DECODE ~ GHOST [Editing]

22| Therapy

Leeds, West Yorkshire

Two Months Later

The therapist's office was almost empty, doused in light from the humongous window placed adjacent to the chairs, and it reached every corner of the room. The man opposite, the therapist, was roughly the same age as my father would be now, his subtly greying hair confirming my estimate as he scribbled something down in the rather expensive looking notebook in his lap. Outside, sounds of my home city could be heard, the familiar wail of sirens from the police vehicles speeding from job to job, the honking of car horns as the traffic built up, but it was my home.

My own voice surprised me as I broke the silence, "Maybe I'm not cut out for this life," my hands rested in my lap as I took the opportunity to pull at the cuticle that had annoyed me for the past fifteen minutes of silence, "As a kid, I loved the idea of being among a group of soldiers, working in these insane conditions with not a care in the world, but what if my time is over? Or - like - what if my time was wasted being a shit soldier?" I asked and sat up straight with unease as I rambled.

The therapist opposite me peered over his round framed glasses whilst he kept a close eye on my mannerisms. He dislodged the lump in his throat, "It's normal for a person in your position, of your rank, to feel this way," he said, and went back to write something down. I wonder what it is he was writing? Or maybe he was drawing me as a caricature.

Like my mind, my eyes started to wander to the photos coating the wall behind him. Different eras of life blessed the frames, with him stood among some of the Prime Minister's we'd had. There was even one of him with the Queen. I don't think I even got a picture with the big boss before she carked it.

I saw a photo of one of my father's idols with his shoulder around a younger looking Doctor Moorhouse, "How is this," I gestured lazily between us, "supposed to help with my rehabilitation?" I uncrossed my legs, "Like, surely you should be asking me if I was depressed or... something,"

"Would you prefer if I asked you if you were depressed?" he asked me, and set the notepad onto his thighs before he plucked the glasses from his face, "Your accident is just the tip of the iceberg, Spencer."

"Pfft," I exhaled, "Which accident are you referring to?" in my mind, I could list at least forty different accidents, all of different natures, all in different parts of the world. All of which, I survived.

He folded his arms loosely around him, "Afghanistan, Las Almas, Los Vaqueros' HQ, Chernobyl." he remarked. The names of those godforsaken places cut through me like a dagger, twisting in my stomach. I could feel the colour drain from my face.

It was as though I was back there again, the acrid night air scorched my nostrils as gunpowder and blood invaded my senses, "Don't," I warned, and the accident replayed in my head, a chill scattered down my spine as I heard the crushing scream of metal around skin as I stepped in the bear trap whilst being hunted for sport. I replayed the weight of Philip's dying corpse in my arms, his eyes rolled back into his head. The knife which cut through my muscle and caused me to walk with a cane, months after nearly dying.

Doctor Moorhouse rested his hand on my knee, reassuringly, "Spencer, it's understandable if you need to take time off," he smiled professionally whilst my frustration built up severely. It was as though I had a pressure cooker in my abdomen, ready to explode.

I didn't need any more time. What I really needed, not that anyone would bother to ask me, was to get back in the field, and go down as one of the first females in history to win a Victoria Cross. In fact, I wanted to win two and join the ranks of the elite.

"I want to go on deployment again, I'm fine." I lied. How could anyone be fine after the amount of things I'd been through? Not only that, but it was all highly classified, so the list of people I could talk to it about was very fucking limited.