CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
ELIO
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the morning sun spills into the living room in a warm glow.
Saint and I had filled out and sent in the intake form to Dr. Khadija on Saturday.
It had questions about the crisis timeline, prior attempts, psychiatric history, and other important factors required for the doctor’s review.
Saint and I spent the entire weekend in the penthouse, basically doing nothing except eating and lying on the couch with me tucked into his arms. In that short time, I didn’t feel the need to run or to pretend.
I just felt… numb. It’s really a gift to live without ever worrying if someone will crash into what you’ve built and pluck it away from your hands.
Neo is dead, and his puppet master, Vincent, has been incarcerated in the Red Vault.
David died at my hands, and I try to forget the details of that night, even though I carry the bullet scar in my body.
It’s an early Tuesday morning when Dr. Khadija arrives at the penthouse. She came in on Monday and had to settle in before our first session together.
She sits on the dark couch, notebook open in her lap, a black pen in her hand.
I sit opposite her with Saint. I had insisted that he stay through the hour-long session.
Saint told me all about her. She became his therapist after the events that happened in the Red Vault and the tragic loss of his mother.
I want to be here.
I want to talk about this.
I know this pain and anger will only haunt me if I choose to ignore it or pretend it doesn’t exist.
I can’t deal with the horror of having that burden on my chest. I want to have a different life now he’s gone.
Dr. Khadija smiles at me as she sets a timer on her phone and places it on the side stool. She looks at me one more time and scribbles something in her notebook. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better than last week.” I answer.
“Great. I’m Dr. Khadija. Your boyfriend, Saint, has been my client for quite some time now, and I promise you, you’re in good hands.”
I nod and fiddle with the drawstrings of my shorts.
“Have you had a suicidal thought since you woke up in the hospital?”
“No.” I answer plainly.
“How have you been feeling?”
I pause, taking in a slow, aching breath. “Numb. Different.” I lean back against the couch and exhale sharply.
“Could you say that this feeling is an aftereffect of what you did?” She cocks her head, brows lifting in interest.
The memories flood back in, and a faint thrum of unease runs through me. I adjust on the couch. My hands tighten and unclench, a slow breath leaving my lungs. “Yes.”
“Can you walk me through what happened?” She asks. “If that’s okay with you…” I look at Saint, who sits beside me, and she adds quickly. “Don’t worry, there are no recording devices.”
Saint gives me a nod and a brief smile, taking my hand. That gesture alone steadies me. I inhale deeply, eyes switching back to Dr. Khadija.
“I’m not sure if I remember everything properly,” my shoulders relax with a heave.
“But he snuck into the Sinclair’s wedding party, he told me about my parents.
How he killed them, but he didn’t put his hands on me.
Shortly after he left, I went back to the house with Saint’s driver, Bernard.
I sat outside for a while and went inside to take off my clothes when Saint didn’t show up.
That’s when he came, knocked out Bernard, and kicked the door in, even when I tried to stop him.
” I clear my throat, eyes locked on the marble tiles.
“We yelled at each other, and he had a gun. I was so sure he was going to use it, and I tried to knock it out of his hands…” My hands shake, and my breath scraped down my throat like finely ground nails.
“Take a deep breath, Elio.” Dr. Khadija says, reassuring me.
I shake my head and exhale sharply. My hands tighten around Saint. I can’t stop the tears gathering in my eyes from falling.
“We fought all the way to one of the bedrooms.” The sound of the door slamming against his hand and his wretched scream reverberates at the back of my head. “And we fell through the window and landed in front of the house…”
“Take a breath.”
“What I did…” I finally meet her gaze, red eyes and all. “It changed everything.”
“Changed everything? How?” she asks as she scribbles notes in her book.
“I’ve built my survival around never hurting anyone. Because using my anger and letting myself feel everything I’ve been trying to block out means that I’m just like him. A man who can’t control his reactions. But all that work didn’t matter because I killed him, anyway.”
“And your uncle David, I can tell your relationship with him wasn’t great.”
“He took me in when I was ten…” I rub my eyes with the back of my palm. “Living with him wasn’t terrible at first, but it slowly became something I couldn’t control. He started abusing me physically and psychologically. With lies and manipulation and promises that it’d never happen again.”
