by Dr. Evelyn Rooke, Ph.D.
Clinical Psychology, Yale University
I’m surprised she didn’t include her fucking blood type.
The crisp page makes a satisfyingcrumpwhen I roll it into a ball and toss it in the trash. Next goes the copyright page. I consider dumping the entire thing in the trash, but then a few words in the table of contents catch my eye, starting with the preface.
A Redefinition of Love and Nurturing
Which leads me to scan the other chapter headings. Each one feels like a nail driven into my nerve endings.
pain threshold
controlled stress
social isolation
trauma inoculation
reward deprivation
I crumple the page, balling it tighter, and tighter, until my fingers cramp. My breathing is harsh, shallow, almost violent.
Then I slowly massage the ball of paper open again, smoothing out the creases. My gaze skips to the bottom of the page.
Formation of a Superior Being
“You fucking witch,” I chuckle under my breath as I lift the paperweight from its stand, bouncing it like a heavy baseball as I turn to look at the forest outside my windows.
…relax, silly Billy. The witch is upstairs…
The enamel on my teeth squeak as I grind them together.
I snatch the stack of pages off my desk, littering the floor with shredded wrapping paper. I stare at the mess for a moment before scooping everything into the waste paper basket with my arm.
Those that spill onto the floor seem like too much effort to pick up, so I leave them right there.
My body feels numb, my mind disassociating as I head into the living area and drop the manuscript on the coffee table, and the paperweight on the couch cushions.
Muscles move using memory alone to make a cup of green tea I know I need but I’m already resenting. Forced to endure awful tasting food, deprived of anything salty or fatty or sugary my entire childhood. No fucking wonder I’ve become such a hedonist.
The cup of bitter tea goes beside the manuscript. I turn on the fireplace, throwing the dreary day outside my windows a defiant glare.
My wall phone starts ringing as I sink down into the couch. I haven’t even bothered to turn on my cellphone yet, and while I guess the fact that someone’s trying to reach me on the antiquated landline must mean it’s important…I could give a fuck right now.
“Not today, Satan,” I mutter, pushing to my feet.
I unclip the ringing telephone from the wall and tug out the cable, leaving the wire dangling as I toss the unit onto the kitchen counter. It clatters loudly, but then it’s silent.
Blessedly silent.
Even the rain simmers down, respecting my wishes for peace and quiet. Nature itself bending to my will, much like Haven and Kai will soon do.
I take my seat again, pick up the paperweight, and start reading.
Morning blends seamlessly with noon. Noon with late afternoon.
My tea becomes cold on the coffee table.
