Chapter 13 All Figured Out
All Figured Out
Emily's Search History: Repressed memories vs. false memory syndrome in childhood trauma.
Emily
I reread the text during a break between clients.
It makes me smile.
I know it’s crazy, but my stalker somehow makes me feel desired.
He’s a murderer. Obviously unhinged.
But the way he played my body?
His ability to make me feel truly seen, unlike anyone before?
I want more.
It’s been almost a week since that visit.
Since then, he hasn’t woken me up again.
Yet, I’m aware of his continued presence.
I always wake up to a clean flat. He keeps my fridge stocked up when supplies are low.
He continues to give me books to read, even therapy books I haven’t gotten around to yet.
He might be hinting that I should seek help, or perhaps he’s just aware of my love for it; I’m uncertain.
I didn’t reply to his text, and he hasn’t texted again. I miss chatting with him a little.
Exiting my office, I instantly make eye contact with Eli.
The intensity of his stare is so powerful that it sends shivers racing up and down my spine, leaving me breathless and unsettled.
With the nonchalant confidence of a strikingly handsome man who is completely comfortable in his own skin, he smoothly and deliberately rises from his seat and saunters across the room.
“Doctor Morgan.” He dips his head with his usual greeting as he follows me to take a seat on the sofa.
“Eli,” I return, cooly. I need to remain professional with him. Detached. I shouldn't have indulged in lunch with him the other day. And I shouldn't be giving into my traitorous fantasies when I'm alone.
He's a patient. That's all.
“I was hoping that you would be willing to engage in a more thorough conversation about your father, as I believe that doing so could be instrumental in helping us understand the root causes of your behavioural patterns.”
Although his jaw muscles visibly tighten, a clear sign of his inner tension, he still nods his head in agreement. “Alright, let's discuss him.”
“You have stated that he disinherited you. Have you communicated with him since your seventeenth birthday?”
“No.”
"Are you interested in doing so?"”
“Impossible, he's dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I avert my eyes. “How did he die?”
Eli waves his hand. "Don't be. He was a dick.” Something passes over his eyes—an emotion I can’t name. “Died in his sleep five years ago.”
Then he grins at me.
“What makes you think my father caused my obsession?" he asks, his eyes narrowed in study, a slight frown furrowing his brow.
"It's not my role to offer definitive answers; this discussion is about exploring possibilities."
“But if you were to hazard a guess, what would you say?” he prods.
“That would be unprofessional of me.”
“I won’t tell, if you don’t.”
He throws his arm over the couch, and it kind of reminds me of my stalker with how he's sitting.
With a frustrated sigh, I shake my head at him.
He leans forward, the muscles in his arms tensing. "Come on, Doc," he urges with a grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell me.”
“I am uncertain if he is the cause of your… inclinations. In my experience, these phenomena are not spontaneous; they are typically the consequence of a traumatic event. Your description suggests a potentially traumatic childhood that may have contributed to your current responses.”
“What is the connection between my father’s abuse and subsequent stalking?”
Because he looks so genuinely interested, I carry on, though I probably shouldn't.
“Numerous reasons are possible. Your father led you to believe you were unworthy of love. You felt worthless unless you earned it via pain, perfection, or obedience. That kind of damage doesn’t go away. It rewires you. Makes you chase connections in the only way you understand—through control.”
His slight flinch shows my words have found their mark.
“You don’t stalk because you’re evil. The act of stalking arises from a subconscious conviction that it is the sole path to connection while simultaneously mitigating the risk of emotional injury.
Without being seen and rejected. You think if you give someone the choice, they’ll walk away… just like he did.”
Eli
She thinks she has me all figured out. She imagines she can plumb the depths of my mind and discover my true self.
Maybe she's right.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck!
I'm on my feet, consumed by rage at the way she’s destroying me.
"You know, I think I can stop coming to these sessions."
What am I doing?
She blinks, a little startled by my bluntness; her cheeks flush slightly.
Her eyes fill with remorse. She whispers, “Eli, please forgive me, I didn’t mean to cause you any distress.”
The door slams shut behind me as I storm out of the office, my frustration palpable in the air. My breath hitches in my lungs, a cold, sharp shock as I step outside into the frigid air.
My bike sits outside, its paint shimmering under the bright sunlight. With a kick start, I'm off, the vibration of the engine humming through my body as I try to clear my head.
“You think if you give someone the choice, they’ll walk away…”
She's right about that.
I'm extremely irritated by that.
Why is she right?
The wind whips at my face, a futile attempt to match the tempest inside. She hasn’t broken me, not exactly, but she's exposed a crack, a vulnerability I hadn't known existed, and now the icy wind of her insight threatens to shatter me completely.