Apex | Charles Leclerc

Chapter 67

Posting this at past midnight because I had to wait to greet my sister a happy birthday lol she's a die-hard swiftie and turned 22 today so naturally, she played Taylor's 22 as soon as the clock hit 12 🤣

There might be some typos here, but I'll only start editing them when the book is done. 

Enjoy!

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April 14, 2028 - France

I'm a very vocal and upfront person. I know this and everyone else who's been around me for at least five minutes will agree. With my years of experience of being a lawyer, it's become a natural instinct to always have something to reply to. Even when we don't open our mouths to speak, our minds are filled with words that can easily match the ones from the person we were speaking with.

I knew therapy wasn't going to be easy and the first thirty minutes spent in silence proved that to be true. Before this session, I was evaluated so that they'd know which of the psychologists in the clinic would be better equipped to help me. They asked me a bunch of questions, none of which dove specifically into what happened to me but I did give a vague explanation.

I lost my parents and my sister in one night.

I was sexually assaulted.

I almost lost my husband.

I said those things with a stoic look on my face because, at that moment, I was not ready to open myself up. At least it gave them an idea as to how the past three years have been for me.

Are you easily startled? Do you have difficulty concentrating? Do you have difficulty falling asleep? Do you isolate yourself? Do you feel emotions such as fear, guilt, or anger? Do you feel negatively about yourself? Do you experience physical stress? Have you experienced flashbacks of the events? If yes, what happens during these flashbacks? What happens after?

It became harder and harder to answer each question and when the time came that the psychologist ticked off the last one, I was about ready to leave the room.

Charles was with me when they gave the diagnosis. Before coming to the clinic, I already did my fair share of reading and had a few guesses, including post-traumatic stress disorder. It wasn't a shock to hear those words from the psychologist, but rather a bit comforting to finally put a name to what I was feeling. I know what PTSD was and I've met a lot of clients during my life in Boston who lived with the same mental illness.

"I don't want to waste the time." I told Estelle, the psychologist I'd be working with for the next few weeks. She was an English woman who worked with people that witnessed and experienced traumatic events such as violence, sexual assault, and other disasters. Estelle had light brown hair that was always straight and fell behind her back, two thin silver clips holding the hair by her face. She was in her late thirties which meant she was only about seven to eight years my senior.

"We're not wasting time." Estelle said, leaning back on her seat and smiling at me. Her office setup was not what I expected. I thought I was going to see a couch and a single chair for her, walls designed with framed quotes that were either encouraging or irritating, depending on the person. Instead, she had a round table in the middle of the room which had three chairs. There was a bookshelf that housed her books and certificates. The walls were painted in a sky blue and there was only one thing hanging on it— a painting of what looked like a house in the south of France. "This isn't easy, Nadia, so don't put the pressure on yourself to share everything on the first day."