THE MONSTER INSIDE ME (#ONC2024)

CHAPTER FOUR: THERAPY

Friends, you will have to wait to hear more about my story since my therapist, Kaylin Speck, is entering my room, which implies therapy.

"Good morning, Arabella. How are you?" She inquires, pretending to be interested in me.

I give her a fake smile, knowing that she is just doing her job.

"I'm alright, Kaylin. Just another day in this crazy journey called life," I reply.

I am tired of her queries. Selby Leary, a patient with whom I developed a friendship, advised me that if I wanted to be left alone, I should say I was alright. Selby had been in therapy longer than I had, and her advice had proven helpful in navigating these sessions.

Kaylin takes a seat in her usual chair, a tablet in hand, ready to document our conversation. I watch her closely, noticing the subtle changes in her facial expressions as she analyzes my response. It's as if she's searching for any sign of weakness, any crack in my facade. But I refuse to give her satisfaction. I remain guarded, determined to protect the parts of myself that I'm not ready to share. As the minutes tick by, the room fills with an uncomfortable silence, only broken by the sound of my own breathing.

Kaylin responds:

"Why are you pretending? Your expression conveys something else; I sense sadness."

Shit.

"I'm sad because I'm remembering things."

"What are the things you remember? Why don't you share them with me?" she inquires.

"I don't require help from anyone. I've always been enough for myself." I say it firmly.

And this is true. Nobody ever helped me. I do not recall any expressions of affection or understanding.

Kaylin insists:

"Everyone requires assistance from time to time. If not, why are you here?"

"I am here to escape going to jail. Let them think I'm insane; it's better." I respond.

I am already fed up with her. I want to go on top of her and crush her stupid neck.

But I don't; the darkness urges me to do so, but I ignore it. I hope I am in control of my actions. It is to my best advantage to conduct myself appropriately.

The damn therapist is watching me and writing. What will she write? One day, I'll steal her tablet and read my psychological records.

"Arabella, let's take a test," she suggests.

I laugh. 

"Am I going to paint a tree, or am I going to have to look at some inkblots and see penises and vaginas in them?"

The therapist chuckles politely, but her eyes reveal a hint of concern. She adjusts her glasses and flips through her notebook, searching for the right words to say.

"No, Arabella," she responds calmly, "today we're going to do something different."

Her voice is soothing, yet there's a firmness behind it that demands my attention. Curiosity piques within me as I wonder what she has in store for our session today.

"I'm going to tell you a series of words, and you're going to respond with the first word that comes to mind," she said. 

I think this is bullshit, but I'll take it.

"Okay, tell me the word that comes to mind when I say another word," she says. "Love."

"Fantasy, " I answer. Love does not exist.

She raises an eyebrow at my response but continues with the exercise.

"Hate."

"Life," I reply. Hate is a powerful force that can consume and shape one's life.

The therapist nods, seemingly intrigued by my unexpected answer, and moves on to the next word.

"Fear."

"Courage," I say confidently. Fear can either paralyze us or push us to find the strength within ourselves to overcome it.

"Man."

"Sex." They only want that, right?

The therapist pauses for a moment, considering my response.

"Desire," she suggests, challenging my assumption.

"Seduction," I respond firmly.

The therapist raises an eyebrow again, intrigued by my assertive response, and proceeds to the next word.

"Success."

"Freedom," I answer without hesitation.

"Women."

"Victim." That is who we are until we revolt.

"Happiness."

What is that? I had only read about it in my books. In real life, this does not happen.

"Sadness," I say.

The therapist nods, acknowledging my perspective on happiness.

"Pain," she adds.

"Resilience," I counter.

"Blood."

She wants to set me up. Damn woman. She's writing right now.

'Attack her.'

I freeze for a moment, taken aback by the sudden intrusion of a voice in my head. It's him again, the dark presence that haunts my every thought. I try to push him away, but he lingers, whispering his sinister suggestions. The therapist's pen hovers above the paper, waiting for my response to the word "blood." I take a deep breath, determined to resist his influence.

"No! Blood isn't drunk. Go, go!" I scream desperately, staring at the massive demon that emerges before me in the darkness. 

Its fiery eyes drill into my soul, and I can feel his power growing stronger with each passing second. The therapist watches me intently, concern etched across her face as she tries to understand the battle raging within me. I know that I must find a way to conquer this darkness before it consumes me completely.

"Arabella, what's wrong?" the therapist inquires worriedly.

Darkness surrounds me. I can feel its suffocating presence, weighing me down and clouding my thoughts. It whispers sinister promises, tempting me to give in to its allure. I struggle to find the strength to respond, my voice barely a whisper as I confess:

"I don't know how much longer I can fight until that demon takes me with him."