The Flower
Hold Onto Me - Amira Elfkey
“I’m glad to see you came back, Axel,” I say politely, watching him take a seat on the cushioned sofa.
I am glad to see him back. It shows that maybe the first session wasn't a waste of time, and that he does want some sort of help. It always makes me happy to see a client come back. It means I’m doing something right.
“How are you doing today? Are there any topics you would like to touch base on in today's session?” Just like last time, his energy is the same, but there's a noticeable absence of hesitation.
This could be a good thing. He may feel more comfortable this time, which means he may be more open to conversation instead of making snide remarks.
“I’m good today. In fact, I feel great. And no, no topics come to mind. Feel free to lead the way,” he says boastfully. Wow, this feels like a completely different person. Perhaps this session will go smoothly.
“Well, since we had gotten the basics and got to know each other a little bit, let's dive just a little deeper. I want to touch base on something you mentioned last week.” His eyes show a glint of excitement before quickly masking it.
I watch as he readjusts in his seat, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, letting me know I have his full attention.
“Which part?” he says. I can see the corner of his mouth start to curve upward, and I watch as he fights it.
I spoke too soon.
There is the Axel from last time. Does jumping into his criminal past seem too fast-paced for a second session? I don't think he would've mentioned it if it were. And he seems pretty open to conversation today.
“Last time we spoke, we discussed your previous visits to other mental health professionals, and in passing you mentioned other topics. Are you okay if we dive into discussing those further?” I ask.
I spent all my spare time digging any information on him that I possibly could; why not hear it straight from the source?
With no hesitation, he gives me a nod to proceed.
“I want to get a better understanding of who you are. You mentioned you had a run-in with the law, is that right?”
“Yes, that's correct.”
“Please do not feel pressured to tell me anything you don't like, but may I ask how you ended up in a situation like that?” He takes a moment to gather his thoughts. I reach behind me, grabbing a notepad and pen from my desk, ready to jot down any important information he gives me.
“A few friends and I are… notorious for hosting street racing gatherings. We’ve been hosting them for years, and the turnout gets bigger each time.
It's a great way to make extra cash. Those who want to race, pay a fee. Those who want to watch have the option to bid. People from all over come to either race or watch. Of course, this isn't a legal or government-approved event, so those who attend have to sign a document stating they know we are not responsible for what happens to them, to make sure they won’t snitch.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt. Has anyone… had something happen to them?
I can imagine street racing is super dangerous.
I don’t know how fast bikes can go or how your race is laid out, but it does sound dangerous in itself if they have to sign a waiver?
” I ask him, trying to comprehend how open he is, while appreciating all the details he is giving me.
Patient confidentiality is important, but you do have an obligation as a professional to report if someone is of harm to themselves or to others.
This has happened in the past, and according to the Google search, Axel has already paid the piper.
Thankfully, I don't have to report anything unless it's ongoing…
“It's extremely dangerous. Some racers travel at 90-100 plus miles per hour at times, just to get ahead of one another. We’ve had lots of racers get injured, even some who have experienced death.
I have no remorse, though. They know exactly what they're getting themselves into.” My eyebrows can't help but raise with concern.
“Why would people put themselves into a predicament like that? Besides winning, what do they gain?”
“They could win half a million dollars. Sometimes even more. Money like that can change a lot of lives. Putting oneself in danger for money is beyond me. That's why I host.” He taps his finger on his temple, indicating that he is being clever.
“And you don't feel any type of remorse? Any feelings at all? What about concern? Don’t you experience some type of feeling when you see others get hurt?” I ask, trying to dig deeper.
If he really has no feelings at all for them and treats it as purely transactional, that says a lot about his character.
Not making room, or being unable to make room, for how others may feel or what could happen to them raises a slight red flag in my mind of psychological disconnect or detachment.
When I have patients like this, a common mechanism or condition they have often resembles dissociation, alexithymia, or apathy.
Any of these can appear from past trauma, PTSD, or being unable to express themselves due to high levels of stress.
A part of me wonders if he has some sort of psychopathic tendency, leading to his narcissism.
