Empathy is living vicariously through others and asking yourself if it hurts. I don't know what it's like to be taken or locked in a room to be used for another person's disposal. I don't know how it feels to be shackled, starved, beaten and raped by a sexual predator.
Nate's long-winded, convoluted speech played on a continuous loop in my head. Isn't it funny how someone can make an indirect statement that resonates with you because it hits on an emotional level?
I imagine death becomes your only salvation.
Yes. Suicide seems to be the only remedy when life is not worth living because the cessation of existence must be less painful than surrendering to the reality of truth.
Nightmares.
Flashbacks.
Blackouts.
Trauma is debilitating when unresolved. Everything I felt in childhood and adolescence is present in adulthood. Warren recognised the signs and the symptoms and normalised survival mode. Learn to control the voices in your head If you cannot vanquish them—quoted by the wisest man I have ever met. Remember who you are, not who you were, if and when fight-or-flight is triggered. He forced his way into the darkest valley of my mind and showed me how to dance with my demons. And it worked until it didn't work, which he predicted. He told me that I'd have to face the reality of my past when I was good and ready.
You see, Warren is my safety net, the angel on my shoulder, the devil in my ear. He had the answers and techniques to help me to stay level-headed. But he is not here to catch me when I fall. I have to fend for myself, stand on my own two feet and face the facts—the music—to secure my future.
Fern's home office, located in the heart of Kensington, on one of the most prestigious streets in the area, had one parking space for visitors. I steered the Bentley onto the mounted driveway, pulled up the handbrake and sat there for a few minutes with the engine running.
I had researched the woman. Fern is a qualified, experienced psychotherapist. She is specialised in psychological trauma and EMDR therapy and has worked for numerous agencies throughout London to consult with private clients. She might be able to help, but without an initial consultation, the outcome remained a mystery.
In the dim recess of predawn, I climbed out of the car, hurled the beanie hat onto the backseat and fixed my hair to smarten my appearance.
The air smelt cleaner, crisper before sunrise, the distinctive, dewy scent of petrichor replacing torrential downpour.
Bracing myself, I inhaled a lungful of oxygen, stopped by the front door, the blue paint chipped and weather-worn, curled my fingers around the brass knocker and startled the therapist to the land of the living.
Soon, the bedroom light turned on upstairs.
Then, a silhouette appeared by the window.
Moments later, the door unlocked and opened slightly to reveal a short, rather plump, black woman in a floor-length dressing gown with a satin, leopard print bonnet on her head. "Can I help you?"
"Brad Jones," I introduced myself, and she scowled at my outstretched hand in bafflement. "I saw your website online after reading pamphlets I found in a nearby clinic..."
Her unimpressed glare travelled the expanse of my body.
I cannot leave here without answers. "You provide tailored solutions for clients and have the tools to help people overcome certain problems..."
"I am perfectly aware of my job description, Mr Jones." Fern opened the door fully to step forward, and I dropped back to leave space between us. "I want to know why you thought it was acceptable to knock on my door at unsociable hours without an agreement, preparation, or relationship-building prior to psychoeducation."
My face heated.
"It is four o'clock in the morning," she emphasised, and I looked down at the floor. "Is this unexpected visit an emergency? Are you a danger to yourself or others?"
"Look, I apologise." My hands slid into my trouser pockets. "I am not the most considerate person. I'm an impromptu man. I tend to act before I think."
"Well, I tend to sleep for eight hours per night to prevent tiredness." Her hands latched onto the side of the door as she started to retreat. "Arrange an appointment like everyone else."
"Wait." My palm struck the door before she could shut it in my face. "I have waited my entire life to use my voice."
Her stare narrowed fractionally.
"Don't close the door in my face and send me away." My gaze cast to her slippered feet. "I don't think I will find it in me to come back if you do."
Deep-cut wrinkles collected around her beady eyes, and dark, age spots mottled her nose and cheeks. "My service is not cheap."
I can afford the best shrink in London. "Money is not a problem."
"I expect commitment," she added, and I agreed with a sharp nod. "Healthy boundaries are non-negotiable. It is important for you, the client, and myself, the therapist, to establish structured communication to prevent mishaps in the future. You have to consider my emotional health alongside your own."
My lips flattened.
"Do you drink tea?" she asked, opening the door wide for me to enter. "Come inside and wipe your feet on the mat. I will not have mud traipsing through the house."
My shoes wiped the welcome mat as she locked the front door behind us. I had no desire to look around. From this angle, the place seemed warm, inviting and cosy, with its wooden furniture and artificial plants.
Into the first room on the left, she went. I moved in her shadow, almost popped open the buttons of my suit jacket, then I remembered the dry blood on my shirt and decided against it. "Everything discussed is confidential, right?" I asked, the room small and lavender-infused with scant furniture.
"Our conversations are completely private." Fern had a set up in the corner, a round table with a kettle, clean mugs, tea bags, sugar cubes and UHT milk. "Please, take a seat."
