31. Preston
PRESTON
Something’s wrong.
In my head. In my body. In my rotten soul.
I tried altering my brain with chemical potions—aka meds—but they’re barely working. I can sense it, you know, the scratch scratch scratch inside my mind.
For days, I’ve been biting my lip and trying to rein it in, but the overflow will flood me sooner or later.
The screwed-up chemistry in my head will riot, and there’s no stopping that.
But I need to fix it somehow.
Just…fix it.
That’s why I delivered myself to one of my favorite places—Dr. Duret’s couch. She’s sitting across from me, looking warm and cozy in a black-and-white-striped cardigan with gold buttons and beige slacks.
Leather-bound notebook in hand, she just sits still and waits, never urging me to talk.
Because that’s what therapists do, I guess.
“I didn’t go to see Marcus yesterday.” I hold a hand up.
“I know, I know. I’ve basically been dropping by his place every night since we were caught by his mom over two weeks ago, but…
well, I’m not feeling well. The night before last, I choked him in my sleep.
I know because he went to bed completely fine and woke up with fingerprints on his neck.
It couldn’t have been ghosts like my brain tried to gaslight me into thinking—it was me.
I felt so much regret, but instead of saying I was sorry like a sane person, I went ahead and did the exact opposite. As in, I blew up in his face and left.”
I’m breathing heavily, the sound harsh in the silence, accentuated by the loud grandfather clock on the wall. Wait. Was that always there? No, I would’ve noticed it if it were, wouldn’t I?
Also, where are the stars? Why did she remove them from the ceiling?
“Do you want to tell me why you blew up?” Dr. Duret’s posture and expression don’t change.
“He was lying to me.” I stand up and pace, running an agitated hand through my hair. “I asked if I’d hurt him in my sleep, and he said it didn’t matter. Why didn’t it matter? Why? What if…what if…”
“What if?”
I stop and bite the inside of my cheek so hard, a coppery tang explodes in my mouth. “What if I kill him?”
“You wouldn’t want that, no?”
I shake my head once. “I…wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. That’s why I decided that I needed to stay away. You…you know me when I get volatile.”
“So you just disappear? Do you believe he’d like that?”
I flop back on the couch, grumbling. “It’s for his own good.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“He wouldn’t. He doesn’t.” I let out a breath. “He told me goodbye.”
“Is that why you’re upset?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to go. I…I like it, you know.
Spending time with him, I mean. I thought it was because I was dick-drunk or something, but my attachment to him is not only because of the sex.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the sex. I think…
I think it’s the first time I’ve enjoyed it properly.
I thought I loved tying them up, but really, it wasn’t control I wanted, it’s pain and surrender, but… ”
“But only when you’re safe?”
A faint tremor touches my lips. “Yeah. I…I felt safe with Marcus from the get-go, didn’t I?”
“I think so. You enjoy eroticizing what was once weaponized against you, and there’s nothing wrong with that, Preston.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“But why Marcus? I just…don’t get it.”
“With your personality, you would never admit to wanting submission unless…”
I sit on the edge of my seat. “Unless?”
“Unless you know you can emotionally destroy the person you’re physically submitting to.”
My lips part. Oh. Is that what my ghosting and slippery behavior were? Me testing whether I have dominance over Marcus in an emotional sense?
I had to know he’d always want me more, care about me more, and like me enough to never be able to leave me?
But he already did.
“I wish it were only sex. It would’ve been much simpler that way,” I murmur, running a hand over my face.
“When did it change?”
“I don’t know.”
“Around the time you agreed to be exclusive?”
“Maybe. I just…like spending time with him in his tiny but warm house. I love that, despite his intensity, he’s observant and caring.
He always makes me delicious food and gives me these ridiculous mango candies I’m addicted to now, as if I’m back to being a kid again.
He also shares his mom with me. The three of us went skiing the other day, and she bought me hot chocolate.
She’s such a rock star—she hugs me and tells me she’s glad Marcus has me.
Me? Can you believe it? You’d better, I’m not lying.
Anyway, I really like June, and I’m jealous I never had a mom like her.
Point is, I…do want to go to him, but I can’t. ”
Dr. Duret writes something in her notes but doesn’t ask me one of her usual distasteful questions.
Just keeps scribbling and scribbling and scribbling, and the scratch of the pen against the paper feels like she’s dragging it against my skull.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
“Are you going to say anything?” I snap.
She pauses, lifting her gaze toward me. “What do you want me to say?”
