36. Maeve
36
MAEVE
“ W hat brought you here today, Maeve?” Dr Abbott asks, crossing his legs at the ankles. He’s not what I expected at all, but maybe that’s because I’m so used to Dr Jones and her professional bitchiness.
Dr Abbott is at least double my age, with gorgeous brown, wavy hair that’s past his shoulders. The amount of different colours in his hair is insane, especially since it’s clearly natural.
He’s got a muscular frame on the broader side, but he’s not imposing or anything. I just feel comfortable around him, he’s got that kind of presence.
He gives off cute old man vibes, with his sweater vests and bright office, and he’d be quite chill if it wasn’t for the fact that he literally gets paid to judge me at will.
“I’m going to be honest, Doc, I don’t really know.”
I’m kind of regretting showing up, if I’m being honest. I survive, that’s what I do. Sure, this month is harder than normal, but it feels ridiculous to be coming here to whine about it.
Ari was supportive this morning about coming, and Lucifer was excited, so I just went along with it. But, honestly… I’m just fucking tired. Last night, I managed to sleep for a solid four or five hours before a nightmare took hold, and having Ari there to wake me was a blessing I didn’t deserve.
My chromius has practically walled herself away from me, leaving me alone to suffer, and she’s so drained and damaged that I can’t help but feel like her behaviour is my fault.
“That’s understandable,” he says, looking at me with those deep green eyes that seem to see so much more than I ever want him to know. “Rather than make you share your history, would it be easier for you if I shared some thoughts I have from reading your file, and you can weigh in?”
I nod, clenching my jaw, as I turn away from him. I don’t really feel like I want to hear the shit that Dr Jones has written about me, whilst at the same time being desperate to know if it’s true.
“You’re a chromius shifter with haphephobia, likely stemming from the sexual abuse you suffered as a child. You’re impacted severely to this day, as you’re still unable to touch, and it’s impacted by your sensory processing disorder. You struggle with severe anxiety and PTSD, which often affects your sleep and mood.”
“I mean, it sounds a bit pathetic when you say it like that,” I mutter, giving him a dirty look that he doesn’t react to. “But it’s all accurate, I suppose.”
“Why does it sound pathetic?”
“Oh, Maeve, you were touched by your daddy?” I say, pressing my hand to my chest. “What a hard life you now have as an adult. Poor little rich girl with her trauma.”
“Is that how you see it?” he asks, and there’s no judgement in his gravelly tone. “Or is that something you think you should feel?”
I look away from him. “I don’t like feeling like a victim. Like I’m broken.”
“That I can understand when you’ve survived as much as you have. But you’re not broken, Maeve, and you’re more than just the abuse you suffered,” Dr Abbott says. “It’s my job to help you realise that.”
“I don’t trust easily.”
He gives me a warm smile that I don’t really like because it causes some very uncomfortable feelings within me. “You’ve been with your psychiatrist for over six years now.”
“Yep,” I pop the ‘p’, not wanting to delve into my relationship with Dr Jones.
“How did you and she develop some trust?” he asks, clearly not picking up on my unhappiness with this line of questioning.
I snort. “Was that a genuine question?” He nods. “I don’t trust her at all.”
He frowns, his brows pulling together. “Why are you still seeing her, then?”
“I never got a choice,” I reply, looking down at my hands. Shame bubbles up inside of me, and I can’t face looking at him. “I’m not going to sit here and be vulnerable with you.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing? Assessing your words and observing your behaviours to find your weaknesses?”
“You wouldn’t need to look very hard.” I let out a heavy sigh, looking at my knees. “Dr Jones is my psychiatrist because Adrian Graves makes her. She’s terrible at her job, manipulates me the entire time into revealing whatever she wants me to, and then recounts our entire session to Adrian.”
Dr Abbott’s face doesn’t change, but his scent darkens before he masks it. “I see. Well, before we continue this, let’s talk about how I run my sessions.”
“Why waste your time?” I ask bitterly. “It’s not like I’m going to trust what you say. I don’t even know why I bothered to come.”
I’m an idiot for trying. For hoping.
I should’ve told Ari and Lucifer the plan was off and just went back to bed.
“Because even hearing the way a healthy session should go might take your doubt from a level ten to a level nine,” he offers, giving me a warm smile that I don’t return. “All of my sessions are completely confidential. I don’t tell anyone—not even my wife, who is also a psychiatrist.”
“She is? How come I’m with you, then?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Well, you booked this appointment,” he says, and I can feel my cheeks heating up. “But, also, we have different specialities and methods. From reading your file, I think we’ll be a very good fit and that we can work on some of your issues together.
“We’ll have our first session today, and if I don’t think we’re a good fit, then I’ll help you adjust to another therapist. I don’t think that will be my wife. She practices some alternative types of therapy that work for some people.”
“What if I don’t think we’re a good fit?”
“Then you tell me, and I’ll help you find someone else. You set the bounds of the sessions, Maeve, you get to direct them. This is your time to focus on the issues you’re struggling with, and it’s my job to help you find the ways to cope and adjust.”
