Chapter 3 #2
Before the high wore off, I grabbed a Band-Aid and covered the cuts. I wrapped the cleaned-off blade back into the package of others and stowed them in my bag.
I already wanted to do it again but there was a knock on the door. I straightened up, swinging my bag over my shoulder and unlocked the door.
“Hi, Emory,” Sarah said with a soft smile, glancing around the bathroom like she could find evidence of my addiction. “Bradley called. Are you sure you don’t need to go to the ER? You’re bleeding.”
I glanced down at the shredded skin but shook my head. “It’s fine. It’s not that bad.”
She pursed her lips, unconvinced. “Why don’t you come into my office?”
I sighed and motioned for her to lead the way. Her grey and ashy-blonde hair swished as she spun on her heel, her floral perfume filling the trail I followed to her office. The door shut behind us with a soft snick, the white noise machine a distant buzz from the other side of the door.
“Take a seat.”
I made myself comfortable on the leather couch. Well, as comfortable as one could get when you were constantly sliding off the damn material. Fuck leather couches.
“Why don’t you bring me up to speed?” she asked with a smile that accentuated the wrinkles by her blue eyes.
I rolled my eyes, inhaling the scent of her essential oils diffuser—something probably labeled ‘specialty blend to relax troubled patients and make them talk’.
“Bradley’s on his way to transport me to wherever the hell they decide, and I told him I’d rather kill myself.”
She didn’t flinch, just tilted her head as she studied me. It was obvious I wasn’t her first patient to mention suicide.
“And do you have a plan?”
I raised a brow in question.
“To harm yourself. Do you have a plan?”
“I haven’t fucking got that far yet. I just know I’m not going with Bradley. And I’m not fucking with he-who-shall-not-be-named.”
“You’re referring to Enoch, yes?”
I glared at her. We had agreed to not say his name in her office. Not after the first and only time I told her about him and had a fucking panic attack.
She hummed in thought and shifted in her chair, adjusting her long corduroy skirt. “I see. Let’s talk about that. Bradley says you ran into him?”
I huffed in annoyance and nodded. “At work. The fucker showed up with some friends and made a whole fucking scene about it. Crying and shit. Had to fucking pry his fingers off of me. Told him to fuck off and that I didn’t know who he was but if he ever pulled that again I’d skewer his eyeballs.”
“That must have been difficult. To watch him hurting and to lie to him.”
My chest fucking hurt. Like someone punched me in the heart a thousand times. Fucking hell. I need another hit. Three wasn’t enough. I don’t know if any amount will be. But I’ll fucking maim myself trying to get this feeling to go away.
“I don’t wanna talk about him.”
“You seem angry.”
I scoffed, throwing my head back onto the couch and wincing at the sore spot from the crash.
“I’m fucking pissed. I told that shitbird to move on and forget about me.
He clearly fucking didn’t with his pathetic little breakdown.
He thinks it’s his fault, like he had any fucking say over what I did with my life, as if he could have stopped the inevitable.
Fucking God complex. He always thought he could make everything better. ”
“Why do you call it pathetic?”
I ground my teeth together.
“Is it because you wish you were afforded the same ability? To be vulnerable, show some emotions towards him.”
“Fuck off, Sarah.”
“Hm. Sounds like I hit the nail on the head.”
I flipped her off, keeping my eyes shut despite the image of Enoch crying playing on repeat in my mind. I was a masochist. What was a little extra torture?
“So, Enoch shows up. Recognizes you. Is likely shocked and confused to find you alive and well—” I peeked open an eye to give her a look. “Okay, maybe slightly mentally unstable but otherwise healthy. And then you called Bradley.”
“Yep.”
“Sounds to me like you’re just trying to avoid processing your feelings over seeing him again.”
“No. I genuinely don’t want to fucking move again. I would rather die.”
“Because you’d miss the life you built here?”
“Yes!” I shouted with exasperation, hands thrown up towards the ceiling.
“Because Enoch fucking ruined everything. I was fine, or mostly fine. I was functioning and then he fucking shows up out of the blue and now I have to rearrange my whole damn life, again! It’s not fucking fair.
And I can’t even explain to him why I’m leaving or why I left in the first place all because fucking Bradley and his stupid fucking rules about keeping me safe that say I can’t.
And it’s so fucked up that I don’t even care anymore.
Like, I want to tell him. I want to tell him the truth.
I don’t care about breaking my contract, I don’t care about putting my life at risk.
My time is up now. And what little life I have left, I’m not going to spend it starting over.
So, I’m done. The only way out is death and I’m okay with that.
I’ve only been avoiding the inevitable. I’m going to do it on my own terms.”
When the silence got too unbearable, I opened my eyes. She was just staring at me, and I crossed my arms over my chest.
“What? Not gonna try and stop me?”
“No.”
I gawked at her. “Some therapist you are.”
She chuckled with amusement. “I’m not going to try and stop you because it seems you’ve made up your mind. So, tell me, if Bradley moves you, you’ll hurt yourself?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t have a plan?”