“Your therapist nonsense, maybe? Ask me why I’m spiraling more than usual? Why…I’m self-medicating more than any time in my life?”
“Why?”
“Because…because…Marcus thinks I’m this perfect Prince Charming that he can’t get enough of, but that’s only because I’m keeping my hideous side hidden under lock and key.”
“Why not open up about that time, Preston? You don’t have to tell him in person if it feels overwhelming. You can send a letter, an email, or a text. It could be cathartic to write everything down.”
“Fuck no! I’d…I’d rather take the same pills Mom ended her life with than let him see.”
“See what?”
“The rot inside me.”
“You believe he’d be scared?”
“No. He’d be disgusted.”
“Does that scare you? The idea of him seeing inside you?”
“No.” I choke on the word. “It terrifies me.”
“Why?”
“Because he’d be gone.” I jerk up and stride toward her. She doesn’t move as I stand right in front of her, staring down at her dark, unexpressive eyes. “Like Mom.”
“You believe he’d commit suicide?” Her voice is robotic, almost as if it’s dragging through my skull.
“No. But suicide isn’t the only way people leave. Dad’s alive, but he left me a long time ago.” I reach a hand toward her slowly, but she doesn’t move away. “You’ll leave, too, one day, won’t you?”
“Not if you don’t want me to, no—”
“Shut up.” I slam a hand to her face. “I think it’s better if I finish you all off now and end this paranoia. If I kill you first, no one will leave me again.”
“Are you going to kill Marcus, too?” she speaks through my fingers, the sound faintly muffled. “So you can get rid of him before he gets rid of you?”
“That’s a good plan. You have the best ideas when your life is threatened.”
“Here’s another one,” she says, her tone unchanged.
“Or more like a thought. An unprofessional one, but you need to hear it anyway. Do you want to know why you’re spiraling more than usual, Preston?
It’s because you’re suppressing more than usual.
You’re trying to mold yourself into what you believe Marcus wants to see, but it’s having the opposite effect on your psyche.
Your brain is rebelling against you because you’re forcing it into the same mindset from when you were abused. ”
“Shut up,” I whisper.
“Keep quiet, Preston.” Her voice turns deeper, mimicking mine. “Don’t say a word, Preston. If you stay still, if you hold it all in and be an obedient statue, no one will know.”
“Shut up!”
“Isn’t that what you’re telling yourself now?
In this very moment? Aren’t you killing that part of you that wants to be heard and accepted for who he is?
The reason you’re doing that is simple. You’re feeling vulnerable for the first time since the abuse, and you’re fighting it tooth and nail.
You’re rioting against it. You’re trying to murder it any way possible.
” She smiles softly against my hand. “You’d rather kill Marcus than deal with the intense feelings you have toward him.
You’d rather bury him with them six feet deep than tell him about your demons, because if you do, if you let it all out in front of the person you care about so deeply, you’ll have to face them as well. ”
“I said. Shut the fuck up!” I jerk away, her words having burned my skin and throat, spreading down my spine like wildfire.
She stands up, places the notebook on the chair, and pulls at the edge of her cardigan until it’s straight. “I think it’s time you handle this by yourself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I won’t be around to watch you self-destruct again.” She turns and walks away, the click of her heels loud on the wooden floor.
“Wait!” I scream. “You get paid to listen to me! You can’t leave!”
She opens the door and a cold gust of air rips through, freezing me to the bone.
Dr. Duret disappears, but I don’t move.
I can’t.
My world is blurry, and I realize my eyes are filled with tears.
“Not again, please,” I whisper, falling to my knees in front of the chair, hugging the notebook to my chest as it quakes. “Mom…don’t go.”
Anyway, fuck Dr. Duret. She can go to hell for all I care.
Mental breakdown? Totally did not happen.
Totally didn’t spend most of the night there, waiting for her to come back. She will when she needs another check from Dad.
Speaking of Dad, I think Lenin was right.
He decided to drop me.
It’s late at night and I just lit his favorite car on fire right after I came back from Dr. Duret’s depressingly empty house.
It was a vintage Bentley he paid a fortune for and imported from somewhere in the Middle East.
Dad saw his money, effort, and love for that car that he only takes on a spin once or twice a year burn right before his eyes. But he didn’t say anything, just went back to his cave—sorry, the study.
He didn’t even send Lenin to get me.
Can you fucking believe it? The tragic absence of Lenin confirms the theory I’ve had for several weeks now.
Dad doesn’t punish me anymore, because any sliver of care he had for me is gone.