𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝟏𝟖+

chapter six

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time to the good moments, the times when we acted like a normal Russian family. Mother and father were happiest when Nicholas and I were in our single digits. Every weekend, Mother would take us to the market. She would let us each pick at least three treats since we barely had enough money. But she always made it work. Father was like any other father. He was strict and hated it when mother would spoil us. He would always tell us that he wanted us to follow in his footsteps as he worked for different oil companies. Mother hated his job because he would often come home smelling like bad oil, and the wages were extremely low due to taxation.

Back then, money was scarce for the working class, while the rich benefitted tremendously.

I often told my mother I would never become an oil worker like my father. That wasn't the lifestyle I wanted, and I certainly didn't want to come home to my future wife and kids smelling like bad oil. I didn't want to pay other people's taxes or earn a low wage after doing such a physically demanding job. I told my mother that as soon as I turned eighteen, I would be leaving for the States. I would find a job and make money that I wouldn't even think of touching. I promised her I would come back for her and Nicholas, and we would live a happy life together, just the three of us. I never imagined a life with my father in it because I simply hated him. I've despised him since I learned how to say the word "no." My first words weren't even "papa," they were "mama."

And I was certain that he hated me even more. He knew I never wanted to be like him, and I never listened to a single thing he had to say. He was aware that I favored our mother over him, and it infuriated him. He hated it like poison. As a result, he favored Nicholas over me, treating him differently than he treated me. Father would always take Nicholas to his job to show him off to his coworkers. I started to notice this behavior once he started taking both of us. He would always keep his hand around Nicholas's shoulder while I stood to the side, uninterested and disgusted by the smell of sweat, oil, and despair. He would introduce us, but in different ways.

"Eto moy mal'chik, Nicholas."
[This is my boy, Nicholas.]

"A eto Ronan."
[And this is Ronan.]

He would always speak highly of Nicholas while speaking down to me. This happened at home and at his workplace. Overall, my father was nothing but a waste of fresh air, someone who still owed me a fucking bullet between his eyebrows. As for my mother, I still hoped she was alive, well, and happy. I hoped she was living the life she had always dreamed of.

"And that's our time," the woman spoke, indicating that I had been lost in my own thoughts and she had been staring at me the whole time. I rose from the couch and walked around it. "My name is Lily, by the way. I hope that in the next session-" I cut her off by shutting the door. In the waiting room, Stella and Nicholas were still waiting, and I fought back a groan.

Stella emerged from her seat with a big smile. "How was it? Did you talk about things? Did you get to know each other? Were you nervous? It's okay to be nervous in the first session. It usually gets easier around the third or fourth session," she said, and I turned my attention to Nicholas, giving him a look.

I walked past Stella and left the establishment. That was the last time I would ever set foot in there.

Remember when I said I could easily tell things about a person? After that whole session, I noticed a lot of things about that woman. Although I barely looked her in the eye to see her facial features, I knew what she looked like.

She had strawberry blonde hair, which was pinned up into a tight bun that was painfully uncomfortable. Her skin was a pale olive, and she had emerald green eyes. She lived in an apartment complex, an old building that smelled like cats and old people. She disliked her living space, but it was all she had due to her low income. She loved her job, but she disliked the pay. She didn't hate me; she was actually terrified of me. I could tell by her timid tone and the way she rose to her seat, walked around the couch, and held out her hand for me to shake. I didn't take it, but she kept it extended because she was afraid that putting it down would seem unprofessional. She cared about her reputation, her adequacy, and, not to mention, her job.

I could sense throughout the entire session that she was silently begging for it to be over. She was intimidated by me, and she hated it. She wanted to help me, but she didn't know how. However, this caused a shift between her. This session was the most difficult for her because they usually went well, even when she and her patients would sit in silence for the whole forty-five minutes. She knew I wasn't coming back from the moment I entered the room and could barely look her in her two green eyes.

And that's why, a week later, she would go to her apartment complex, go to the highest floor, stand on the balcony, close her eyes, and jump from it.

And this was all due to the symptom of atelophobia, an anxiety disorder characterized by an obsessive fear of imperfection and disappointment.

・・・

thoughts? thank you for reading.