Living With the Choices We Make (Domestic Violence / Abuse) ✔️

1 - Doc

This chapter is dedicated to lucyface who made the cool cover for this story. Media is the booktrailer if you want to check it out XD.  

1 - Doc  

"Do you believe in happy endings?"

I ponder the question in my mind, not sure how to respond. "Don't we all, Doc?"

The man's eyes are calm as he considers me from across the table. "Well, there're a lot of people who don't. I mean they hope for one, but don't actually expect it to happen."

My arms fold in front of my chest as I study a speck of dirt on the wall behind him. Everything seems more meaningful than having this conversation. "I guess you just answered your question."

He clicks his tongue and keeps staring at me. "I want to know how you feel, Rena."

I groan and rock back and forth in my metal chair. "As I told you before, I'm not really good at communicating my feelings to a stranger."

He sips from the glass of water in front of him and continues to stare at me.

I can't hold his gaze, returning to the dirt speck on the wall.

"I'm afraid in this case, you don't have much of a choice," he says like I don't know this already. Nothing is a choice these days.

I wiggle around in my chair under his glare. The orange jumpsuit they stuck me in is too large. I rolled the sleeves up all the way to my elbows, but the ends still keep slipping down. When I push them back up, my fingernails leave red scratch marks behind. My skin is even paler than usual. Has it really been three months that I have been locked up? It seems like I was arrested just yesterday.

I focus back on Doc. "Do you believe in happy endings?"

He takes a deep breath and lets the air slowly escape through his lips. "This is not about me but about you."

Of course he would say that. Sharing for him is a one-way street.

"Well"—I give him my best winning smile— "Maybe it would help me to open up if I knew more about you."

He sighs. "That's not how it works." An irritable undertone swings in the words.

I'm sure he doesn't want to be here anymore than I, though he neither has a choice. As court appointed shrink, he is required to finish this interview, at least if he wants to get paid. I plan to make him work hard for his money—maybe even push him far enough to call it quits. That won't score me any points with the court but will get him off my back. Talking to him feels like he is judging me and I've had enough of that to last me a life time.

I glance at the one-way mirror on the wall. "They are watching us, aren't they?"

"You know they are." He squints at me. "Does that bother you?"

I grin, tilting my head to the side. "Not at all."

They have been spying on me 24/7. They call it "suicide watch"—like I'm seriously going to hurt myself. They observe me when I sleep—when I have nightmares and fight with my blanket. They invade my privacy when I take a shower and place a guard in front of the stall when I take a pee. I'm locked up for twenty-three hours a day, being allowed in the exercise yard for exactly sixty minutes. I bounce a basketball around. That's all I ever do.

And yes—it bothers me. A lot. I feel like I have been convicted already. This notion of being "innocent until proven guilty" might be a nice concept in theory but sitting in the Cook County jail, day in and day out, puts these words in a whole new perspective. They treat me like a criminal, which is not only nerve-racking, but pisses me off. I had my reasons after all—and the right to be heard—but no one really seems interested. Even the Doc only goes through the motions.