Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
KIRA
I skim through the first paragraph of the next paper I’m grading while I sit at my crowded office desk.
Isaak’s sleeping on a wooden chair in the corner, and I’m trying, and mostly failing, to focus on work. Students were allowed to turn them in electronically or in my office dropbox, a choice more students took because they inadvertently got nine more hours if they took the physical paper route.
Jungian psychology, while influential and widely respected in some circles, faces several major critiques. These critiques center around its scientific rigor, accessibility, and applicability. Here are some of the most common criticisms: lack of empirical evidence, overemphasis on mysticism and spirituality ? —
I sigh. Another paper written by ChatGPT.
They really all start to have a familiar rhythm after a while. Wordy intro, then a list of numbered points that some kids forget to remove. I mean, at least show a little effort to hide the copy and paste.
I bite my bottom lip, distracted again by Isaak. He’s got the wooden chair he’s sitting on tipped backward, one leg crossed over the other, and his head against the wall. Snoring away. How he can sleep like that is beyond me.
But it’s not like he’s getting much sleep at night.
Not since four weeks ago when he had the nightmare that startled us both so much I ended up on the floor. Isaak has refused to sleep in the same bed as me since, but he wouldn’t go to another room either, citing his stupid rules.
Domhnall ordered a double bed for him once he learned he was sleeping on the couch, and the huge guest room we’re in fits the two beds without any problem.
But the nightmares are still keeping him up.
I don’t know if I was just sleeping through them at first and they were always this bad, or if they’ve gotten worse.
Every morning, though, the shadows underneath his eyes get deeper. His nighttime shouting has woken me at least twice more. Other times, when I woke up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I found him tossing and turning or already awake, sitting up in bed and staring into the darkness.
He won’t talk about it, either, the stubborn ass. He totally shuts down every time I try to bring it up. But that’s generally been the extent of our relationship ever since that night.
Shut down.
He was weird and distant the whole next day. Then he totally lost it the following night, when I confronted him about being ridiculous after he started settling in on the couch again.
“Get it through your head! I’m not sleeping with you anymore.” Emphatic arm motions accompanied each word. “It’s done. Over . No more cuddling. No more fucking. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m here to do a job, and that’s it . You’re not paying me to fucking cuddle you at night.”
His words lit me right up. “I never said I was! You were the one who insisted on climbing in my bed, asshole. Don’t get shit twisted.”
I got right up in his face. I’d already been so emotional, going back and forth in my head all day—Isaak or Drew, Drew or Isaak, or neither?—and here he was, proving what an idiot I was for even thinking about a future with him.
“If you’re done, fine with me. Good riddance.”
“Fine.”
“ Fine .”
“ Fine .”
Then we retreated to our respective corners and have stayed there ever since.
Burying myself in my students and research for my dissertation the past few weeks has kept me from thinking about the rollercoaster tracks I’m speeding down so quickly. But we’ve somehow roared through November, halfway into December, and now the wedding is next week right before Christmas. Drew’s father picked the date because everyone would already be in town for the holidays.
I force myself to breathe out. First things first. The students took their final and handed in their last essays today. The essays are a bust, but I thought I’d give it one last try to see if my last few lectures on ethics had any significant impact.
That’s a big nope burger.
At least the in-class final will tell me if they actually learned anything this semester. I’ll never be the kind of professor who fails a lot of kids. I was basically just in their shoes and know they’re trying to balance actual lives and relationships and the holy shit of suddenly being in college.
Really, Isaak did me a favor by clearing things up without me even having to ask any embarrassing questions.
God, I was such an idiot to think he might have wanted to change anything in his life for me. Or that I was any different than any of the other girls he’s had. Older doesn’t mean different, just more stuck in his ways. I was a fun fuck for a while. That’s all.
And really, it’s completely fair. He never promised me anything else. We were both clear on what we were doing when we fell into bed together. It was a rush of mad chemistry, and like anything that combustive, it quickly burned itself out.
Except… nothing’s burned out for me.
This is why we don’t listen to the voices in our head .
Because consequences are a bitch. But being so close to Isaak without being able to touch him these last weeks…
He doesn’t even call me annoying nicknames or verbally poke at me anymore. He’s just turned into a security robot like I expected him to be at first. He’s still here, but he’s also already gone.
If I stopped running around with my mile-a-minute life for two seconds, the urge to cry would overwhelm me. Which is why I’ve stayed very, very busy.
Neither of us has said it, but I’m pretty sure Isaak’s leaving when I get married. This was all just a favor to Domhn. It’s not like I’m going to keep living at Domhn’s place. Drew and I always planned to move in together after the wedding.
After all my bold self-talk about being able to change and the possibility of rewiring neurons, when Isaak basically broke up with me—pathetic but that’s how it feels even though we were never officially together—I just shrank back into myself. Like the coward I am, I’ve kept going along with all the wedding preparations.
