Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“I always hated the original French fairy tale Beauty and the Beast even though so many people found it romantic.
Maybe because, in the end, the beast had to turn into a prince to get a happy ending.
Some of us, though…
Have no such privilege.
As we are destined to be forever cursed by the evil that destroyed our lives.”
Lavender
New York, New York
Weeks later
Lavender
The wooden clock ticks loudly in the otherwise silent office as I sit on the couch, staring at the opposite wall, filled with books on psychology and the twisted human mind. I used to be all over them, searching for my next interesting read.
However, I’ve been here so many times over the past couple of months that they’ve lost all their appeal.
In fact, coming here is a chore I have to accept to please everyone around me and convince them I can be normal.
Well, pretend to because I don’t think the word normal would ever apply to me again.
The hands on the clock move painfully slow. I wonder if I should…
“Lavender.” The soft yet firm voice pulls me back from my endless thoughts, which never let my mind rest. Resting means facing all my internal demons, and, well…it’s not an option.
Ever.
I look at my world-renowned psychiatrist, who agreed to work with me when everyone else considered me a hopeless case. Her dark hair and kind brown eyes stand out vividly against her pale skin.
Doctor Phoenix King.
“Yes?”
“What did you do yesterday?”
I climb on the couch and cross my legs as she writes something on her notepad, not taking her gaze away from me. The woman has some kind of superpower because she always manages to keep her attention on me.
“Nothing. I spent the whole day holed up in my apartment, listening to music and bingeing a TV show.”
It’s as pathetic as it sounds, which makes this whole conversation even more unbearable.
Another flawless note followed by a question. “What was the show about?”
“A famous serial killer. It’s more of a documentary series consisting of six episodes.
” Her face remains blank, so I elaborate, although it’s one secret I prefer to keep to myself.
People tend to find a lot of things weird, but a girl like me taking a liking toward such documentaries?
A whole new level of fucked up. “He hunted the men who hurt children. A vigilante of sorts.” I think this sounds even worse, so I add, “They caught him eventually, but he managed to murder fifteen rapists in the process.” It’s hard to hide the joy from my voice, and amusement flashes in her eyes before she makes yet another note.
“The whole investigation was fascinating.”
“In what way?”
I grab a nearby pillow and hug it, digging my nails into the plushy thing while pondering her question. “The police were so desperate to catch him…they failed to see the bigger picture, in my opinion.”
“Which was?”
“He helped them. They had all these unresolved cases, and he brought justice to all of them, and somehow, they turned him into this villain who deserved the highest degree of punishments.” My heartbeat speeds up just remembering how he got the death penalty.
“It’s unfair. He died as a murderer, and no one got to mourn him because he had no family.
While all these men he killed had relatives crying over them and screaming that they didn’t believe the allegations or proofs.
” A sigh slips past my lips. “Kind of surreal how distorted a perception can be.”
Another note, and the sound of the pen scratching against the paper is starting to grate on my nerves. “But he was a murderer, wasn’t he?”
Anger washes over me at hearing this, and I dig my nails deeper into the pillow.
“He did the world a favor by killing those rapists. One of them kidnapped more than a dozen children in his lifetime. Yet the world considered him the perfect family man and a respected professional in his field. His small-town community adored him. Sometimes the law ends up protecting the cunning and vile people instead of caring about the innocent.” My hollow chuckle rings in the air. “I should know.”
Several seconds pass as we stare at one another, and she cocks her head to the side, dropping the pen on her lap.
“Two things can be true at the same time.” I blink.
“Those men deserved what they got, but it was up to the law to punish them. The serial killer still committed a crime even if it was in the name of justice. One wrong doesn’t make another right. ”
“Justice is not black and white. It has a lot of gray in it.”
Or at least I thought it did for a long time. It turns out the world prefers to follow the strict regime rather than accept that, in certain circumstances, evil is necessary to protect those who deserve it the most.
