The Turning Point

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE - I'M NOT LIKE THEM

William

"When you remember something related to your father—be it a gesture, a word, or a specific situation—and you feel that fear or stress setting in, your nervous system reacts automatically. It understands that you are in danger and sends signals to your body. The bloodstream is flooded with stimulating hormones, like adrenaline, and this causes physical reactions: tremors, excessive sweating, dilated pupils, accelerated heartbeats, increased blood pressure…"
As he spoke, I looked at my hands. Thinking about it, there were times when they trembled less.
"I've noticed that's decreasing," I commented. "When you call me Davies, or when we talk about my father, for example, my hands don't shake as much as before."
Malerman smiled, satisfied.
"You're making very good progress. But I want you to continue with the anti-anxiety medication for now. And remember: deep breathing exercises are as important as the medication. I don't want you to become dependent on drugs."
I nodded, but continued to stare at my hands.
"Now, I want you to tell me… What did you feel when your father hit your mother?"
I took a deep breath. The words seemed stuck, a lump forming in my throat. It was still difficult to talk about it.
"In your own time, Davies."
Malerman always made me feel comfortable. I got up and went to the window, pulling back the curtain a little. The movement of the street seemed distant, but I fixed my gaze there. It was easier to talk when I didn't have to look at anyone.
"I was only eight years old," I began, my voice coming out lower than I expected. "At that time, I didn't know what those feelings were… The desire to kill him, even when I felt I loved him."
I let out a dry laugh.
"Profane, isn't it? Making a child feel that kind of thing?"
Malerman didn't answer, but nodded in agreement. He wanted me to continue.
"He caused that in me."
There was a brief silence before his voice filled the room again.
"So you're recognizing that it wasn't your fault to feel that?"
I closed my eyes for a moment and let the air slowly leave my lungs.
"Yes."
"That's a big step forward, Davies. Very good. Continue."
I squeezed my fingers on the edge of the curtain before letting go, trying to relieve the tension.
"Today I know the name of what I felt. Hatred. Anger. Resentment..."
"And years later, when you had the opportunity to take revenge, what made you change your mind?"
"I'm not sure," I admitted, looking at him quickly before looking back at the street. "Maybe it was pity. At some point, in my subconscious, I felt sorry for him."
"Why do you think you felt that way?"
My shoulders dropped a little.
"Because he had already lost everything."
"Everything?"
I nodded.
"He started hitting me after he fell off the roof. Before that, he was a good father. After he went to ask his own father for money, he came back a different man. He started drinking… And then everything fell apart."
Malerman remained attentive as I spoke.
"He was also beaten his whole life," I continued. "Once, he came home drunk and started to vent. He said he was beaten just for looking at his father. That, sometimes, he soiled his pants after a beating."
I frowned as I remembered the scene.
"I remember him pointing to his forearm and showing a burn scar. His father marked him with a lit candle, just because he mentioned his mother."
"And yet, you believe he could have done differently?"
I looked directly at Malerman this time.
"Yes."
He nodded slowly, as if he wanted me to complete the line of reasoning myself.
"The fact that he suffered didn't oblige him to repeat the cycle," I concluded.
"So you believe that..."
"That I can be different. That I am different. That all those aggressions were buried with my father and I never resurrected them, because I am different. Bad things happen all the time, even when we don't want them to. But I will never cause them intentionally."
He nodded his head and gave a small smile. He adjusted his glasses on his face and crossed his fingers at chest level.
"Continue about the day you wanted to kill him."
I swallowed hard.
"He could have been different, but he chose to be like them. My grandfather, my great-grandfather... He could have broken that pattern, but he didn't want to," I squeezed my eyes shut, "he could have been different, but he chose to be like them. He had no love from his grandfather, his father, the mother who abandoned him. I don't know if my mother still loved him and he knew he had lost my love for him. He lost his dignity, the respect of people, and even the will to live. Killing him would be advantageous for someone who no longer wanted to live. So, I felt sorry for him, for a moment."
"For a moment? Then it wasn't that anymore?"
"Then I thought it would be better to let him drown in his own misery. He deserved that." I sighed heavily.
"Killing him would have been a favor. And you didn't want to give him that, did you?"
Malerman leaned forward to hear my answer.
"At that moment, I realized that he was already dead inside. And that was punishment enough. He deserved that."
Malerman was silent for a few moments before asking:
"And when you heard the shot… What did you feel?"
The memory hit my chest like a punch. The noise echoed in my mind, making me clench my fists.
"I…"
I let the air out slowly, but it trembled as it came out.
"I...—I released a large amount of air—I remembered that at some point, I loved him. That at some point, he was my hero. At some point before I was eight years old."
I looked at my cold hands starting to tremble.
"Breathe deeply, Davies," Malerman said calmly. "It's over. It's just a memory."
I squeezed my fingers harder. Then, a tear rolled down silently, falling to the floor. I turned my face so he wouldn't see.
"Tears are a reaction caused during emotions like joy, sadness, laughter, or even yawns. They are responsible for lubricating the eyes when necessary. For example, when there is a speck of dust. This lubrication is necessary to expel this small annoyance. But there are cases like yours, in which it lubricates your feelings, expelling some pains outward. Crying is also a great spectacle."
I wiped my eyes and remained silent, looking out the window.
"How do you think I am?" I said at last.
"I think you're ready. If you're not, my couch will always have a place for you. A couple more sessions and we'll be satisfied."
He smiled and took the cigarette case from his pocket.