Chapter 12 #2
A detail in her notes catches my attention, and I frown slightly, pausing as I get to the last page, giving it about three times more attention than I did the others. I put that one down, too, jiggling my mouse to wake up my computer and using my left hand to type the password.
A quick glance over shows me her cheeks are flushed pink. My eyes slide back to my screen and I pause again, wondering why.
Staring at the screen for a second, I take a steadying breath before I click the client’s folder open and begin to peruse through the multiple clinical notes I'd written.
Maximizing one, I clear my throat, moving the papers around until I find the page I want and compare it to what I'd documented on our client.
“Hmm,” I say contemplatively.
She's correct.
“What’s hm? What does that mean? Do you not know how to talk? How are you a psychiatrist who doesn’t know how to talk?” she scoffs as a frown tips the corners of her lips down.
I note that she doesn’t say it in a nasty way. She's been genuine so far with the questions she’d asked, and I'm sure I'm confusing her because she's also correct in this instance as well. I’ve barely said anything to her since she got into my office.
I put the papers down and swivel my chair back to face her.
“Why are you so bothered, Sarah B. Johnson?” I ask smoothly, anything for an excuse to say her name. It rolls off my tongue like sin, and I grin as a sharply winged eyebrow rises when her eyes lock on mine in our first true time making eye contact, and I am lost.
Such fucking beautiful eyes. So soulful.
Her mouth drops open slightly as a breath catches in her throat, but she recovers quickly. “That is such a male thing to say,” she responds softly.
Disappointment colors her tone at the same time it colors my heart blue with hurting her feelings.
"I apologize," I reply, keeping her eye contact while I hold out the papers for her to grab.
As usual, she's right about the client, but I don't admit this to her right away. I want to push her buttons and keep her here longer to find out what's wrong. It might be presumptuous of me, but I wonder if there's a way I can be of help to her.
“I think we need to discuss this more,” I say simply. “I'm curious, Sarah, because you seem to feel like you know how to do a psychiatrist’s job better than I do?”
Sarah scrunches her nose, and her eyes flash with renewed irritation.
I'm pleased to see some fight instead of the desolate spirit warring within her to override what I know to be her true nature.
Don't ask me how I know this, but I do. This Sarah in front of me is not the Sarah that I've been engaging with the last couple of years.
“The last thing I need is another man–" Bingo– "trying to make things harder on me than it already is. We have a client who is needing help, not for the helpers to engage in a pissing contest. And I am not leaving until I am sure you will help him!” she spits out, slapping the papers rather rudely in front of me.
I have no clue why, but the need to see this woman broken, raw, and splayed open crashes over me in waves so tall I'm dwarfed with the sensation.
Her obvious distress in turn feeds my new feelings of anxiety; however, I force myself to sit here coolly and as if I'm unbothered.
Feeling I'm overly tense, I relax my ankle over my knee and lean an elbow on the armrest of my chair.
I continue to stare at her as I work to search within myself the reason for my need to know this woman with everything in me.
Maybe now is the time? Am I ready now?
With her?
Contemplating this, I glance at the desktop where her nails are spread rather prettily over the notes, then back at her. My eyes pierce hers, observing how visibly tense she is, and it's interesting to see when the realization hits her that I see too much. See her, and she can't hide.
Will not hide from me.
“Man trouble, huh?” I dig deeper, feeling my fingers twitch because whoever this fucker is needs to be taught a lesson.
She does not look like a woman who is loved properly. At all. Nothing in Sarah's demeanor suggests she's full or satisfied. A rather hungry and desperately sad look crosses her face, causing my eyes to flicker all over her face and to her hands, her torso, searching for other clues.
There’s so much pain in her eyes I can’t think straight.
It throws me off-center for a moment and makes me lose all sense of keeping my typically cold demeanor under wraps, working to figure her out instead.
Sarah gasps, obviously offended. Her chin tucks in as she throws me a filthy look.
“Stop fucking pathologizing me!” she hisses, leaning forward and slamming the DSM-V onto the desk between us so hard my plaque bounces. “I’m not a client. I know what you’re doing!”
Sarah winces as a pained expression dominates and diminishes her feisty gaze.
Closing her eyes, she averts her face from me, biting her lip against a small sound as her hand flies back there, trying to reach, before straightening her back once more.
Her head lifts up, and my whole world comes crashing down at her next words.
