Mirror

chapter ∅

Therapist's Notes - Dominic Moretti

Patient Background:

Dominic Moretti, age 33, presents with significant trauma history including exposure to violence, loss, and coercive environments from a young age. He has a history of anger issues and has recently started therapy to address underlying trauma. Below are flashback sequences detailing key events from his past, extracted and reconstructed during our sessions over the past few years.
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I hate events like this-filled with fake people and their fake laughter. I'm here with my father, and honestly, I'd rather die than endure another minute of this charade. But I owe him, and this is my last charity gala. I'm so done with this façade.

Being paraded around like a show pony, the last "show pony" my father has, is humiliating. I walk around greeting people as if they actually want to greet me back. I'm a walking, talking target, and I shouldn't have come here.

I break away from my father's grasp and head over to the bar. "Good evening, do you serve alcohol?" I ask the bartender, already knowing the answer. "Sorry, Miss Monroe, we only have non-alcoholic drinks. Can I interest you in a mocktail?" His smugness is almost too much to bear. "No, thank you," I say curtly, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

My father storms over to me, his expression dark. "Make yourself useful," he seethes, his voice dripping with disdain. "Gentlemen, have you met my daughter?" he says, gesturing to me as if I'm nothing more than a prized possession to be auctioned off. I force a tight-lipped smile at the men, who eye me with thinly veiled contempt. it because of the Feynman case? Or because I got their friend Russell forty years for rape?

"Excuse me," I say through gritted teeth, needing a moment to collect myself. I head to the restroom, the stench of perfume and desperation following me like a shadow. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, the weariness in my eyes reflecting the toll my relentless pursuit of justice has taken on me.

I smooth down my satin pink dress, a stark contrast to the blood on my hands, and fluff my curls once more before leaving.

"Well, if it isn't the wicked bitch of the tenth floor," I hear a voice say, dripping with malice. I turn around to face Miranda, her sneer sending a shiver down my spine. "Miranda," I say tersely, my patience wearing thin.

"I see Mrs. Monroe isn't out yet," she says, her words laced with venom. It's a sore subject, and she knows it.

"Why don't you mind your own damn business, Miranda?" I snap back, my exhaustion boiling over into anger.

She smirks, relishing in my discomfort. "Touchy, aren't we? Must be hard, being Daddy's little puppet."

I grit my teeth, feeling the weight of my enemies bearing down on me. "At least I'm not a washed-up has-been clinging to the scraps of relevance," I retort, my voice dripping with contempt.

Before I can react, she tosses her drink at me with a malicious grin, the cold liquid soaking through my dress and chilling me to the bone. I seethe with rage, but before I can retaliate, my father appears, his face contorted with fury. "What did you do now?" he hisses at me, his disappointment palpable. "Go wait outside. Now."

I storm out onto the balcony, the frigid night air biting into my skin like a thousand needles. I look out at the city below, feeling utterly alone in a sea of lights.

The weight of my enemies presses down on me like a suffocating blanket, but I refuse to let them break me. One day, I'll rise above it all.
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Diary Entry 15

Dear Diary,

I turned twenty-eight today. Never have I felt more alone. Birthdays are supposed to be joyous, but mine felt like a reminder of all the years I've spent running from my past. I can't wait for all of this to end, for the day when I can stop looking over my shoulder and finally find peace. The loneliness is suffocating.

Veronica Monroe