Broken Wings

Prologue

"What's your fondest memory that you have of you two together?" the therapist questioned me. It wasn't like the movies; I wasn't lying on a couch with my head propped up as she took notes while I spoke. It didn't take much thought to answer because this memory had always been there, and I figured it would never go away.

"The first time he touched me." I said. I was wearing soft joggers and a baggy plain black t-shirt. I sat up on the couch, my legs folded so my knees were up as I let my legs separate and rested my arm on one knee, the other playing with my hair that was tied up in a loose messy bun. She seemed mildly confused, "Like, sexually or what?" she questioned me.

I paused out of thought and looked up at the ceiling, "I don't know." I blurted out, focusing on my thoughts and the pattern of the paint on the ceiling at the same time. I remember that we were parked in front of the lake, we were watching the sunset, and he grabbed my wrist so tight, it took everything in me not to pull away. I didn't, though, because I knew it wouldn't do me any good.

He jerked me by my wrist onto the top of him, and we did what stupid, hopeless, reckless, in love teenagers do. I explained it all to her, and her question was still buzzing.

"So you do remember it because it was sexual." She said with questioning finality.

I finally looked at her instead of the 90s paint job atop of me, "Nope." She crossed her arms and sighed, seemingly studying me. I wondered if she was maybe judging me or admiring me. Lots of people do since I'm a Playboy model.

"I don't get you. You know that? I've been dealing with people's thoughts, looking into their minds for so long. But you're so different, Bella. I know it sounds cliche, but I have trouble understanding you. So go ahead and explain for me what exactly you're talking about because I'm practically lost." She was wondering why the hell I remembered it other than it being a sexual experience.

"I remember is so fondly because, like I said, it was the first time he touched me. I just didn't specify what kind of touch I was talking about." I shrugged, wondering why I was always so hard for others to understand.

"Well, what kind of touch was it that made you remember it so well?" she questioned, intrigued.

"A violent one."

"What about that particular violent act made it so different from the others? I thought he was violent towards you quite often."

"It was the first time it hit me so hard, hit me like ice cold water. It was like a trip to his mind. I felt like I could feel what he was feeling and what I was feeling, all at once. It was crazy, and I'll never forget it." I paused to think for a moment that was quick but felt like forever, "I didn't even do it justice explaining it to you. I can't put it in words."

"What does the violence have to do with that?"

"Because that's what I felt. That's what he felt. That's what it was. That's who he is. That's what made it so.. special." I took a glance at the big, beautiful wooden clock hanging above the brick fireplace. 8:30pm. The appointment was over.

I stood up, "Time was up thirty minutes ago. I'm leaving now."

She gave me a nod, "Very well. Next Thursday again?" I gave a nod before walking out of the building into the New York City rain.