It's so important to ask the right questions and get to know how someone has come upon such psychological detachment. Lots of conditions or diagnoses are similar, but also so different. It all depends on how one’s past has influenced who they are today, or how someone copes with emotions or stress in their current experiences.
His words pull me back to existence.
“No feelings at all. Like I mentioned before, they put themselves into these situations knowing the repercussions.
One of the last times we hosted a race, someone snitched, and the cops showed up when the race was about to begin.
There were over ten cop cars swarming the group.
A lot got away; some didn't. It's like when you see a movie and everything is in slow motion.
I watched racers get violently tackled to the ground and thrown into cuffs, organizers staring down the barrels of guns that threatened to end them.
I ran toward my bike, barely making it on, when a cop wrapped his arm around my neck from behind and put me in a headlock.
So, I punched the motherfucker. Once he let go, I hit him again and again.
I couldn't stop.” I watch Axel intensely.
His eyes are fixated on the window in my office, lost in memory.
The expression on his face contorts as if he is reliving the moment, noticing his hands have balled into fists. I can see the blanching of his knuckles as they turn whiter the stronger his grip gets.
I don’t want to add to his anger, but it is healthy for him to release these emotions. He is also giving me a lot of important information about how he manages his emotions with actions. He may not want to admit it, but anger is a feeling. This is a good sign.
“Once he was a bloody mess, I hopped on my bike and took off. I only got so far before they chased and caught me. I typically would’ve been able to get away, but the snitch had released my name.
They waited at my home. Fuckers hid from me, then ambushed,” he finishes, his tone now monotone.
I’m taken aback thinking about how physical he became with authority.
I knew when I read his record that it listed Assault and Battery on a police officer.
A part of me wanted to believe it wasn't as intense as he described.
Bad people do bad things, and sometimes, good people can do bad things too.
I give him a moment of silence to collect himself. He looks back in my direction, giving me a piercing stare. His hands are now unclenched, his shoulders relaxed, and he leans back against the couch, returning to his previous demeanor.
“And that's how I spent two years in prison,” he remarks, shrugging his shoulders like it’s no big deal.
I glance down at my notepad, wanting to find something I could ask him further about, but I was listening so intensely I had forgotten to write anything down.
So I focus on asking him how the consequences of his actions felt and if it had changed his behavior or thinking.
“Has prison had any impact or given you any reflection on how you dealt with the situation? I can imagine being there for two years has given you some time to reflect. Do you regret assaulting the police officer or fleeing from them?” I pry a little more.
I don't expect anything more than a “no.” If he had no remorse for those who were harmed during his races, I’m sure he wouldn't for those in authority.
“Motherfucker had it coming; he put his hands on me. It was only fair that I did the same,” Axel says, showing no empathy. Was two years worth it? If he had complied, I'm sure the time served would've been less. It probably didn't even occur to him, acting so quickly.
“I can see where you are coming from. The situation escalated quickly, and you reacted.
How did you feel during the experience? I'm sure you were angry, which I assume is why you hit the officer?” I dig into the fact that he reacted in anger.
He pauses a moment, not straying eye contact from me.
It's like he is trying to read me. Like he is wondering why I’m asking about his feelings.
It's why he’s here, isn't it?
“I was pissed. Someone snitched. I’m still trying to find out who.
Once I do, they better fucking pray to the god they have that I’ll show mercy and end their life fast.” The words leave his lips in a threatening promise.
W… what? My mouth is open, but no words come out.
I’m stunned. I’m speechless. Did he just threaten someone's life in front of me? I’ve never had this happen before.
I watch as he stands, circling the coffee table that separates us.
My body stills. I can feel every muscle tighten and constrict.
I don't move. I can't move. I just watch as he stands in front of me, peering down with his grim presence.
Can he hear how fast my heart is beating?
Can he hear my fast-paced breaths? Will he hurt me?
He bends over slightly, positioning his face only a few inches away from mine.
Not realizing my jaw is actually open, I feel his large fingers caress my chin, closing the distance between my lips.
My eyes flicker back and forth searching his, looking for any sign of what he is about to do next.
His gaze moves down to my lips as he licks his own.
“I believe our session is done, Ms. Rosen.” His words coat my lips in a flirtatious declaration before he gives me a wink, and leaves the office, leaving me in silence.