No strings attached / Leon s. Kennedy

Chapter 5

Amber

The moment Leon leaves, a wave of relief washes over me. If I had to endure one more cocky remark, I swear I would’ve just stood up and walked out. The silence left in his absence is like a breath of fresh air. I glance at the clock—4:15 p.m. Ah, right. I have that therapist appointment soon.

I never really understood why they keep pushing me to go. Why I need to take those medications they prescribe. Whatever happened in my childhood, I don’t care. It’s like it doesn’t even belong to me. I can’t remember any of it—just bits and pieces from other people’s retellings. My father... well, I remember him well enough. He was a tyrant, a cruel man who terrorized me and my mother every chance he got.

But it’s been 16 years. I’ve been told I should feel haunted by it, that the trauma should’ve shaped me, but the truth is, it barely feels real. Like I’m reading a story that happened to someone else. Psychosis brought on by drugs, they said.

The doctors and therapists seem so sure, but I can't connect to it. It's like there's this wall in my mind, keeping the memories locked away—and maybe that’s for the best. What’s the point of remembering all that pain, anyway?

I sit back in my chair, rubbing my temples. They think I need these sessions to "cope" with the past. But I’ve managed just fine without it all these years. I’m strong, I’ve built my life, my career, without dwelling on things I can’t change.

Still, it doesn’t stop them from dragging me into these appointments. For your own good, they say. To understand what really happened. But I know enough. My father was evil, and whatever happened that night—well, it’s gone now. Isn’t that enough?

At 5 p.m., I sign out of work, relieved that the day is finally over. The office is almost deserted at this hour—barely anyone stays this late except for Hughes, and sometimes Adams. I grab my bag, pulling it close to me as I make my way out of the building. The familiar quiet of an empty office is oddly comforting, like the world outside is far away.

Usually, I’d drive myself when I know I’ve got a therapist appointment, but this morning, I forgot to bring my car. Great. With a sigh, I pull out my phone and call for a cab. As the dial tone hums in my ear, I glance up at the darkening sky. These sessions always leave me feeling... something. It’s hard to describe. Maybe a little lighter, maybe a little more confused. But today, I don’t want to think too hard about it. I just want to get there, get it over with, and go home.

The cab finally pulls up, and I slip into the back seat, closing the door behind me. Another evening spent answering questions about a past I barely remember. Fantastic.

I arrive at the therapist's office, stepping into the lobby where the receptionist greets me. She’s striking, with black hair neatly done up in a tight bun, and piercing blue eyes that seem to look straight through you. She smiles politely. “Dr. Jefferson is ready for you,” she says, her voice smooth and professional.

I nod and make my way down the familiar hallway, my footsteps echoing softly in the quiet space. I've been doing this since I was 18—eight years of walking these same halls, sitting in the same chair, answering the same questions.

I stop in front of the door and knock lightly. “Come in,” Dr. Jefferson's deep, calm voice calls out, the sound of it as measured and steady as always.

When I step inside, he’s sitting there, exactly as I remember him. Dr. Jefferson is the spitting image of what you'd expect a therapist to look like—older, probably in his mid-50s, with gray streaks peppered through his short, neatly trimmed hair. His wire-rimmed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose, framing his sharp but kind eyes, and his dark, well-tailored suit is professional without being intimidating. He has that poised, serene air about him, as if nothing could ever disturb his calm demeanor. His hands are neatly folded in his lap, and his expression is one of patient attentiveness, as though he’s already prepared for whatever I’m about to say.