One year, ninemonths, and seventeen days ago, Theo left his house by himself for the first time.
He wouldn’t have if Amelia hadn’t made him.
He sat across from her now, gripping his cane tightly in both hands, twisting it over and over again. Maybe this time, he’d manage to break it. Maybe—
“I’m really glad you made it out here, Theo. It’s nice to see your face.”
“No, it’s not,” he spat without thinking. He swallowed bitterly, closed his left eye, and shoved his cane to the side. His right eye was still buried under layers of gauze. Last week had seen another reconstruction surgery to his face, trying to more elegantly piece together his shattered cheekbones beneath the wound slashing across it, marring the vision he had of himself—not that he’d had the courage to actually look in a mirror yet.
He hadn’t truly seen himself in months.
And, of course, there was the titanium plate holding those cheekbones together. Screws mixed with sinew, metal and muscle, welded permanently inside his head.
He’d die with that in his face now.
Ironic, really. It was metal that tore him apart and nearly killed him. And now it was the only thing holding him together, both there and in his hip. The reason he’d been injured in the first place was the only reason he could walk. What had ripped open his face had patched it back up.
If there was a god, he sure had a wicked sense of humor.
Fuck him.
Theo didn’t find him at all funny.
“Itisnice to see you in person. I’ve been really worried about you.” Amelia dug her bare feet into the soft carpet between them and leaned forward to gently squeeze his hand, her lavender-dyed hair swirling around her kind face like grape cotton candy. It was one of the reasons he’d picked her as his therapist years ago, her choice of hair color. She liked to keep it bright, or pastel. Never natural. Always cheerful. It was part of her style, her art.
Theo liked that.
He did love color, even if he didn’t wear it much himself.
“I can barely seeyou.” His left eye watered. When he lifted a hand to wipe the tear away, a button on his sleeve brushed too close to the gauze on the right side of his face. It snagged and pulled, and he cried out and recoiled, then flinched again at the fresh wave of pain rolling swiftly on the heels of the first.
Even minor expressions were excruciating.
His therapist tilted her head at him, her brows knitting into a soft frown. “Are you not taking your pain meds?” He shook his head slowly, and her look of horror grew. “Theo, you just had surgery. You’re still recovering. You need—”
“I don’t want to take them.”
“Why not?”
Because you’re a piece of shit who killed his own father.
Fuck.
He’d been here for a whole five minutes and Amelia was already poking around in dangerous territory.
And unfortunately, she knew him well enough to read when he was lying.
“Because I deserve to feel it.” The truth didn’t hurt as much to say as he thought it would, but he clutched at his chest all the same. His heart always ached now, ever since his father’s had given out. Ever since Theo had been the one to break it.
It was almost unbearable.
“I need tofeelit.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t, I’ll forget. If I…maybe if I feel the pain, I’ll still feel him too. I don’t want to be numb.”
Amelia sat quietly for a moment. “Do you really think you’ll forget your dad?” she finally asked.
