Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
"It already happened, didn't it?"
"Do you consider yourself evil?"
"Would I be sitting on this couch if I wasn't?"
She tilts her head to the side slightly, but I don't get the feeling that she believes I’m evil.
"How many people have you hurt that hadn't hurt someone else first?"
"None," I answer quickly because it's the truth.
"Why did you hurt those people?"
"Because monsters don't stop until you stop them."
"Not because of vengeance, or seeking retribution?"
I shake my head. "It has nothing to do with revenge."
"That's not evil," she says. "In your mind, if you don't stop them, then they will continue to hurt other people."
"They will," I argue.
"We need to get you to a point where you trust in a system that will also make sure they can't hurt others again."
I narrow my eyes at her, but she continues anyway.
"We do good things through Cerberus. You do good things through Cerberus. Sometimes your skill in putting monsters down will be necessary, but it can't be the first step in every situation."
"It's the fastest," I grumble.
"And often very illegal in most cases," she counters. "You're valuable to Cerberus, and that doesn't diminish when you send evil men to hell. Your incarceration, because there were other avenues you didn't consider, will."
"Seems like prison is the perfect place to carry on those practices," I mutter.
Her laughter fills the room, and I wait, my face blank until she's done.
"That may be the case, but Cerberus doesn't have plans to send you guys into prisons to clean house. We're fighting enough battles on the outside. Want to get started?"
I could argue that I've been here for half an hour already, but that didn't work the last time I tried, and wasting time really isn't my thing either.
She presses a few buttons on her tablet, making the light bar in front of me on the table flicker to life.
I pull in a deep breath.
Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, or EMDR as it's known, has been part of these sessions since I arrived at the Cerberus New Mexico clubhouse two weeks ago.
It was explained to me, and although it sounded like a bunch of woo-woo witchy shit that would never work, I didn't feel like I had any other option than to participate.
The first stage was giving my history and a detailed account of the things that have caused me issues for as long as I can remember. She didn't wince or look at me like I was someone to be pitied once I recounted everything I could remember from birth. That process took longer than I thought it would, and this is only my second session using that fucking light bar.
Thankfully, the therapy isn't about telling her what happened and how it made me feel. It's about coming to terms with those traumas through memory and removing their power over me.
It's good in that I don't have to say out loud that I was sad the first time I saw my father hit my mom.
It's terrible in that I have to focus on this light moving back and forth across the flat beam and fucking feel it.
"Deep breaths," she says. "In... Out... In... Out..."
I watch the light as I breathe, doing my best to clear my mind and relax, something that has never come easy to me.
"We ended our last session talking about the abuse you witnessed against your mother. Pulling up those memories, how would you rate your distress?"
"That's in my box," I tell her as I lift my eyes to her.
"Is it?" she asks.
I pull in another deep breath. There were things during the history phase of this I knew I'd never talk about. Those things go inside this imaginary box she vowed she wouldn't force me to open. I'd only talk about them when I felt ready to face them in therapy. I didn't put rating my distress level in my box, but maybe that was a mistake.
Our last session left me drained and broken, and I'm not interested in walking out of here again feeling like I hadn't slept or eaten in a month. I was weak and went to my room and slept for twelve hours straight, something I never do.
Therapy is fucking exhausting.
I pull in an exasperated breath and lower my eyes back to the fucking light bar.
"Eleven," I tell her honestly, because the scale is one to ten, and it's still off the charts.
I clench my fists at my sides, my eyes still moving left to right, right to left, following the light.
My heart races, and the need to grip the back of my neck to dissolve the tingle of hairs lifting grows with every second.
"Stay with it," she urges. "Picture it. What's your belief?"
"I should've killed him sooner," I whisper.
"Saying that, 'I should've killed him sooner,’" she says, her voice sounding a little more distant than before. "What does it mean that you didn't?"