Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

100 TIMES A THERAPIST WAS NEEDED

TARA

Day 1

"So, you killed your father?" Sinéad—or Dr. Maguire, as she preferred me to call her, though I always ignored that—asked.

"Is that a question or a statement?" I shot back with a smirk. "I'm sure you've read the headlines, Sinéad."

I was holed up in a posh rehab facility. This whole thing felt like a twisted game, one I didn't mind playing—watching the psychologists and doctors try to dig into me, see what made me tick. My brother was in one of these too, somewhere. And since we'd been doing everything together since we were nippers, I thought I'd give it a try. Only difference was, he was on some ninety-day plan, while mine was a quick in-and-out: seven days. I could walk out whenever I fancied, but the rooms were plush, and I had a space to myself. Besides, I'd handed over my phone when I checked in—voluntarily, mind you—but they weren't so strict about it. I could leave this cage any time.

Sinéad went on about how healing meant diving into my past, picking at every scar, every raw wound. Said I'd need to start from the very beginning if I ever wanted those gaping holes left by my parents to close up.

As if that'd ever happen.

It was pure gobshite.

They couldn't heal me.

No amount of drudging up the past would mend what was broken inside me.

I was born with cracks.

"I know about the revolution you started in the streets," she said, skimming her notes like she'd found something precious. "All those murals, the graffiti...what does that feel like, Tara?"

"What do you mean?"

"To be...what did they call you again?" She hesitated, glancing at the words in front of her. "Ah, yes—the Black Widow."

"Feels great," I shrugged, refusing to give her any more than that.

"How old were you when they first called you that?"

"I was ten."

"You sound proud of that."

"Damn fucking right, I am."

"Are you still scared?"

My body went rigid, the question catching me off guard. "Scared?" I scoffed, cutting her with a glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you've been scared your entire life, and that fear—it made you feared by others. Made you violent."

My voice grew colder. "I was never scared of him or any of them."

"Only of what he—or they—might turn you into?"

"I'm the first Lynch woman born in generations."

"Your father had sisters."

"Unimportant."

"Unworthy."

"What?"

"Unworthy, isn't that it? Unworthy of the Lynch name? What about your siblings? Do you think your siblings are unworthy, too? Or what about your twin, Joey—is he unworthy in your eyes?"

"Don't you go there," I warned, my tone dropping dangerously low.

She pressed on, unflinching. "You're not answering, Tara. Weak, then? Do they meet the Lynch standards? Would your grandfather—Declan, wasn't it?—see your siblings as worthy of the Lynch name?"

"No."

"What was that?"

"No," I repeated, louder. "My grandfather would call them weak, say they're disrespectful little brats, soft as their mother, whining and moaning, all of them. Useless. He'd say they need reminding of their place."