𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐲: "𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞; 𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐨𝐫."
NEW YORK, 1967
It's 1967 and Margot Murdock's life is falling apart. I...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CW: Discussions of trauma, psychiatrists, mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation, and accidents.
Please vote and comment!
And now the pain's different It still exists, it just escapes different And evades vision Makes the rain different Makes the news boring And my rage distant - Noah Kahan, "No Complaints"
JAMES
May 31, 1967
DR. ROBERTS' OFFICE
MANHATTAN
"Are you still having nightmares, James?"
Doctor Roberts' office reminds me of my father's growing up. Cold, yet oddly comforting. My father was a stern man, but he cared deeply about his clients and his work. He loved me, and I adored him. I was his little shadow growing up. He had a briefcase that he carried to work, so I carried one to school. He wore a tie, I wore a tie.
I've spent my entire life trying to make him proud of me that somewhere along the way, I think I lost myself. It wasn't his fault, it was mine. That loss became evident after the accident. I spent six months doing rehabilitative therapy, but I still got up and did my fucking job every day. My father told me how proud he was of me, that I'd faced adversity and overcome it.
I didn't feel like I overcame it, though.
He didn't know about the nightmares, the panic attacks when nobody was in the office, or the fact that I find myself so repulsive to look at that having sex with someone is more of anxiety inducing nightmare than it is anything else. There isn't a single part of me that feels attractive. I'm too tall, too big, too many scars.
The other night on that plane was the first time I'd felt confident in myself. I felt like someone wanted me, because she did. You can't fake a kiss like that... or the way she was fucking soaked for me. My cock twitches and I shake my head. Control yourself.
"James?" Doctor Roberts asks.
He's a bald man with glasses and an ill-fitting brown suit with a mustard shirt. I take a breath. I booked an appointment with him in a fit of anxiety after I got home from the bar last night. But now, all I feel is regret. I can't say anything about that. So I had to make up a reason to come here.
I've been seeing him since the accident and keeping it a secret. Dr. Roberts is discreet. I don't need anyone at the DA's office to know that I'm seeing a shrink. They'd call my integrity into question and say I was unfit to practice law. I hide the medication Dr. Roberts gives me and the only person who knows that I come here is Matt. He thinks it's healthy, and a good way for me to work through some of the things I see and hear in the courtroom.
