This experience is really solidifying my belief that therapy isn’t for me. But apparently, Sinis thoroughly invested, since he takes a seat beside me. He gives me a shit-eating grin.
I flush. “I don’t have a martyr complex.”
Sin tilts his head, one of his brows arching. “Did you want to start with the smaller sacrifices you’ve made? Or should we focus on the one where you’re refusing to let me save you?”
Despite his slightly playful tone, his gaze burns into mine.
Dr. Parnard pulls another pen from under his cloak and starts scribbling like mad.
Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air. “It’s not that simple. I’m not going to let you grind your own soul into a paste, just to glue mine back together.”
Another small shock of purple electricity snaps between my fingers, and I shove them back under my thighs.
I’m sure no one saw that.
Sin’s hand settles on my knee, and he rubs small circles over my fighting leathers.
Dr. Parnard watches us like we’re a science experiment. “Fascinating phrasing. If I may… why not let him help you?”
I give him an incredulous expression. “Because–” But I cut off when smoke starts to rise from the couch.
There’s a faint pulse of red light as Sin works to cancel out whatever power I’ve accidentally ignited the couch with.
But Dr. Parnard isn’t done prodding. “Because letting him sacrifice a part of himself makes you feel…” he starts.
I make a heroic effort to cram everything this conversation is dragging up into a neatly labeled box of repressed emotions. When that doesn’t work, I latch onto my frustration, since it’s easier to process than my other feelings.
“It feels like I’m slowly starving to death, and Sin is trying to cut out his organs to feed them to me,” I snap. Crossing my arms, I add in a huff, “No one likes sacrificial stew, doctor.”
It feels amazing to use anger, rather than repress it.
Has this been the cure to depression all along?
Maybe my mantra needs to be ‘don’t be sad, get mad.’
Until, of course, I remember that the main symptom of my shattered soul is violent urges. Sighing, I resign myself to sticking with old faithful.
Dr. Parnard’s brow is furrowed as he continues writing on his clipboard.
Sin leans into me and kisses my temple. “Just so we’re clear, I’d let you devour me any day,” he whispers.
I choke on my spit. “That is not helping,” I manage to hiss through wheezes.
He gives me an innocent look. “It’s notnothelping.”
Dr. Parnard’s scribbling gets even faster as he mutters, “Subject responds to emotional vulnerability with sarcasm, respiratory distress, and mild arson.”
“You’re impossible,” I accuse Sin with a sigh.
He responds with a heart-stopping grin. “Yeah, but you want me anyway.”
My heart skips a beat. “Of course I do.”
Dr. Parnard finally stops writing. “I think we’re making some real progress here. Vivian, I sense that you struggle to accept help from others, perhaps stemming from deep-seated trust issues. Have you been betrayed by someone close to you?”
A brief flash of Emily’s twisted face, the day my peers attacked me in the forest, comes to mind. I immediately try to shove the memory back into its box.
Therapy is definitely not for me.
