Taylor

Chapter Twenty

Trigger warning: Brief talks of suicide.

Blood pooled around his body from the bullet hole in his chest. His breaths were labored as he stared at me with wide eyes. His face was a mixture of panic and pain.

"Barlow" I whispered in agony.

His breathing became more ragged and I knew he would die any minute...

"I can't do this." I looked at the therapist and shook my head. "I can't think about it... I... it's too much."

"Taylor... the program is almost over and we've gone through all your troubling memories but this one, the one causing the most issues for you, the one you avoid at all costs. I can't help you unless you let me."

My hands began to shake as my mind went back to Barlow. The whole point in coming here was to get better, but I couldn't seem to let the therapist in far enough to do that.

"How about we end our session for today and you go home and think about what you truly want from the last few weeks. If it's to get better, and I mean really get better, then I'll see you at the next session. If you feel like you just aren't ready... we can pause the sessions until you are."

I nodded my head. Even though I knew his reason for telling me that wasn't great—I had continuously refused to share the memory at every session—getting out of there right then sounded like a great plan.

"If you need me before the next session, you know how to reach me."

We stood and he followed me to the door, offering his hand. "I hope to see you at the next session. But I'll understand if I don't." He gave me a small smile. "No matter how bad you think it is, just remember... I'm not here to judge. Only understand and help you handle the memories better."

"Thanks, Dr. Forrester." I shook his hand then left his office.

Even though I was relieved to be done with the session, I was also angry with myself for being unable to share the memory with the doctor. He had helped me see all of my other memories in a much better light. But this one was different. It had been my fault. It was my bullet they dug out of his chest. It was my bullet that had killed him almost on the spot. His survival lasted but a minute and it was my fault. Nothing Dr. Forrester said could change that. Maybe that's why I didn't want to talk about it. Why relive something that would torture me, just to find out it can't be helped?

But then, what if it could be helped? Maybe my brain was more my enemy than my ally and Fynn was right in just telling my brain "fuck you." Maybe I should just force myself to tell him the story and hope for the best. It was a hell of a lot better than just staying broken, right?

I rubbed my face in frustration. I had to go to the next session. I had to try. I also had to get a drink. I went to the hotel's bar and sat down on a barstool. The woman behind the counter gave me a smile and came over.

"Rough day?" Laura asked as she poured me my usual.

"You could say that."

"Well, hopefully, nothing a good drink can't fix."

"Fix? No. Mask? Most definitely." I took a gulp of the brown liquid and she grinned.

"Fixing, masking—what's the difference if the problem goes away."

I raised my glass up in agreement then took another drink.

~*~

My leg bounced as I waited to be called into Doctor Forrester's office. Knowing what to expect made the anticipation much worse. There was only one thing he wanted from me now and it was the only reason I was there. But I was still unsure about sharing this memory.