“I’m not sure if I’m ready to work on my fear of touch,” I say, not looking at him, as my shame builds. It’s my security blanket, my one thing that protects me from the true horrors of this world.
Hell, every time I have been touched, it just catapults me back to that night.
I can’t do it.
I won’t.
“I’d be surprised if you were, Maeve. Your lack of touch is the one protection you have. Staying away from others, keeping that physical guard up, is your choice. It’s a decision you get to consciously make for yourself. I won’t ever take that decision away from you.”
Something in my chest loosens, and it feels easier to breathe that he recognises it.
I meet his green eyes. “It’s my birthday this month.”
He nods. “Is that something that you’re unhappy about?”
“Wouldn’t you be?” I say with a sneer. I sigh, immediately dropping the attitude. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re entitled to speak however you like, Maeve, and I don’t expect an apology for any defence mechanism you choose to use. All I want is your honesty.”
“I’m not sure if I’m ever really honest.”
He gives me a soft smile, his eyes crinkling. “We’ll work on that together, then, won’t we?”
I groan. “Honesty, issues, confidence… we’re really going to mould me into a completely new person at the end of this, aren’t we?”
“That’s not my goal, Maeve,” Dr Abbott replies. “I think what we’re going to do is peel back the layers so that the real you can be seen, rather than hidden under so many defences.”
The knot in my stomach tightens. “I am the real me.”
“I wasn’t meaning to accuse you of being inauthentic,” Dr Abbott says calmly. “What I meant was that this version of you is the hardened version. The one who exists to protect herself from suffering the way she already has. But there’ll be other parts of you, and one of them is the part you’re working so hard to shield from the world, the part that’s buried so deep it’s in need of protection.”
I sniffle, tears welling up without my permission. “I don’t like therapy.”
“I don’t think I’d like sessions where I’m forced to open up to someone I can’t trust about my deepest fears and concerns, knowing they’re going to be shared with someone without my permission.”
“You said you’ve read my file,” I mention, and he nods. “What is in there?”
“Would you like to read it?” he asks, and I pause. “Clearly, that surprised you.”
“You didn’t even hesitate before offering it to me.” I eye him with distrust. Was this a test?
“Why would I? These records are yours, Maeve. They’re about you and detail your entire life since entering the Mythical Compound. You hold the ultimate right to read them,” he says, still seeming truly authentic.
“And yet, I’ve never seen them.”
“I don’t believe the person you were seeing had your best interests at heart,” Dr Abbott says. “I won’t slander another professional, as I don’t know the situation, but you’re allowed to read any notes I write, and you are more than welcome to read the file she has compiled.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
He nods. “Is your birthday month the thing that prompted this appointment?”
“Sort of? I’ve been… lower than usual since May hit.” I sigh. “Atticus told me therapy might be good. Ari mentioned how amazing you were. Nora, too. It’s a bit annoying, really.”
He chuckles, a warm sound that helps with the tension I’m feeling. “Does this low feeling come often?”
“Every May, like clockwork. Often after a heat for a few days.”
“I am not going to presume, but is the heat low from a hormone imbalance?”
I nod. “Sort of. It’s also because I suffer alone through a heat, and I’m forced to endure pain, and panic, and more pain. Alone. It’s great, I really recommend it.”
“I don’t think we’re in agreement on the meaning of the word great,” he says dryly, and I laugh.
“You’re funny.”
“So are you,” he counters. “How does this month usually go?”
I sigh. “Can I stand up? I don’t want to sit.”
“The room is yours to use however you’re most comfortable.”
Once again, relief fills me, and I hate how accommodating he’s being. He doesn’t seem untrustworthy, in fact, he seems the complete opposite , but I don’t trust it.
I can’t.
Putting my faith in this man, letting him work on healing me, just sounds like the start of a terrible idea.
I bet fate is going to kill him off or something just to spite me.
Probably just before my big breakthrough.
“What’s going through your mind?”
“Your death.”
“Is that something you fixate on a lot? Death?” he asks.
“Well, not like doing it to myself. Often.” I pause, turning to face him. “I’m not suicidal. I’m very fond of wanting a peaceful, nice life. I don’t want to die, but I also won’t be sad if it happens.”
He nods, jotting something down. I don’t feel uncomfortable with that, compared to when Dr Jones does it. He gave me the permission I needed to read it, which I will be taking him up on when I’m a little more emotionally prepared.
“But death as a whole?”
I shrug. “I’m just waiting for fate to kill you to spite me for trying to do something for myself.”
He grins at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to check my foods for poison.”
I salute him and return to pacing. “You asked about this month. I’m usually a raging bitch who functions on very little sleep and is an emotional wreck.”
“How does that differ from usual?” he asks.
I gasp, spinning to face him. “Wow, that was rude.”
He cracks a grin. “I did not mean to insult you. I don’t know how you are on a normal day, and I want to be able to compare.”
“I mean, I’m still a bitch on a normal day. You’ve heard me today. That’s the norm.”
“How do you see yourself?” Dr Abbott asks.
