Wild Thing

Prologue

DYLAN

Present Day

W hat people will say about me when I die?

Will they lie and say I was kind? That I was a nice person?

Or will they tell the truth about me?

That I had been nothing but a selfish bitch.

RIP Dylan Forrester. Rot in pieces.

To be honest, I wouldn't mind being remembered for being someone I wasn't. Everybody lies at funerals, don’t they? People sniffling and crying, pretending the dead had no darkness to them, only light. No one dares utter the ugly truth. That the person who died was actually a shitty human, who led a shitty life.

But me? I know I'm a bad, wicked person—I don’t deserve to have anything nice said about me. Not after all the heinous shit I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt.

"Dylan?" Dr. Crowe asks. "You still with me?"

My attention shifts from my pretend-funeral to my very real therapy session. “Yeah. Sorry… the answer is no. I don't think I'm a good person.”

She nods, her expression one of quiet concern as she listens to my admission. It was an uncomfortable truth I’d lived with for a while now, although it seems like it's breaking news to Dr. Crowe as she busily scribbles in her notebook. I'm not the first, and I certainly won't be the last, to admit such a thing in the confines of this room. The soft hum of the air conditioner provides a white noise background to my depressive thoughts as I glance at the clock.

2:10 p.m.

I still have twenty minutes of hell to go.

A large part of me rebels against therapy, and I catch myself wondering why I even bother coming here on my own volition. For the apparent non-judgmental company perhaps?

But then I remember how fucked up I am. I need to be here. I'm unlovable, unworthy, and also unimpressed at the hourly rate this bitch is charging.

I have fucked my life up in more ways than I care to count. Multiple bad choices, all disguised as good ideas at the time. It's always the same story with me, the same self-destructive pattern over and over again. It's puzzling as to why I never seem to learn, because I always do regret my choices after the fact.

But at the time? Self-destruction looks good on me and feels even better, which is perhaps the most alarming.

It doesn't matter what Dr. Crowe says, not really. It doesn't change the past, and I highly doubt it will influence the future. Because at the end of the day, I am who I am: an immoral person with venom running through my veins.

Maybe I'll just tell her what she wants to hear and be done with these fortnightly torture sessions. I am wasting her time, after all. I'm irredeemable, aren’t I?

“Maybe I did deserve to lose it all,” I mumble.

There she goes again, noting something down. Or is she just scribbling? Doodling a peace sign, or writing her shopping list, wishing away these last twenty minutes just as I am. I give it three seconds before she asks me why I think that is. Dr. Crowe sighs and shifts in her chair.

Three.

Two.

One.

Here it comes.

“And why do you think that is?” she asks gently.

I smother the smirk that threatens to creep its way across my lips, even though the question irritates the living fuck out of me. Isn’t it obvious? Wasn't this my karma? I got what I deserved.

The guilt weighs heavy as I ponder Dr. Crowe's question. I am curious as to why I always put my wants and needs first, often to the detriment of others. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve set my world on fire, then walked away while my life explodes into smithereens in the background. Last session, Dr. Crowe told me I had exhibited classic “impulsive” and “avoidance” behavior.

Besides… cool girls don’t look at explosions .

“Well, what goes around comes around, I guess,” I feel my face redden. “I wouldn’t be in this mess if I could learn to control myself.”

Dr. Crowe leans forward, her eyes kind yet probing as she slowly closes her notebook. Guess she's done with the incessant note-taking. Or doodling.

“I’m curious to dig a little deeper here. Do you think you’ve always been this way?”

It is a fair question. I consider the answer.

Have I always been a selfish person?

As a kid, I was restless by nature, always the first to run into a forest to explore or jump off a bridge into the river below without so much as a second thought to the potential danger.

But all changed the day my Dad left.

"As a child? No. I guess I was normal. If that means anything these days," I answer as my mind ticks, remembering the exact moment I realized the world was full of snakes. "But when my Mom told me Dad had left us for another family, that screwed me up."

I was eight years old when I experienced heartbreak for the first time. It doesn't seem fair it was my Dad who was responsible for it. I vowed I would never look for him, which makes the fact that I've turned out to be exactly like my father a true mind fuck.

Asshole DNA runs deep.

"That must have been awful for you."

"Yeah," I give Dr. Crowe a stiff smile. "It wasn't great."

I really didn't feel like unpacking my daddy issues. Not today.

My mind replays my rebellious teen years. I really did give my Mom hell at times. I would sneak out of the house late at night to meet my friends and drink cheap wannabe champagne in the park. And under the dim of the streetlights, I’d kiss the boys at midnight.

Always flirting with danger, I got high off thrills and wasn’t fussed about being liked or the most popular—I only ever did what I wanted and what made me feel alive. Back then, I guess some people would have described me as impulsive. I've always craved those blood-rushing, heart-thumping, wild, unrestricted moments.

And most of those moments have come from either partaking in dangerous or illicit shit.

My Mom would always tell me, “Do what makes you happy. Spend time with the people who love you hard. Don't settle. You always choose yourself and your happiness first. No matter what.”

In theory? Solid advice. In reality? Doing what makes me happy mostly has gotten me in trouble.

