from him.
Meanwhile, Kamila painted a clear picture of who Jordan was to the entire family. She was the Queen of Katantia, but he was the family’s leader. Fylox needed more time to open up, but he shared similar notions with me once he did. His stories were more intense than Kamila’s. He had lived under Jordan’s leadership ever since he was rescued at eighteen years old.
Fylox confessed to suffering anxiety attacks that threatened the lives of his closest family and friends. Jordan took it upon himself to train Fylox so that he could channel his energy elsewhere.
Jordan’s been taking in broken birds all his life. He’s dedicated his life to making up for something. I don’t understand what he’s trying to prove. I can’t comprehend the guilt he carries around. Is it guilt?
“You have killed,” I state. I don’t shake, and I don’t hesitate.
“I have.”I’m not afraid of him.
“Have you killed innocents?”
“I’ve attempted to spare them.”
“Do you feel any remorse?”
