13. Katya
Katya
Three days later, my skin is still tingling from Dmitri’s hands. That’s not the healthiest mindset to bring into my first therapy session.
Dr. Sokolova arranges her notes on the coffee table, her every movement precise and practiced. Different suit today—navy instead of charcoal—but the same stiff, overly controlled vibe I remember from our first meeting.
“How are you feeling about beginning this process?” she asks, her pen clicking open.
“Like I’m about to be dissected.” I sink back into Dmitri’s leather chair, aware of how her eyes follow every move I make. “But I guess that’s the point, isn’t it?”
She makes a note on her pad. “Therapy isn’t about dissection; it’s about reconstruction. Tell me about your week since we last spoke. Any significant developments in your emotional or physical state?”
The honest answer involves multiple orgasms against a wall, but I doubt that’s what she’s fishing for. “My husband and I have grown closer.”
“Oh? How so?”
“The usual way married couples do.” I arch a brow. “Unless you want details about our sex life?”
Dr. Sokolova blushes, and I swear she frowns before she catches herself. “Of course not, but I am interested in whether physical intimacy triggered any emotional memories or responses that felt familiar.”
“Everything with Dmitri feels familiar and wrong at the same time.” I sigh. “Like my body remembers him even when my brain refuses to.”
She scribbles something that, from my vantage point, looks more like symbols than words.
“That’s common with suppressed memories. The physical often returns before the cognitive.”
“So, my body’s ahead of my brain. Story of my life.”
Her pen stills, and she looks up. “That’s one way to see it, but I’m more interested in what you’ve seen. Have your dreams changed since we last spoke?”
“They have. Violence, mostly. But not chaos. It’s controlled and not random. Like my body knows what to do, even when I don’t.”
“It’s common for trauma victims to dream in patterns that feel like training.”
“Dreams don’t feel like training. Training feels like training. I know the difference.”
A flicker crosses her face. “That’s why we should explore them. Tell me one of these dreams.”
“Government buildings, but not Russian. Flags from different countries hanging everywhere. Men in suits tense the second they see me.” I swallow. “I’m hunting someone. I know why I’m there.” I study her face. “Does any of that sound familiar to you, Doctor?”
Her pen stalls. “Dreams like that aren’t uncommon. Authority figures, big institutions… they’re symbols the subconscious leans on when it’s trying to process fear.”
“Symbols don’t make men in suits flinch when they see me. That felt real. And combat training. Do your patients often dream about disarming attackers and neutralizing threats?”
She goes still. “You’ve had dreams about combat?”
“Not just dreams. Reflexes. Movements I shouldn’t have, given my supposed background.” I lean forward, mirroring her posture. “Yesterday, a glass slipped off the counter. I didn’t just catch it; I blocked it like a knife. My body moved before my brain caught up.”
“Stress can create phantom muscle memories?—”
“Bullshit.” I don’t soften it. “This is different. This is training.”
Her voice turns textbook-smooth. “People often imagine themselves stronger than they are. It’s a way to cope when they feel powerless. Let’s not lose sight of the real work here…”
She sets her notebook aside to study me. “What kind of training do you think you received?”
“The kind that kills fast and vanishes without a trace.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Mrs. Kozlov?—”
“Katya. Stop dodging. You know what I’m talking about.”
She laces her hands together in her lap, and I notice the calluses. Not the kind you get from writing. The kind you get from use. Her face stays calm. The silence says more than any textbook.
“Let me ask you, Doctor. How many patients feel like prisoners in their lives?”
“Plenty. Trauma breeds powerlessness and confinement.”
“What about patients who feel like they’re being held by people who claim to love them but might have other motives?”
Something moves across her face again. “That’s a very specific scenario, Katya.”
“He says he’s protecting me from dangerous people, but I can’t even leave the building alone. He calls it amnesia care. It feels like containment.”
She gives me a placating nod and asks, “How does that make you feel?”
“Like a bird in a very expensive cage.” I stand, walk to the window, and look out over the city. “Beautiful surroundings, excellent food, and attentive care. But still a cage.”
“Have you told him that?”
“Would you discuss escape plans with your jailer?”
Her pen scratches. “Do you believe he means you harm?”
I turn back to face her. “I believe he has motives he hasn’t shared. I just don’t know if they serve me, or him.”
“What do you think his motivation is?”
“Control. Information. Possibly revenge.” I walk back to my chair but don’t sit. “What I can’t figure out is whether I’m his victim or his enemy.”
Sokolova closes her notebook again and sets it on the table. “Katya, do you remember anything about your work before the accident?”
“You mean my career as an art curator?”
“I mean work that involved… specialized skills.”
The careful phrasing spikes my pulse. “What kind of specialized skills?”
She catches herself and forces a smile. “Your curatorial expertise, of course. Art authentication, exhibition planning, that sort of thing.”
“Nice recovery, but that’s not what you meant.” I perch on the cushion’s edge. “You’re digging like everyone else. Only you call it therapy instead of admitting you already know.”
“Mrs. Kozlov?—”
“Stop calling me that.” I slam my palm down on the armrest. “My name is Katya. It’s the only true thing anyone’s bothered to give me.”
“What makes you think your name is the only true thing?”
“Because everyone stumbles over Katya like it’s an unfamiliar name. Everyone except Dmitri. He’s the only one who seems certain that’s who I am.”
She checks her watch. “We should schedule another appointment soon. There’s clearly a lot to unpack.”
“How soon?”
“In a couple of days. Frequent sessions will help, given your current state.”
“My current state of mind?”
She gathers her materials and responds, “You’re experiencing breakthrough memories and emotional instability. That can be dangerous if not properly managed.”
“Dangerous to whom?”
“Everyone.” She stands and smooths her skirt. “I’ll speak with your husband about increasing our sessions.”
I remain seated, watching her prepare to leave. “Doctor Sokolova?”
“Yes?”
“When you speak to my husband, ask him about Alexandra Volkova.”
She freezes with one hand hovering over her briefcase. “Who?”
“Just a name floating around in my head. Probably nothing,” I smile sweetly, “but maybe he’ll know where it came from.”
The color drains from her face before she composes herself. “I’ll be sure to mention it.”
“I’m sure you will.”
After she’s gone, I sit in Dmitri’s study and sort through the fragments. Sokolova knows more than she’ll admit. She reacted to “Alexandra Volkova” like I’d set off a bomb.
I press the crescent hard enough to sting. Is she helping me, or playing the same game Dmitri’s been playing since I woke up?
Either way, the next session will be far more interesting.