“Like, physically? I look in a mirror.” His lips twitch, and I take some pride in that.
“I want to know about your self-image, about the traits you associate with yourself, the behaviours. What kind of person do you think you are?”
“I mean, I’m toxic. I’m horrid to be around, I’m not kind or nice. I’m selfish, rude, a complete and utter pathetic mess.” I give him a one-shoulder shrug. “I’m a vile person, Doc, and unlike wine, which gets better with age, I’m just becoming worse.”
He makes some notes whilst I continue to pace, and only once he’s finished does he look at me. “Can I tell you what I see when I look at you, Maeve?”
“If you have to.” I hold in my scoff, not sure I want to have to hear his criticism after my bout of honesty.
“This is your time, Maeve,” he says. “I won’t ever push you or force you to open up about something you’re not yet ready to discuss.”
This is so different from therapy with Dr Jones. He’s so honest, so open. He doesn’t seem to have some hidden agenda or some ulterior motive.
It hurts to sit here and compare him to the woman who has been there for me for all these years.
I never liked her. I could never trust her. I knew that the way Dr Jones acted was wrong, and the way she manipulated me was toxic and terrible.
I knew all of that.
But being here, having Dr Abbott actually try and this just being our first session… it’s a lot to unpack. I don’t even think I can.
Because the moment this thread gets pulled, everything will collapse. My mental walls, my safety, my emotions… everything will be wild and free, and I won’t know how to put myself back together again.
“Go on, tell me.”
“I see a smart, remarkable young woman who fights every single day to be the best version of herself,” he says, not breaking away from looking at me with those intense, soulful eyes. “I see someone who has been hurt over and over by the people who are meant to protect you, and yet, you still find a way to keep going.
“To me, you’re strong, brave, powerful, capable, and so full of positivity. I think you’re one of the most put-together people I’ve ever met, who genuinely wants to better herself.”
I scoff. “How can you see all of that when all I see is… a damaged fuck-up clinging to the hope that the she’ll get the pieces back of the happy girl she once was?”
“Do you want a tissue?” he asks softly.
“I’m not—” I start, reaching up to wipe my cheeks, where tears are. “Ah.” I wipe my eyes, not taking one of his subpar tissues that will upset my skin.
“I asked you why you came here, and I think I have the answer,” he says ever so softly. “You’re here, Maeve, because you’re finally ready to forgive yourself for something that wasn’t ever your fault. You’re ready to start working on healing, and with that, comes healing your perception of yourself.”
I bang on the door, my fist knocking so forcefully that every touch gives me a flash of pain and panic. I don’t let it in, I don’t let it take hold, as I continue rapping against his door.
It’s wrenched open, anger filling the man behind it, before his eyes widen, and he sees me standing in front of him.
“Maeve?” Draven says, his tone so soft and gentle, such a comparison to the vicious man who opened the door. “Are you okay, little angel?”
I wring my hands together, not sure how to answer the question. “Can I… can I come in?”
He nods his head, moving out of the doorway of his flat, and I follow him inside. It’s the exact same layout as mine, but the decor is different. More minimal and darker. I barely take it in, not too bothered about snooping right now.
“Are you okay, little angel?” he asks.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I shake my head. “No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” His tone is so gentle, so soft, and I know this is why I came to him.
I knew he’d be here, that he wouldn’t turn me away.
I knew that he’d just look after me.
It’s not fair of me to put my burdens on him, but in this moment, I’m going to be selfish. I’m going to do my best to trust that it won’t be thrown in my face or used against me.
I’m going to trust that he can help me feel better.
“Not right now.”
“Okay,” he replies. “Come through to my spare room, then.”
“Not the living room?” I murmur, but he shakes his head.
“My spare room has the bed sheets you like, and my sofas are leather,” he says without an ounce of judgment. I follow him through, my heart feeling heavy, my head hurting.
How did he know what sheets I liked? When did he prepare?
I don’t care. I’m just happy that he did.
He flips on the light, and a tear trails down my cheek at seeing the familiar pink sheets. He didn’t just get the kind I like, he got the colour I love, too. The blanket is the same as mine, and I know how much that cost.
I should probably reimburse him at some point.
“Get into bed,” he demands, moving over to grab the TV remote from the side. “Do you want something else to wear or…?”
“Um, this will be fine,” I say, shaking my head. I’m wearing a soft dress.
He nods and passes me the TV remote before going through to the kitchen. I don’t move from the bed, just cuddling underneath the duvet, and let myself quietly cry.
It’s not sobbing, it’s not breaking… it’s just healing.
I don’t know how long Draven’s been gone, but when he comes back in, he has two hot chocolates with cream, marshmallows, and even a flake. It smells divine, and I realise I’ve not eaten yet today.
Probably shouldn’t ply myself with more sugar, but I don’t care. It’ll make me feel better.
“You look cosy,” Draven says with a soft smile. “I’m going to put this on your side, and we’ll watch a movie together. Can I sit there or?—”
“Just don’t touch me,” I plead.
“Never,” he promises.
I believe him.
I can trust him.