Handcuffs And Kisses (Series #1)

Chapter 1

Present Day-
Lilian Carson POV

Sometimes I want to be a fictional character. Why? Because they have everlasting happiness, and in addition, I want to keep my distance from reality. Reality: a person who lacks compassion and snatches the largest pieces of your life without thinking to give them back. You can't even begin to dream without feeling remorse and grief, and you need to stay up all night to make it happen. Tell me, is there any point in doing that? What exactly are we fighting for? We all turn into ash in the end, anyway.

It is that painful reminder in the back of your head that life is too short to be filled with hate and resentment for each other. Our differences are insignificant for a greater purpose. Instead of tearing ourselves apart, we should be working together to bring peace.

"What do you consider fiction?" Hearing the question, I came back to reality. The middle-aged man repositioned his spectacles and began to record my responses in his journal. I could only concentrate on his wrinkled white shirt and the tie hanging around his neck, much less talk to him while looking at him. I exhaled to make a deliberate effort to calm my body so that I could look him in the eyes. Finally, I spoke with honesty and sincerity, making direct visual contact.

"Fiction refers to literature created from the imagination," I said. He could have done an online search to find out the meaning. But it appears my answer has failed to convince him. Nevertheless, he could have asked for a more complete explanation or another perspective. Maybe he should have simply chosen to confirm the facts himself.

"What is your definition of fiction? Oh, and please refrain from using the same scholarly response." He sighed, knowing he would soon be composed by me. My weekly therapist, Dr. Joseph Cooper, has excellent manners and is very amiable. Given that we can never be certain of the true nature of a person, I wonder if all of this is an act. It might be best to let your mind wander and take pleasure in his company. What is important is for him to continue to treat people with respect and kindness because actions speak louder than words. But my trust issues make it impossible for me to believe in others.

"I use fiction as an escape from the world I live in." As much as I detest reality, there is nothing I can do but accept it." I don't think therapy is effective, and I wasted my time coming here. He keeps asking me stupid questions while looking at me with a straight face.

"What do you do to escape your reality?" He asked.

"I enjoy reading novels and fantasizing about a safe world where I am free."

"What are you scared of? Why do you require a haven?"

It was my father because he made me who I am, though all he ever cared about was generating money by using me for his bidding. On one occasion, he locked me in a room for days, and I was severely traumatized by it. To make matters worse, he hasn't tried to explain himself, but at least he felt like feeding me during that period.

"I'm not afraid of anything," swiftly remarked the therapist, not buying my response at all. "Are you able to sleep at night?" he asked, jotting something down again in his worn-out diary.

"I can't sleep because I have too many things on my mind, and sometimes I feel like someone is watching me," I revealed, exhausted and barren."I toss and turn all night long, sometimes sleeping like a baby." I exhaled once more deeply.

"Insomnia and depression," he said quietly. Yep, that would have been my first guess. I looked at the clock on the wall, which was thirteen o'clock. Wow, time is moving so fast that it doesn't stop for anyone.

"Whom do you adore most?"

What kind of query is that? Is it appropriate for my therapist to ask such personal questions? I raised my left eyebrow in confusion at what the man requested. He better not start aggravating me, or I'll punch his lights out.