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SOUNDTRACK: Shadows by Killboy

~ brIDGET ~

I was still half-stunned when I pulled up at Gerald’s office that afternoon, images of that morning flickering through my head on a never ending loop.

Sam taking control of the car.

Sam storming around like he would kill me.

Sam kissing me like I was precious.

Sam darting out of the car with a haunted look in his eyes when we reached the city because we couldn’t afford for anyone to see us on the street together, just in case.

I’d driven so fast, I had time to go home and shower before driving to Gerald. But now I was here and the bubble I’d been walking in for the past hour popped.

I had to go talk to someone who wasn’t Sam. Someone who was very perceptive. Someone who probably knew my tells better than anyone else.

Fuck.

I had to keep Gerald diverted so he didn’t ask the right questions .

A few minutes later, I plopped into the couch in his office and picked up a magazine off the coffee table and pretended to read it.

“It’s good to see you too, Bridget. Yes, it’s been quite the week—I imagine it was for you too. Me? Oh, I’m fine, thank you for asking. But I think we should talk about you. How are you? ” he asked pointedly.

I flipped a page in the magazine, then looked up to meet his eyes for a second before dropping back to the magazine again. “What’s the point?” I muttered.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he sighed, pushing his glasses up on his head and rubbing his forehead like I was giving him a headache. “You fell for a guy who you got arrested. Who’s a Priest, a felon, and a stalker. We’re three months from Christmas. And you still haven’t spoken to your father.”

I glared at him and tossed the magazine back down onto the table, folding my arms and crossing my legs when I sat back on the couch. He’d know I was defensive, but hopefully he’d think it was because of Dad.

At least he wasn’t hinting that I’d been up to anything this week. Good sign.

“Funny thing about Christmas,” I muttered. “It happens every year.”

I hated that entire season. Thank God for Halloween. I was convinced that if it weren’t for that holiday, they’d start Christmas carols in July.

“Funny thing about things that traumatized you: Time is not a healer unless you’re processing and… moving forward.”

I rolled my eyes. “Funny thing about therapy, it’s kind of like beating a dead horse. Why don’t we record you this time, G. Then when we get here next year you don’t even need to be here. You can just press play and walk out. In fact, why not email it to me. Save us both the energy.”

He cocked one brow. “I’m glad to hear you assume you’ll still be coming to me next year.”

Damn.

“Can we just get this out of the way, please?” I sighed. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I need a nap.”

“What kept you awake? ”

Sam, looming over me, his entire body hard, like carved marble, as he fought not to climax and pushed me closer and closer to—

I swallowed hard and looked down so Gerald wouldn’t catch the thought. “Let’s cut to the chase,” I muttered. “Christmas sucks because that’s when my dad turned into a monster. I get afraid when I hear the music or see the decorations. But Dad’s in jail now and they aren’t letting him out unless he’s in a coffin. I know I’m safe. So…” I shrugged.

Gerald’s brows popped up. “Do you?”

“Logically, yes. If Dad was coming for me he would have done it by now.”

“Are you sure?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do you want me to question that?”

“No, I want you to see that what you’re experiencing is complex post-traumatic stress disorder. When the Christmas season happens your brain receives all the same stimulus it did in the weeks before and during everything that happened to you. So even though you might not consciously think about it, your body believes that the Bad Thing is about to happen. Again. That’s why you feel afraid.”

“We covered this. I know my father is in prison. And he can’t kill my mother again.”

“But he could still kill you—in theory.”

“That’s comforting, Gerald. Thanks.”

He grimaced. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Let me try again: You said you want to cut the bullshit. So let’s do that: The only way your body will ever stop being convinced that this season is a danger to you is to face the threat.”

“I did that when I was seven. Still here! Wow!” I spat. “I can’t believe you want make me kiss and make up with that monster.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Gerald said in a low, disapproving tone. Then he leaned forward in his seat and locked eyes with me. “Bridget, you hit crisis this year, and it took you somewhere really dark. I hate that. I hate that we almost lost you. But the things that pushed you there aren’t getting better unless something changes. I did my homework—you know that. I visited him like you asked. I’ve assessed him, and trust me, I came at it believing he’s a manipulative bastard. And he is. He’s also not able to reach you. I’m convinced the answer for you is to go see him. You don’t have to like him. You don’t have to bond with him. You don’t even have to speak to him. I’m not asking you to reunite you’re family. I’m telling you, your body needs you to see him. To show yourself that he’s not the threat to you that he once was. He still lives as a specter in your head of the man he was when you were seven years old. I bet in your memories he's huge.”

I glared.

