“No clue what you heard from my old man, but no, it wasn’t because of fucking Osborn.”
“I don’t speak to your father about what happens in these sessions, Preston. I thought we’d established that.”
Yeah, but whatever.
I did test Dr. Duret once by telling her that I’d be fucking shit up in Dad’s holiday house the following day, and I expected her to tell him, but she didn’t.
That means she could be partially trusted. Only partially, though, because she’s still getting paid by my dad.
“Do you believe this…” She stares at her notes. “Osborn is the reason you lost control?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“What’s his full name? Osborn is the last name, no?”
“I’m sure you can look it up. Put ‘degenerate asshole from Stantonville’ in the search bar, and his name will come up first.”
“Is that what you think of him?”
“You would, too, if you met the motherfucker.”
“I sense strong emotions, Preston.”
“Strong revenge tendencies, yeah. Sure. He dared to touch me without my permission, not once, but two fucking times.”
Though I didn’t really mind or care about the first time,because…what? He immobilized me? No. It’s not that. I would’ve fought if it were that.
…Right?
Let’s say it was the alcohol and drugs. It’salwaysthe alcohol and drugs.
It’s definitelynotme.
“Can you believe it?” I sit, immediately launch back up, then start pacing like my soul is trying to outrun my body. “Islappedhis hand. I told him not to fucking touch me—twice—and he still kept coming like a parasite with main-character syndrome. He wants to fuck me. He does. Theyalldo. Every last one of those brain-rotted clowns only wants one thing from me. The goddamn, motherfucking, low-IQ gremlins with the combined brain capacity of a soggy napkin. I swear to God, I’ve survived more imbecile behavior in twenty-two years than an immortal would in a thousand. I’m one encounter away from ascending out of my body and haunting people out of spite.”
Dr. Duret scribbles something in her notebook, and I freeze. “What are you writing about me? ‘Nutcase threat to society’? Because that won’t work, you know. Dad’s completely against locking me up in a mental institution. It’s his guilt talking for abandoning me and not being there when I was metaphorically locked up. He swore he’d never do that to me again, so you and Dr. Fenwick can let go of that little wet dream.”
“I don’t want to lock you up, Preston. My notes are observations for my eyes only.”
I let out a harsh breath and drop back onto the sofa.
“Yeah, right.” My voice comes out rougher, smaller, as the real feelings I’ve been shoving down since that disaster in the Stanton Wolves’ arena finally start clawing their way up.
It’s why I came to see Dr. Duret. I’ve been feeling like I’m suffocating, and I needed to purge. Driving like a madman and nearly crashing my car didn’t help. Sending Satan’s lover an old video of me fucking her best friend—yes, Gabrielle, the one she talked shit about me to when I was young—also didn’t help. Made Dad really upset, though, mostly because his wife was throwing a fit.
Grandpa had me lashed because of the abhorrent behavior. Grandma called me a deranged freak.
Uncle Atlas told me I needed to learn how to pick my battles.
Dad just frowned at me—as always.
Though it was satisfactory to see Satan’s lover’s face contort in pure disgust and to know she lost her bestie, those emotions only lasted for a bit.
The suffocation returned way too soon after that.
So here I am subjugating myself to Dr. Duret’s emotionless company.
“It hurt,” I whisper.
