“Are they more pronounced when you’re stressed or tired?”
“I haven't noticed a pattern.” I keep my answer vague.
“Or perhaps certain emotions bring them out? Maybe when you're sad or scared?”
“I said I don't know!” I yell, immediately regretting it. What the hell is happening to me? This anger that’s residing under my skin is slowly taking over. I know that everyone is trying to help me, including Dr. Von, but I feel like they’re all watching me likeI’m a lunatic that needs to be studied. They’re wondering when I’ll break, but they don’t realize that I’m worried about that too. She sets her hands on top of her desk in a slow, careful act.
"By asking these questions, Damien, I am only trying to help. If we can navigate our way to the origin of the voices, perhaps we can find a way to silence them. You’ve expressed in previous sessions that your goal was tostophearing them. Is that still the case?” I look up at her in response to her question and nod, wanting that more than almost anything. There’s a good chance she can’t help me, but at this point, even the possibility is a beacon of hope. She nods back once, accepting my silence. “It's my understanding that you've always been able to hear them, correct?"
"Yes, but…not like this." I shake my head, waiting for them to resurface. She watches me closely, like she’s also expecting the same.
"Can you elaborate?”
“Before, it was more a feeling than actual words. It was more of an urge—an overwhelming compulsion. Now, it’s…it’s just different.”
“What about them is different?"
"They're louder," I admit. “A compulsion is still there, but I don’t know what it is… I hear what they say, and it feels like I need to dosomething, but they won’t fucking tell me!” My voice gets loud once again, so I swallow a harsh inhale, needing to pull myself back.
"Do they sound like your own voice? Or someone you know?"
"What do you mean?"
"Usually, when someone is able to hear their own thoughts, it’s either in a voice they’ve heard or their own.”
I think for a moment, not really believing it’s either option. They speak in ghostly whispers, almost as if they’re transparent.I can’t decipher their tones, because it feels like there’s multiple of them speaking at once.
“Let me ask another question. Do they have an accent now, but didn't before? Perhaps, Italian?" Her question sends ice through my spine, making me shiver.
“I… I can’t really tell.”
“Are you sure?” she asks accusingly. No. I’m not sure. Sometimes it feels like they do, and other times not. There are times, in my dreams, I think it’s really them, and then I swear that I can hear them when I wake up. “May I be blunt with you?”
“You haven’t been so far?” I grind my teeth.
“You are a man that needs control. While much of your life is chaotic and unpredictable, you have always been in a position whereyoucan decide how you react and respond. You went an entire month without an ounce of that authority. All of the pain you went through was unstoppable. Every act you committed wasn’t by your choice. Even now, as you walk around your own home, youfeelchaotic, and that’s because once again, you feel like you don’t hold the reins to your own life. You haven’t even left the property—”
“I don’t need to,” I interject.
“Why not?”
Flashes of the motorcycle crash play through my head once again, and then I recall the collision Ashia was in. The agony of both events spreads throughout my body like a disease, attacking every cell that it can reach. My back aches almost as gruesomely as my chest, reminding me of the emptiness I felt—the darkness. Once again, I thought I had lost the love of my life. Those few hours of hell were the worst of them all, and knowing the possibility of feeling that again is closer than I ever anticipated, I want to do everything to prevent it from happening.
“I have everything I need right here.” My answer is vague, once again.
“So what happens when you need to leave?”
Feccia…
“Wedon’tneed to leave.”
“We? I’m assuming you and Ashia?” My body locks up, and the presumptuous tone in her voice increases the churning heat in my gut. I hate the way she says Ashia’s name, like she’s an afterthought or thorn in her side. My little wolf iseverything, and Dr. Von may not understand that she is my compass, but she’ll always guide me. “Ashia will need to leave at some point, Damien, even if you don’t.”
“She’s not goinganywherewithout me,” I seethe. She sits back in her chair, and while her face doesn’t show her usual arrogance, there is a look of achievement there.
“There’s that control.”
That almost sends me over the edge.