Gerald didn’t look away. “Your dad is only five foot nine. Did you know that? He’s also pretty old now, and he’s been sick. If you went to see him, you could see for yourself that he’s not the hulking monster of your childhood memories.”

“I hate that idea.”

Gerald raised his hands. “I’m just saying… you’re still a few weeks from the worst of the triggers for your C-PTSD. It won’t get easier than it is now to see him—”

“Do you get off on this?” I snapped. “Is that your kink, Gerald? You like making women afraid? Does it make you feel strong? ”

He gave me a flat look, but kept talking like I hadn’t spoken. “If you’re looking for a way to free yourself from this constant cycle, seeing him and realizing he’s flesh and blood like everyone else—not to mention that you’re much stronger than you were then—is going to help. I’ll go with you. I’ll hold your hand if that would help. But I think—”

“Why? So he can get pissed off when I don’t want to reunite and threaten to have some thug kill me if I don’t keep coming to visit? Or tell me about whatever fucked up surveillance he’s been keeping with those gorillas that work for him so I get to dream about that at night too? That’s not going to help, G. And frankly, I’m disappointed in you—I thought you wanted me safe.”

“Ah, see, Bridget, that’s the difference between you and me: I already know you’re safe. What I want is you healthy.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can know it better than you do because I’m objective. ”

My entire body went tight. “How many times do I have to say no? Is there an extra charge I can pay to remove the ads for my nightmares?”

“Bridget—”

“No, Gerald. The answer is no. I’ve got enough shit going on without adding him to the pile. And I am sick of talking about it. Now, I’ve had zero sleep, and I don’t have any more energy for this conversation. I met the terms, I showed up. You know I’m alive and not avoiding you. So I’m leaving now.”

I pushed out of the couch and started for the door. Gerald didn’t jump up, but he did sigh.

“Bridget, you don’t have to leave, we can talk about something else—”

“No, Gerald. I’m drawing a boundary. You should be proud. See you next week.”

There was something fiercely satisfying about walking out without looking back, making him see me take control.

The problem was, it didn’t stop his words echoing in my head.

Your body needs you to see him, floating through my head as I trotted down the stairs from his office.

He still lives as a specter in your head of the man he was when you were seven years old, while I was getting the car started and pulling into the street.

I bet in your memories he's huge.”

That sent my mind back to the looming presence of my father—in my home, in the car, with a gun to my head… The nights I wet the bed not because I didn’t wake up, but because I was too scared to get up to use the bathroom because he’d know I was awake when he might not want me to be.

Shaking my head to rid it of the images of my childhood life, I gritted my teeth and turned my mind back to Sam.

But as I took the exit from the highway to get to my house, Gerald’s voice echoed in my head again.

…You’re still a few weeks from the worst of the triggers for your C-PTSD. It won’t get easier than it is now…

And then, Sam.

You were pulling away. Next time, just say that part instead… You aren’t in control of this, Bridge. And trust me, that’s a good thing .

At some point I found myself sitting in my car in the garage, the door rattling down behind me so the light became dim.

Gerald had been proposing this to me since the day we met. He was a dog with a bone, and it pissed me off. He was usually good at finding new ways to look at a problem if one didn’t work. Why was this the bone he wouldn’t give up?

I gripped the steering wheel, holding onto it to ground me.

Was he right? Was that the only way to stop feeling afraid?

I tried to imagine it, but I didn’t even know what images to conjure. The only time I’d ever seen the inside of a prison was on a screen.

Sam could tell me what it was like, I supposed. But it wasn’t being inside those walls that scared me, though the thought of being locked in with people like my dad made me shudder.

No… when I tried to imagine walking into a room where my father was sitting at a table, or the other side of plexiglass, I just… couldn’t. My skin felt like it wanted to peel off my bones and run for its life.

But that was the point, right? That was what Gerald said would stop if I saw him?

Being able to think about my father, or what he’d done without physically flinching would be awesome. But then I remembered how that conversation would go.

My father wasn’t just homicidal. He was a manipulative bastard who got off on power. When I was a kid I’d always admired how people would do what he said with no questions. But the older I was, the more I looked back, the more I saw the truth.

My father was psychotic. He used people’s fears against them. He collected leverage. And if all else failed, he’d straight up threaten them with pain or death. And everyone knew he didn’t make empty threats. Even at seven years old, I knew that.

A specter? Yeah, he was. A ghost. A boogie man lurking in the closet of my mind. But the thing Gerald didn’t seem to understand was, my father in the flesh was worse.

Not answering his letter, not going to see him, it was the only power I had left.

I took a deep breath then and nodded, my fingers squeezing and opening on the steering wheel.

That was it. That was the answer: No. Never.