Chapter Seven
Declan
Dr. Campos pours water from the cooler beside his desk and hands me the cup. "Here, take this," he says. "Let me know if you need anything else."
Something's different about him now. There's a new energy in his movements. He’s not shaking, per se, but he seems anxious. Not in an erratic way, but more like he’s excited to resume our chat. As though he's found fresh purpose.
"Everything alright doc?" I ask.
"Yes Mr. Ro—" He catches himself. "Yes, Declan. Everything is quite alright."
I can see his professionalism kicking in. That reflexive response from years in the field.
"Talking for long periods of time tends to make me thirsty," he explains. "And I thought you may feel the same way. That's all." He gestures to the oversized puffy chair where I sat before. "Now, please, take a seat. We're going to take a—" He stops, weighing his words. "Different approach."
The memory hits me like a freight train.
I was in my early twenties, and there was this woman.
I fell for her so fucking hard from the moment I first saw her.
We were both broken in our own ways. We shared our pain and found comfort in being together.
Being just friends was impossible. Not that I had any interest in keeping my hands off her.
From our first interaction, every time I saw her, smelled her, even just thought about her, a fire raged deep inside me.
And with trauma bonds as strong as we had, our animalistic pairing was inevitable.
One weekend, she was house-sitting for her parents.
Taking care of the cats, really. It was that Saturday when everything changed.
I was on the phone with her while she got ready for her first date since having her heart broken.
She was exceptionally nervous. Excited, but shitting her panties.
And I was doing my best to give her the confidence boost she needed.
Then I heard it—a knock at the door. She put the phone down on the end table. What happened next turned my blood cold. Her voice, trying to back out of the date. A door slamming. Crashes. Screams.
My heart pounded as I raced across town, praying I remembered the street her parents lived on.
I barely brought my car to a stop before running to the front door.
It was wide open, and all I could see was chaos.
Glass was everywhere. Overturned furniture and tattered flowers ripped from their pots littered the living room.
Blood was smeared along the wall from just inside the entryway to the bathroom.
The scene inside will haunt me forever. She was huddled in the corner, sitting on the edge of the tub.
Blouse torn. Half-naked. Blood running from her split lip.
Holding the tip of a butcher’s knife against the center of her throat, mustering the courage to plunge it into her windpipe.
"D," I called out softly. "Don't."
"Stay away from me!" she screamed as tears streamed down her face. I could see it in her eyes. She didn't recognize me. All she saw was another threat. Another man who might hurt her.
Consumed by the fear she might just do it, that she might thrust the glimmering blade deep into her neck, I froze.
But she didn’t. Instead, we stayed locked in that horrible montage.
Her with a blade pressed against her flesh hard enough to get blood to trickle down her chest. Me sitting on the floor with my arms wrapped around my knees.
For fourteen endless hours. I wouldn't leave her.
I couldn't. I knew she’d eventually see me. Really see me. So, I waited.
Back in Dr. Campos's office, I settle into the oversized chair, water in hand, thinking about that patience I showed years ago. I’m going to need every ounce of it today.
"Dr. Campos," I say politely.
"Yes, Declan?" He removes his glasses, sitting at attention.
"I want to apologize. I know for this to work I must trust you. And I lost sight of that before."
Patience. The word echoes in my mind. I need him to trust me too, though I keep that part to myself.
"We haven't started discussions about my real issues," I continue, harnessing my love’s advice, "and we'll never get there if I'm not patient."
Surprise flickers across the doctor’s face. Maybe he didn't think I could take responsibility. Then again, the state hospital probably doesn't see many patients who do.
"I appreciate that, Declan," he declares carefully. "Hopefully we'll be able to make our way toward the heavier burdens with which you're faced."
A surge of relief washes over me.
"Excellent," I say. "I'm all yours, Doc."
He removes his watch and loosens his tie. He means business now, with highlighters and three different-colored pens clipped to his notepad.
"What I'm going to have you do, Declan,”—his gaze locks on mine—"is close your eyes and tell me another story from your past."
My curiosity spikes.
What's he after?
"I don't want you to tell me just any story," he continues. "No, instead I want you to tell me about something from before you recognized the problem existed. But not just anything, Declan. I want you to tell me about something that made you happy."
My chest tightens.
Why does this feel wrong?
"Perhaps you made a connection with someone," he presses on. "Someone who made you feel more alive than you had ever previously felt."
My heart starts racing. I know exactly where this is going. She's always been a delicate subject.
"Can you do that for me, Declan?"
My breaths come faster now as I struggle to stay calm.
"Um," I hesitate, caught between honoring her wishes and making the right choice.
"Please, Declan," he says. "As you said, if I'm going to help you, you must trust me."
He's right. And she'd understand.
"Okay, Doc," I finally say, gathering my courage. "I met a girl. And it’s probably cliché to say it, but there was just something about her. Something mysterious, yet perfect. She changed my whole life."
He nods as I lean back and close my eyes.
This better be worth it.