In a week, I’ll walk down the aisle. I’ll live inside the box forever. Safe. Small. Never knowing what else I might have been.
My stomach churns at the thought.
And Isaak will be gone for good. Drew will take care of any security issues if the stalker is still around. In fact, considering how connected his dad is, it’s weird I didn’t go to Drew in the first place. But I couldn’t be sure that Drew’s security wouldn’t report my every move to him just like the first one did to Carol.
Will it be any different after you’re married?
I guess it won’t matter if he knows where I’m going now. I’ll be boring again. I don’t have an excuse to keep going to Carnal anymore. I’ve gathered all the research I need.
Now it’s just time to write my dissertation. Subspace and the Neurobiology of Surrender: An Examination of Power, Pleasure, and Dissociation.
I tap my red pen against the student’s paper, eyes straying back to Isaak as he mumbles something in his sleep. His face contorts in a pained expression, eyes bouncing frantically beneath his eyelids.
He’s having another nightmare, even while sleeping in that uncomfortable chair.
Oh, Isaak .
My chest aches for him. Why won’t he ever let me comfort him after a nightmare? It’s fine if he doesn’t want to cuddle me.
But I wish sometimes he would just let me hold him . He’s obviously experienced something really difficult. Was it the war? Or something from the group home from his childhood? Both?
Why won’t he just talk to me?
“Elma!” he shouts, the leg he has propped up on one knee falling to the floor.
I drop the paper I’m holding and shove back my chair, rushing the couple of steps it takes to get to him. But he’s settled back into sleep. His eyelids continue fluttering furiously in REM sleep, brow furrowed.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to call his name and try to wake him up like I did the night I ended up on the floor.
I bite my lip to stop myself. That night ended so disastrously.
The truth is, I’m not sure how I actually ended up on the floor. But I know one thing for sure: Isaak didn’t hit me. He wasn’t even awake. He was thrashing, and I yanked backward to avoid his flailing arms. My momentum took me the rest of the way off the bed.
But it was my fault for grabbing his shoulder and jostling him like that in the first place. I woke him up mid-nightmare right as he started screaming. The exact wrong thing to do, likely. I just... When I woke up groggily and saw him so distressed, I just reacted.
He’s clearly carrying around so much invisible pain.
I wanted to help. To make it stop.
It’s why I’m trying to be a therapist in the first place. I want to help people with the kind of pain that constantly lives in our minds.
It’s so fucking insidious and taints every other thing in our lives like a pollutant if we don’t get help. But I guess… you have to be ready for help. You have to ask.
I slowly step back to my desk. For a second I just hover there, my heart feeling like it’s weighed down by a thousand-pound chain, before I flop back into my chair and stare listlessly at the stack of essays.
My eyes lift again when Isaak suddenly snorts loudly and then his eyes pop open wildly, whole body on alert.
He’s breathing hard, like he just finished running a mile. His gaze darts left and right, and his hand flashes to his waist like he’s reaching for a weapon.
“Isaak?” I whisper timidly.
His eyes shoot to me, and only then does some of the tension release from his body. “Oh. Hey.” He tries to relax more, but I can see how much of an effort it takes. “How long was I out?”
“A couple hours.”
“Damn.” He stands up and stretches, his arms going up and behind his head. It makes his shirt ride up and exposes a small patch of skin right above his jeans, revealing the V that I know so very well. I’ve licked along it, right down those sharp lines cutting straight to his?—
“I gotta take a leak,” he says abruptly, tugging his shirt back down.
Horror movie rules are starting to feel like a moot point by now. The stalker hasn’t escalated again and seems more like an intimidate-from-the-shadows kind of dude.
“End of the hall.” I wave a hand. “I take it you don’t need an escort at this point.”
He glares at me, and I glare at him back.
“Some of us have actual work to do.” I point at the essays.
He sneers and shakes his head, then turns and pushes through the door. “Back in a few.”
I make a face at the closed door behind him, then imitate him in a mocking, low-pitched voice, “ Back in a few . I’m a macho man and I’m so special. I’m a special, special macho man .”
I look down at the papers on my desk and try to focus. The ChatGPT paper fell a little askew when I dropped it earlier, just enough to see the paper underneath it. Several words jump off the page of the essay below. WHORE!CUNT!
My hands shake as I shove the top essay to the side and lift out the one underneath. The whole thing is typed in something like Courier New font. My eyes skim across the first few lines.
Professor Kira is a cunt. We all talk about how we could hold her down and fuck her up the ass. I got some zip ties at the hardware store, and me and my buddies could snatch her when she’s walking back to her car after class. Then we’d ? —
I drop the paper and then wipe my hands on my skirt. Ugh, god, my stalker touched it.
