Into the Stars (USC Series Book #2)

chapter thirty-five

A pulsing in my head tugs me back to reality, reminding me where I am and who is sitting right in front of me. I lean back in this sofa chair that is entirely too small for my six-foot-four frame, stretching my legs out in front of me. "Let's just say all the shit that has happened to me fucked me up. This was probably the most painless option of getting over everything."

Doctor Andrews' eyes bug out the slightest amount before she sobers.

I give her a tight-lipped smile. "Joking."

Her eyes return to normal but I can still sense apprehension as asks the next question. "From what I have discerned, you have been through a lot, Malachi. You have unprocessed trauma you need to work through. I am not pressuring you, but I think that, in the future, therapy could be beneficial."

What she is saying is easy to fathom. But there are so many things causing me to withdraw. Being vulnerable in front of a total stranger is a scary idea and an even scarier thing to do. Especially when all I have ever known is to keep my personal thoughts and memories enclosed.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Doctor Andrews asks cautiously.

I shift on the lounge uncomfortably, my eyes traveling to her soft, understanding gaze.

With the smallest nod of my head, she continues. "I think the first step to acceptance is acknowledging what you have gone through. You don't have to do it right now, but when you get home, write anything that has impacted you-positive or negative, it doesn't matter. Or even look in that mirror and speak it aloud."

Discomfort washes over me when the quietness in the room grows stifling. My fingers tap against my outer thigh, my labored breathing picking up pace. Stiffness constricts my muscles, along with the sudden urge to be more forthcoming. I clear my throat, dislodging the lump that felt like it was suffocating and preventing me from speaking. "My mother was murdered... by my father."

I try to keep my stare away from Doctor Andrews, sure that if I remembered who I was speaking to, my sudden openness would vanish. Instead, I lock my eyes on my fidgeting hands and focus my mind on my breathing.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

"I was eleven and I, um, was the one that found her." Emotions build up but I tamp them down, keeping a stoic, passive persona.

A beat of unsteady quietness overtakes the room before Doctor Andrews interrupts. "How has that impacted you?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "As one would assume. The image of her dead body still haunts me on a daily. I can't even escape it when I am asleep because the memory crawls back."

The ticking of each passing second echoes in the room and in my mind. A million and one thoughts overflow me so fast I can barely concentrate. "I hate my father. I fucking despise him," I amend when I decide that hate isn't a strong enough word. "But I could never seem to cut him out of my life."

"Why was severing that connection so difficult?"

I shrug, having an inkling why I interacted with Vaughn for so much longer than was necessary, but unable to admit it to myself. "I think it was because I felt he owed me an apology. I stayed for so long because I wanted to hear the regret of taking away my favorite person. I wanted to see even a lick of remorse course through that monster of a man. But I never got that. He enjoys manipulating the weak and, in his eyes, I was defenseless even as a twenty-one-year-old."

In Vaughn's eyes, he still saw me as an eleven-year-old boy that didn't know any better and whose opinion could be swayed with the lightest brush of wind. He told me for as long as I could remember that he was innocent, but the contradictory statements from strangers solidified him as not only a murderer, but a liar.