“But it did.” She utters. “In those moments, how did you feel?”
“Angry. Horrified and irritated by his behavior. I hated that my parents died so early and left me with him. I began to hate him, and I hated myself for hating him. For being so angry at him.”
“Because you thought your anger meant you were like him?”
“Yes.”
“Did it ever stop? The abuse?”
“No, not until he died. I had to leave with worry, even when I escaped him after I got a scholarship. I spent four years at a community college. It was my escape plan, but I didn’t really escape him.”
“And you never got help?”
“No. I just kept moving. I never stopped to process what happened to me. I thought maybe one day it’ll all just stop. All the ugly emotions.”
“But it never worked, did it?”
“I could say it did, but not entirely. The nightmares stopped. Being on edge. I got through college, got a job as an accountant in a firm, but all that progress collapsed the night they kidnapped me.”
“By your uncle?” She adjusts her prescription glasses.
“Yes, apparently, he couldn’t stay away for long.” A bitter, quiet laugh escapes me. She writes some notes in her book and looks up at me again.
“What happened when he kidnapped you?”
I look at Saint again, and he gives me a nod and pats my shoulder.
“At first, they tried to auction me off, then he forced me into a deal to set him free from debt. Set me up with Saint. I was supposed to stalk him, get information about his family, and what they do. Anything that would destroy them.”
“And did you? Get the information?”
“I did, but what I got wasn’t enough.” Betrayal stings my chest, so hard I wince.
She nods. “And the result of not getting what he wanted was more violence?”
“Yes.”
“Could you say the reasons for the suicidal thoughts were because of it?”
“Partly.”
“How so?”
“I hated what he did to me, what they did to me. But I had no control over the things happening to me. The death threats. Showing up at my house unexpectedly, forcing me to sleep with Saint. I mean, I had to consider death as the only way to set myself free. If I went out on my own terms, then they don’t get to have a final say on how it ends. ”
She writes in her notebook. “And Saint wasn’t aware of all this until recently.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“How did it feel to lose your autonomy? I take it you didn’t want to sleep with Saint.”
“Yes, and I didn’t have a choice. Saint and I have spoken about that part.”
“And how did you feel?”
“Seen and safe.” I say firmly.
“How have you tried to hurt yourself?”
“When it was too much, I tried to do it with a lighter. The pain I feel in that moment is what I can control, and it makes me feel better for a while.”
She sighs and smiles at me, leaning forward.
“Now, could you say that maybe that part of you that wanted to fight violence with violence was because the man who should have protected and loved you had taken advantage of your trust? After everything you’ve been through, there has only been one consistent factor. Your uncle, David Layton.”
The question hangs between us like a blade lunging toward me. I keep my eyes on the floor as my pulse stutters. I taste blood where I have bitten the inside of my cheek. I don’t speak. I shake my head in agreement.
“Elio, you were a child, and you wanted support, love, and guardianship. He didn’t give you any of those.
Perhaps this part of you that’s enraged, that wants to fight, isn’t completely evil as you have described it.
Perhaps he was born out of your experiences.
” She continues and watches me carefully.
“It’s normal to feel anger, pain, and hatred.
You were just a child. Give yourself some grace. ”
Beside her, her phone beeps. The session has ended.
“We can have an extra ten minutes to finish up.”
“I’d like that, thank you.” I nod with a simple smile.
“As I was saying, this part of you that still feels angry comes from the betrayal and pain of your experiences as a child. You could stop seeing it as something to hate. Because it’s you, and just because it’s an ugly emotion doesn’t mean it’s invalid or monstrous, it’s you, and there’s nothing wrong with that. ”
A tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it off with the back of my palm. Sitting here acknowledging my pain and anger with the first man who saw through me and stayed anyway wasn’t part of how I imagined I’d spend the rest of my year.
She leans back on the leather couch and observes me, giving me some minutes to process. “Our next meeting will be on Thursday. I need you to treat yourself with grace. When a memory comes up, let yourself feel it. Don’t bury it. Just feel.”
“And what if I feel numb?”
“Then maybe feeling numb is feeling everything.” She smiles just as the alarm goes off again.
“I need to go get some water.”
“Of course.” She picks up her phone.