A knock on the door makes me let out a little shriek. I twist to see who it is, every muscle tightened when I see one of my students standing there.
His oily brown curly hair falls in his face as he looms in the doorway.
“Hey, Professor Roberts. I’ve been wanting to stop by. I had some questions about the exam today.”
“Phillip!” I say, half standing up. I swallow hard, craning a little to look over his shoulder. Where the hell is Isaak?
“Have a seat.” I gesture to the chair Isaak was just occupying. “I’m surprised to see you.”
He starts to close the door, but I put out a hand. “Oh, you can leave it open.”
“I was really hoping to talk to you. In private,” he finishes, closing the door, thumb pressing down on the lock button as he does. He stands in front of the now-locked door. “That big guy’s always lurking around you.”
This little shit. Is he seriously trying to trap me in my own office? To intimidate me? Yeah, it might be dark out, but that’s only because it’s five-thirty on a Thursday. There’s still one day left of final’s week. People are still around… probably. And Isaak will be back any second.
“It’s university policy to leave the door open when having a conference with a student.” I stand up all the way and pull my cardigan tighter, trying to establish dominance like I do in the classroom, even though my heart is beating a mile a minute.
Phillip’s a sweet kid. Okay, maybe he’s a little bit of an asshole, but lots of college kids are finding themselves at his age. He’s just a freshman and harmless, really?—
“I want to talk to you in private!” he says with more vehemence. “Why won’t anybody fucking listen when I say things? I just want you to fucking listen !”
I lift a hand to try to calm him down. “Okay, okay. Why don’t you have a seat like I said and then we can talk.” I hope he doesn’t notice the tremor in my voice or the fact that I’m shifting slightly so I’m by the bookcase now.
He looks at me suspiciously, his tall body still blocking the door. “You sit first.”
“Phillip,” I snap, trying more urgently to reassert my authority. I’ve gotten practice over the last two and a half years ever since I started being a TA and then teaching classes of my own. “Sit down if you want to talk. We’re in my office, so we play by my rules.”
But Phillip’s not having it today. “Why are you being such a bitch? You’re acting just like my stepmom. I want you to be like you are in class. Nice and sweet.”
Jesus, am I really hearing what I’m hearing? I want to unload on him for being such a sexist pig.
But it’s sounding more like my stalker is standing in front of me. So, as harmless as I might think he is, he’s probably the same person who’s escalated from breaking into my house and harming small animals to stalking my every move and putting a tracker on my car. Isaak found it right after the hotel break-in.
I’ve seen this movie before.
I know what comes next.
“Do you have any weapons on you, Phillip?” I ask in as calm a voice as I can manage.
He pulls something out of his pocket, and my breath catches when he flicks out a switchblade.
“Okay,” I say, my voice really trembling now. “I need you to close that up and then hand it to me.”
“Why, so you can narc on me? Fuck you, bitch. I can’t believe I thought you would actually help me.”
“I am here to help you, Phillip.”
Knife in hand, he suddenly clutches his head, wincing.
Is he hearing voices? It’s between the ages of nineteen and twenty-five that those prone to psychiatric conditions like schizophrenia and bipolar disorder with hallucinations often start manifesting symptoms. Is that what I’m witnessing now?
“How long have you felt like this, Phillip?” I make my voice softer, trying a different tactic. “Do you feel down and depressed more often? Or confused about what’s going on in the world around you?”
He blinks at me, unsure. Then he drops the knife back to his side but doesn’t retract the blade.
“See, that’s why I want to talk to you. You’re the only person who will listen .”
He walks toward the chair but doesn’t sit down. I dare to glance toward the door and quickly shoot my eyes back when he looks at me again.
I could maybe make it to the door before him, but the office is so small. He’d be on me in no time.
“You want a listening ear,” I say, “so talk to me. What’s going on, Phillip?”
If I can just keep him talking, Isaak will be back any minute.
“Well, my stepmom’s a real bitch, like I said. And she keeps trying to get Dad to kick me out. She says I smoke too much weed, but I only do that ’cause I’m trying to survive her narcissistic ass. I know, I know,” he waves the hand still holding the knife, “you don’t like it when we go around calling everybody a narcissist, but this bitch is. I was watching these videos online, and she fits every characteristic listed.”
I keep my face impassive. I doubt arguing the finer points of the DSM-5 will help in this particular case.
“Okay, so you want to talk about your stepmom?”
“What?” he barks, then laughs in a highly manic way before shaking his head. “No. No.”
He looks at me earnestly, pointing the knife at my direction as he sits in the chair he drags in front of the door. “I knew we had to wait for the end of the semester. I know you couldn’t have a relationship with a student because you’re one of the good ones. You would never be unethical.”
He scoots his chair closer to mine.
“But I’m in love with you, Professor Roberts. And with the way you look at me in class and the conversations we have, I know you love me, too.”