“Sorry I-I fell…y-yesterday. Down the stairs,” she half-whispers, her eyes averting quickly to the side and away from mine.
I go stone still in my seat; equal parts red-hot anger and disbelief rise in my chest so hard it momentarily clogs my throat. “You’re lying to me!” I snap.
Leaning forward in my chair, I look her boldly in her face, causing her eyes to go wide.
I watch carefully, feeling this need to protect her fill me so fast that it makes me desperate.
Sarah licks her bottom lip before clearing her throat, braces a hand to my desk before rising from her seat shakily, and snatches up the papers to shove them back in her bag.
Her face pales, and she suddenly breaks into a very fine sheen of sweat that alarms me.
Her hands tremble slightly as she attempts to shove the other items haphazardly in her bag. All while I free-fall my way into hell.
"Don't go," I say quietly. "Sarah."
Desperate, I think of ways to keep her here. She can't leave. I have to figure out what's wrong. Fix this.
But I can't keep her locked in here either.
The papers crinkle as she shoves them in the bag without even bothering with the folder, in a rush that does much to cause my anxiety to skyrocket. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and all I can do is sit here while it looks like she's fighting off a mental breakdown.
“I'm s-sorry. You know, it’s okay… we can do this another time," Sarah whispers, looking like she could be sick as the rest of the color leaves her face in a rush, as it does from mine at her next words, "Maybe this isn’t the best time. We’ll just reschedule, again.” I stare, horrified.
Oh, God, what the fuck is going on?
What the hell's wrong, baby?
I stand out of my chair slowly, my eyes assessing her. Her breath catches on a ragged inhale, and I'm so fucking worried about her that I can’t even find pleasure in that simple action. Her movements are wrong; her breathing is wrong; her words are wrong.
“Sarah—” Her name rips from my throat in a tortured, hoarse groan, before going quiet again as she moves to bend forward. "Wait…"
Her hair shifts heavily to the side when she leans over to grab her bag, and I get a good look at her back through the near sheer material of her cardigan. My blood runs cold as I launch myself out of my chair, feeling my heart draw to a stop.
Bruises, not a tattoo like I’d first figured.
“Sarah, why do you have bruises on your back like this?" I ask sternly, walking around the desk to her. "Who did this to you?”
Terror leaps into my chest when Sarah makes a scared sound in her throat, causing me to come up short when she raises a pair of terrified eyes to meet mine as she topples back a few steps, tripping on the chair next to her.
I reach forward to try to catch her, but she takes another fast step away from me.
Her hair swings heavily as she rights herself before flinching so hard she doubles over.
A sharp scream rips from her throat as her arm goes around her stomach again. My arms hang uselessly at my sides despite wanting to pull her to me, but from the way she's acting, it would only make her more afraid.
"Sarah, how can I help you?" I implore.
We have two seconds of silent communication where I can literally see her calling out for me, before her features contort in a pained expression, and her eyes squeeze shut hard, breaking our eye contact once more.
“No. Oh, nooo,” Sarah wails as her knees collapse.
The next few seconds are so bizarre that it's almost in slow motion. I watch her grapple with the chair next to her as she sinks down.
Fuck it, I curse to myself, hurriedly reaching forward to grab her up by her arms before she can hit the floor, hauling her to me. I'm thankful for my fast reflexes.
She pants, and I look down at her, confused as tears fall out of her beautiful eyes, fast and unchecked.
“Bumpy!” Sarah cries, clutching the front of my shirt.
“Bumpy. Bri-Brittany!” Goosebumps erupt across my skin as she leans her forehead heavily against my arm.
She lets out a keening sound, her mouth opening in what can only be described as shock and horror.
”Nooooo! No! Oh, oh God, no please, please don’t do this to m-me!
” she sobs true, gut-wrenching, mournful cries into my chest as I work to figure out what the fuck is going on.
My eyes go wide, flicking down her body in concern, and shock of my own, to be honest. "Sarah—"
"The baby!" she wails.
I frown. Baby?
Sarah’s fingernails dig painfully into my arms as I work to clutch her tighter against me, feeling an uncomfortable trembling start from deep within my soul.
“Baby?” I ask, feeling my own face flush as I look down into her eyes. “What are you talking about, Sarah?” My voice sounds hollow even as the words leaves me with urgency.