𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

𝟏𝟑 | 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

Micheal

          Janae Johnson, Ph.D., wore an expression of anticipation as she tapped her notebook, her brown eyes shifting between me and my brother, who sat on the couch across from her.

I was taken aback to see my brother in casual attire—a light-colored shirt paired with dark blue jeans. The Matthew I remembered from before prison would never have dressed like this. I wondered if his wife was influencing him. Perhaps that was why he was trying—and struggling—to connect with me on an emotional level. I couldn't wrap my head around his sudden obsession with trying to understand me.

"Mr. Benedict doesn't really talk to me," Janae said softly to my brother, her fingers still tapping on her notebook in what I guessed was excitement. I totally understood; it wasn't every day someone got to interact with the infamous Matthew Benedict.

My brother hummed, turning to glance at me with a slight shake of his head—was it disappointment? I couldn't tell, and honestly, I didn't care much either.

"Figured." Matthew mumbled.

Janae chewed on her lower lip, turning back to look at me, "So perhaps I can get a better sense of things if you talk to me about your childhood."

Although these sessions were court-ordered, my brother was determined that I take them seriously. He believed that Janae Johnson could really help me, even if I wasn't so sure myself. So, when he returned from his vacation, he insisted on attending one of the sessions to see how it was going. I was well aware that this could be illegal in several ways—therapist-client confidentiality and all that—but I doubted Matthew would care much about the rules. He seemed more interested in getting a sense of my progress and proving that I was actually making an effort... which I wasn't.

I started twisting the signet ring around my finger, doing my best to ignore the way my brother's gaze felt like it was burning holes into the side of my head.

"I don't feel comfortable talking with him sitting right here," I mumbled, my tone a bit petulant.

"Son of a b—" Matthew seethed, then caught himself. "That's your issue, Micheal. You treat everything like it's a joke." He gestured toward Janae. "This woman is trying to help you with whatever's going on in that head of yours that you haven't fried with drugs."

"I don't treat everything like a joke—just you. Especially when you're dressed like that. You might as well have blonde hair; you'd fit right in with the country club vibe you're trying to pull off." I spat.

Matthew's jaw clenched slightly at my insult, and for a brief moment, his eyes darted to his outfit as if reassessing it.

After a few seconds, I scoffed and turned back to Janae, not surprised to find her already looking at me, anticipation in her eyes. It was as if she was expecting me to talk more because Matthew was here.

"Every time I ask you about your childhood, you always try to steer the conversation away," Janae pointed out, her gaze fixed on me as if my brother wasn't even in the room.

"Because I have nothing to say," I replied nonchalantly, attempting to brush off the conversation.

"You don't have even the slightest thing to say about your parents?" she asked, momentarily glancing at Matthew. "Or your brother?"

As I mentioned before, Matthew and I didn't have a relationship, and I had no interest in building one. But that didn't mean I didn't care about him; after all, I had spent three years in prison and endured beatings from security because of him. I killed anyone who he pointed to for him. I endured the pain and suffering that lingered from our childhood home after he left, all for him. Honestly, I was jealous of Matthew. Despite growing up in the same household, we experienced two completely different realities. We both endured abuse, but mine felt far more personal. It made me envious that Matthew was never left alone in a room with whichever person James had deemed suitable for the night. Aside from that, the only thing I had to say about my older brother was that I didn't like the way he spoke to me or how he occasionally demanded things from me.