“Jesus Christ. You want me to make one with you?”
She laughed again and shook her head at me.
She always reminded me of what I imagined having an aunt would be like.
The person you went to when you didn’t want to share things with your own mother but knew you needed someone wiser and older to guide you.
Maternal, but removed just enough that it removed some of the shame of sharing your darkest secrets.
But right now, with her amused expression, I was beginning to think that she didn’t care at all, or that she didn’t actually believe me when I told her I was going to end my life.
Why the fuck did she find it so funny that I was contemplating suicide?
“No, I’d rather you lived. But, if you’ve got a plan, I can at least share it with Bradley so he can keep any weapons away from you.”
I rolled my eyes. Bullet to the head sounded real poetic. Go down just like Los Siete would have taken me. The handgun in my apartment was really fucking tempting.
Sarah sighed, folding her hands in her lap. “Emory, you’ve been seeing me now off and on for over two years. And in those two years, you’ve not ever made plans for your future. You refuse to speak about nearly anything from your past—”
“Because I legally can’t, Sarah! Because my contract with WITSEC says I cannot speak to anyone, even you, about anything to do with my case.”
“Yes, that’s true. But, your childhood…your relationship with Enoch, those aren’t off limits. You’ve put those limitations on our sessions. We’ve only focused on talking through your feelings about the present. Settling in, your job, your relationship with your friends.”
“So? What’s your point here?”
“My point, Emory, is that I don’t think seeing Enoch is really the catalyst for these thoughts of suicide.
I think you’ve been having them for a long time now.
No, I know you have, as you’ve already stated, your time is up, and you say you have only a little life left to live.
So, I take that to mean you’ve been thinking about this, about ending your life, about committing suicide, for a while now.
You’ve delayed it for whatever reason, and I think that the real catalyst here, is feeling like you don’t have control over your life, over your future. You do, though.”
I blinked with shock. The fuck?
“What do you mean?” I asked slowly, eyes squinted as I waited for her to explain.
“I mean, you’ve got three choices here. One, you kill yourself. Two, you move to a new location. Or three, you voluntarily leave the program and stay here.”
I scoffed. “Leave the program? And what? Just stay here like a fucking sitting duck waiting for the past to catch up to me? No fucking thank you.”
“Look, Emory, I’m not the US Marshals Service.
But I have been working with them to treat other individuals in witness protection for nearly ten years now.
All I know is that you do have the choice to leave.
I’m not saying that you should. Just like I’m not saying that you should kill yourself.
I just want you to realize that you do have a little bit of control here.
More than just whether you are alive or dead. ”
I stared at her in shock before the anger flooded my system.
“Why would say that? Why are trying to give me some false fucking hope about a future that will never fucking be reality? Fuck you, Sarah.”
“I’m not trying to give you a false sense of hope, Emory.
I’m telling you that you should be looking at the facts.
Maybe you should talk to Bradley about your case.
Look at the details, look at the risks, so you have a clearer picture of what choice you should make here.
You’re…” she sighed, fixing her eyes on the coffee table between us for a moment.
“You’re not thriving, Emory. And it’s clear that being in this program is a detriment to your mental health.
I think it's time that you discussed with Bradley the reasons why you joined the program in the first place and assess the risks of you leaving it. I want you to see all the cards on the table before you decide to take your own life.”
I scoffed and closed my eyes. Trying to gain a grip on reality.
“You tell all your WITSEC patients they should leave the program? What the fuck, Sarah?” I shook my head. “Why the fuck would you even think that me leaving was a viable fucking option here? I thought you weren’t privy to any details regarding my case. What exactly do you know?”
“I know that you joined after making a deal with the FBI to inform on a criminal organization. That the trial ended before it began, so you didn’t have to testify but you were already in the program and the proceeded with relocating you.”
“So what? They shouldn’t have moved me because I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain? I didn’t testify so I shouldn’t have been in the program? Was I just stupid or something and let them relocate me for fucking fun?”
“No,” she said, dipping her chin as she leveled her gaze on me.
“I don’t think you’re stupid. I won’t pretend to believe that the FBI doesn’t manipulate victims into becoming informants.
Which I feel like very well could have been the case here, Emory.
And even if it wasn’t you have been and always will have the option to voluntarily leave the program at any point in time. It is your choice, Emory.”
“Victim? You think I’m a victim here? I thought you were the fucking expert here on Witness Protection? If you were, you’d know that most people in the program are criminals, Sarah.”
“That may be true. But most of my patients in the program aren’t nineteen-year-old women who signed a contract to the government at seventeen years old,” she said.
“Manipulation,” I laughed humorlessly. “Sounds like the only one manipulating me right now is you. Fuck you!”
I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the office. I unclipped my helmet, shoving it onto my head and pulled my keys from my pocket.
Fuck Sarah. Fuck Bradley. And. Fuck. Enoch.
Six lives. So close I could almost taste it.