True justice is a privilege of those who never burned in hell as their flesh got peeled layer by layer, making them scream in agony while their soul slowly got eaten alive until only emptiness remained.
Her lips twitch. “Actually, it doesn’t. Justice implies that everyone who breaks the law should be punished the same. Now, what the judge might decide, or the jury…that has a lot of gray in it, and it depends on their perception. Laws do not have colors in them.”
I’m not sure why she’s so hell-bent on defending the judicial system, anyhow.
It failed her spectacularly back in the day and sent her to prison for a crime she didn’t commit.
“Either way, that documentary once again proved that no one cares about the truth if it’s ugly.
” Another annoying scratch, and I glance at the clock, sighing inwardly because we have around ten minutes left.
I’ve agreed to come to these sessions twice a week and can’t even run off. Otherwise, all the recent privileges would be taken away from me, and isn’t that just sad?
I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Beasts do not get trust given to them because their hideousness scares the innocent folks away. And the mirrors in my apartment show me every day how true that statement is.
When one looks in the mirror, they can’t ignore the reality, and that’s what always grounds me to the present.
One of the reasons I keep the damn things around. Otherwise, I would have smashed them all a long time ago.
“Sometimes it’s too painful. The families of these rapists couldn’t accept who they truly were because then they’d have to question their own lives. And that’s something we as humans tend to avoid.”
“Funny you say that. I have to question my entire existence every single time I come here.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, quickly backtracking because the last thing I need is for my psychiatrist to find out our sessions don’t help me much.
“It’s for the best because I’m a high risk who needs to be watched. ”
One of the perks of having free time is that I get to read lots of books, and, apparently, admitting that you have a problem makes people believe you can be trusted.
If they only knew how effortless it is to manipulate any truth into one’s favor, I doubt they would have trusted the lie so easily.
The truth doesn’t always set us free. Sometimes it pushes us down the abyss, from which there is no escape, for it might be bait rather than a solution.
“Is this why you sympathize with the serial killer so much?” My nails cut even deeper into the cushion. Any more pressure and I’m going to rip it. “Because you wished for someone like him to come and save you back when you were a little girl?”
I freeze at this, and swallow past the bile forming in my throat, shaking my head. “I was never raped,” I remind her, mentally starting to count to ten as the ringing in my ears becomes louder and louder with each passing second. “My story is different.”
Maybe she has so many patients a day that she’s starting to mix us all up. Even the best of the best can make mistakes.
One, two, three…
“Your parents died when you were less than two years old, and you were forced to live with your paternal uncle. An uncle who took an odd interest in you from an early age until he almost raped you at eighteen and caused a fire that scarred you for life.”
The phantom scent of the burned flesh twitches my nose, my breathing speeding up while vivid and horrific images pop in my head one after another, and my skin aches as if being subjected to the unbreakable pain once again.
Four, five, six…
“I had my brothers.” I lick my dry lips and gulp for breath. The air seems almost unreachable at this point. I force a strained laugh that sounds fake even to my own ears. “You’ve seen them. Who’d need protection with them around?”
Her gaze softens as she puts the pen away, and I tense even more because her compassion and empathy are somewhat worse than anything else.
Compassion contains affection, and what can one do with affection if they lived in solitude their whole life?
“Your brothers were nine when the tragedy happened with your parents. Rush got lost, and you all considered him dead, and while Rafael stayed with you and protected you as long as he could…he got kicked out by your uncle at fourteen. Both of your brothers fought for you, but there was so little they could do. By the time they got to see you again…the damage had been done.”
I breathe through the panic slowly wrapping its fingers around my neck and threatening to cut off my oxygen supply.
“My uncle was a sadistic pervert, and to protect myself from him, I had to pretend to not be okay after the fire. They assumed I hit my head. It worked. He wanted me because I reminded him of my mom.” I really should have invested in some acting classes.
Maybe this shit would have been easier then.
“So I’m not sure how my liking the serial killer documentary has anything to do with my past.”