This world doesn't run on happiness. It runs off greed and fear, forcing people to conform to the “way things are” in order to have a shot at thriving in it. Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt uneasy about societal expectations, particularly those around women. As I’ve gotten older, I've pushed harder against what is expected of me more than ever before. The ache and deep need to continue living life hard and fast is still there. But I guess I've been searching for that high in all the wrong places.

What I wouldn’t give to be sixteen again. I’d ruin my life differently.

I glance at the clock again before choosing to answer Dr. Crowe truthfully. “I’ve always chosen to disappoint others before I disappoint myself.”

I still do, which is how I’ve ended up here, with everything I’ve worked so hard for, destroyed.

"We all have desires, Dylan," she says like she is some kind of fucking fairy godmother. "It’s how we act on them that counts. You’ve identified that your past actions have hurt others… but what about yourself?"

Blinking, I hesitate.

She’s caught me off guard, because truthfully? I hurt myself the most. My heart is lashed with invisible scars. I'm the reason I feel sick inside.

My exterior is very much “fuck around and find out.” To some, I'm cold, aloof, unbothered. A real bitch. I can be mean as fuck and cold as ice, but in the right hands, I melt. I'm a fraud in a way. I talk a big game, but my bark is worse than my bite. I'm attracted to tricky situations that test my morals because of how alive those moments make me feel.

The truth is, at 30 years old, I don't like myself. To an outsider, I had been living a life that others dreamed of. Healthy, with a thriving career, a hot boyfriend, and a killer handbag collection.

And now all I have left is my killer handbag collection.

And my physical health too, I suppose. Certainly not my mental health. Oh no, that is utterly fucked.

Maybe I am just a girl with an addiction to self-destruction?

My latest tale is not unusual, but it is perhaps one of the worst. Engaging in an affair with my ex set off a series of events that have led me here. Dr. Crowe thinks the worst I've done so far is be 'the other woman', but I'm yet to utter a word about the other reason as to why I need her help. I shove that painful memory back down. That needs to stay locked away for now.

The deeper she digs, the darker it gets. I’ll trauma dump that on Dr. Crowe another day.

“Of course. I hurt myself more than anyone,” I say, sighing and crossing my ankles. “No one punishes me harder than I do myself.”

I often wonder if I'm damaged or inherently flawed in some way. Why do I sabotage things?

“Would you say you’re fearful of settling down?”

My palms start to feel sweaty. “With Zack, yes,” I admit. "He had his life all planned out. He wanted the stereotypical suburban dream. Complete with the tacky white picket fence and a trophy housewife. Which is so not me.”

“And did he communicate his wishes to you early on?”

I chuckle. If he’d been honest from the start, there is no way I would have stayed. “No. Not early enough.”

I pick at my cuticles. I do that when I'm nervous. It's a shitty habit I need to break.

“I think I was terrified of the life Zack wanted,” I say with certainty. I wonder how different things would have been if I’d been strong enough to break up with Zack before I left on that ill-fated work trip.

“Deep down, I knew he wasn't the one for me. With him I was starting to feel the life I was once so full of, was slowly draining from me. I could see our future and it was my worst fear. You know those couples I mean, right? The ones whose relationship becomes strained because the harsh reality of life seeps in. The spark fades away, the sex dries up and the only conversation they have centers around the kids.”

Dr. Crowe’s eyes shift slightly. I wonder if I’ve hit a nerve. I quickly cast my eyes over her desk. Sitting beside a potted succulent is a framed family photo. Herself, a man who I assume is her husband, and two little children. Standing out the front of a house with a fucking white picket fence.

Shit. I’ve definitely hit a nerve.

“Anyway, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” I quickly say, trying to make up for my faux par. “It’s just not for me.”

Dr. Crowe tilts her head to the side, narrowing her eyes, not buying my bullshit for a second. “Would you say your fear of settling down comes from what your father did?”

Honestly? Probably. The thought of doing life alone scares the living shit out of me. But so does the thought of the daily grind once marriage and babies are in the picture. It all seems so overwhelming. You become a shell of your former self, living for others, and never for yourself. If you're lucky, your significant other will stick around. And if you're not? Well, then you're on your own.

And then?

You die.

And dying alone frightens me.

God, I hate my high maintenance mind.

But then there was him.

And he ruined everything.

The truth was, I would have settled. For him.

Because that kind of love? You’re only blessed with that once. That wild, unrestrained, passionate, and fierce love. The kind of love that makes your throat close over when you think of ever losing that person. The kind of love you’d burn the world down for.

The kind of love I did burn my world down for.

So maybe that was why I did what I did.

For love.

Dr. Crowe drones on about being paralyzed by fear and how being consumed by it can lead some people into making impulsive decisions as a way of protection. She hasn't yet told me I'm a sociopath, so I consider that a small win. Maybe I'm not irredeemable after all. But I'm not so sure. My conscience won't quit calling my guilt to come home.

I listen to Dr. Crowe tell me I'm a good person; I’ve just made bad choices.

I can't believe I pay this bitch to lie to me. But I love it when she does.

She tells me our thoughts don't define us.

Yeah, right.

How do you live your best life, when you’re the fucking worst ?

I guess I’d better start at the beginning.