Into the Stars (USC Series Book #2)

chapter thirty-five

INTO THE STARS
———
MALACHI

I want to shoot myself.

You can't say that, Malachi.

I internally curse the dark thoughts flooding through my mind. Those words should not be thunk, let alone spoken in the middle of a therapy session. That would be a desperate cry for help, and I am more of a subtle guy when it comes to that.

"From what you have told me, you are here because your..." Doctor Andrews hesitates, searching for an accurate term, "friend thought you should start therapy. Am I correct?"

I nod, my eyes quickly glancing toward the grandfather clock in the corner of the minimalistic room. Fifteen minutes down, forty-five to go.

"Would you like to tell me anything about this friend?" she cautiously asks.

This is my third session with Doctor Andrews. By no means is she a horrible therapist or unqualified—her doctorate and other plaques that are shown off quite proudly in the lobby prove otherwise. I just haven't been forthcoming with information about my past. She knows the basics: my mom died, I spent the majority of my childhood in foster care and my foster parents weren't the best caregivers.

Besides that, she knows close to nothing. Our sessions predominantly comprise silence minus the occasional question from her and a slight movement of acknowledgment on my part or minimal explanation.

I shut my eyes, breathing in and out while mentally preparing myself to speak. "She... isn't much of a friend."

Doctor Andrews hums, jotting down some words in her notebook with her fancy-looking pen that is neutral, just like everything else in this suffocating space. "What would you consider her?"

I jog my mind, thinking over what I could label us that would be sufficient. Calling her mine would be too presumptuous, and I don't think that would be the right term. Brinley isn't mine. Truthfully, I don't think she could be anyone's. I think the idea of being "owned" isn't an attractive thought to her. That's one thing I admire about her.

"There isn't a word that would suffice," I reply, clipped and monotone.

Doctor Andrews moves her head in a minuscule nod. "Why did she think it was appropriate for you to attend therapy?"

The first answer I think of is that I was unable to be the best version of myself. Although my lack of self-love was an issue, I believe my PTSD and childhood trauma was a catalyst.

I died. A huge part of me died that one dreadful night. I felt it and ever since I have been living as a ghost. Death wants you to be so terrified, but the scariest thing is wanting death to sweep you off your feet and take you. And that night when I found my mother, I wished it was my corpse laying beside her. I would've done anything to swap our places because there is no way of recovering from seeing your lively mother so ghost-like and mutilated.

No amount of sympathy can make up for the years lost with my mother. No other pain I undergo will equate to the agony I experienced the moment I felt my innocence and childhood vanish. Or the knowledge that the man with the blood on his hands was your own father.

That semblance of vibrancy the past me withheld almost returned. Every time I am with Brinley, I experience that vibrancy revive. But my anguish outweighs everything else. It is like I am bound for suffering no matter what. That is my downfall, I guess.

Brinley had her own suspicions about my state of mind, hence her suggestion to attend therapy. It just came down to whether or not I thought I needed it. Which is why I am here.