I sat in the high-backed armchair, the padded seat uncomfortable and unaccommodating. "We need to wrap this up in one meeting," I said, not that she spared me a glance. She is too busy ruining the tea with warm milk. "Do I pay now or later?"
"Therapy session. Counselling. Psychotherapy," she tweaked the use of an incorrect word. "And, just so we are clear, I am a trauma therapist."
Yes, I am aware.
Fern added sugar cubes to the mugs. "How old are you, Mr Jones?"
What does age have to do with anything?
"Early thirties," she mused, and I deliberately sighed. "You have lived with trauma for what? Ten years? Twenty years? Most of your life." She gave me a quizzical look to summarise or form an opinion. "Yet, you expect me to help you overcome fears and anxious thoughts in one session."
My jaw steeled.
"If you want me to challenge anxious thoughts," she tapped the side of the mug with a teaspoon, "and confront feared situations, then, I am sorry, but one hour is nowhere near enough."
"You don't know my story." I accepted the proffered mug of tea. "For all you know, this visit is a complete waste of time. You cannot estimate the time required based on experiences with past clients."
Fern's body folded into the chair opposite me. "Why do you seek therapy?"
My throat cleared. "Normalcy."
"And what does normalcy mean to you?" She opened a purple notepad, clicked the top of a pen, and scribbled something onto the lined page. "Mr Jones, I need to evaluate the appropriateness of time management."
Fern is quirky, albeit sarcastic, but I liked it.
Placing the untouched mug of lukewarm tea on the side table, I untrapped my tongue from my teeth. "To live a normal life."
"In what aspect?" She looked up from the page. "Work? Health? Financial? Friendship? Love?"
"Relationship difficulties." I sounded more nervous than I'd have liked. "Particularly sexual intimacy issues. I want to be with someone without the fear of..." My face had never felt so hot. "Is there something you can give me? Medication perhaps."
"That's not how this works." Fern's hands folded on the notepad. "Mr Jones, why don't we start with establishing a rapport? First and foremost, I will need you to fill out a few forms. You can do it now or wait until you go home. Clients tend to bring the paperwork with them in preparation."
I will sign the paperwork at home. "It can wait."
"Alright." Still, she handed over a slim folder, and I tucked it behind my back. "I need to cover the basics before we begin. Are you having suicidal thoughts?"
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. "No."
The sound of the pen scratching continued. "Have you had suicidal thoughts in the past month?"
"No." I had to steer this subject. "I am not suicidal in any way, shape or form."
"Okay." Her head nodded. "Do you have homicidal thoughts?"
"No." I am a career criminal. I kill for the benefits of affluence. "A bit of a temper problem, perhaps. Nothing too serious."
"Do you have a support network?" Her skewed bonnet shielded her eyes as she filled the sheet of paper. "People you trust. Friends and family."
I have a family of misfits. "Yes."
She sipped tea. "How do you cope with stress?"
I am a glutton for debauchery. I overindulge in drugs, sex and alcohol. "I smoke weed."
"Okay." She twirled the pen between pinched fingers. "What are your strengths?"
"Trustworthiness," I said without hesitation. "Determination. I am not overly respectful or patient. I might be creative, though."
Her eyes expressed nothing. "In what sense?"
I believe all killers have a creative pattern. "I will get back to you on that question."
"You mentioned relationship difficulties," she said, and I made a note of how she distracted my brain for fifteen minutes before addressing the initial problem. "Are you currently in a relationship?"
No, but I have blue balls for the first time in my adult life. "No."
Her pen scribbles proceeded. "When was your last relationship?"
"I don't know." Tiffany is not a memory I treasure. "Late teens, early twenties."
Fern's serious expression slipped into place. "Were there any relationships beforehand?"
My lips puckered. "No."
Fern never pushed for elaboration. "Can you tell me about the relationship?"
"Tiffany Fisher." A red-haired, green-eyed bombshell. "I met her at work. I served pints at a bar, and she was a regular customer. I liked her the moment I saw her. It was her smile. She had the prettiest smile and natural curls that she straightened. I was in awe of her, but I never had the guts to speak to her or compliment her when she ordered drinks at the bar. Christ, I acted like some weird, frightened introvert with communication difficulties."
Fern listened.
"Anyway, Tiffany had one too many during her friend's birthday celebrations. She ignored the other barman and deliberately sought my attention. The next thing I know, she is flirting and laughing and asking me out."
When I paused, Fern picked up the pen. "Did you make arrangements?"
"No, I ignored her and served someone else. She looked sad, offended and returned to the table empty-handed, with no date, instantly sober. I mean, who the fuck does that? Here is some beautiful girl, asking you out on a date, and you freak out and fuck her off, even though she is everything you want."
The pen nib stilled on the page.
"Why was she interested in a guy like that? He was nothing but an unsociable twat, working for the minimum wage in a dead-end job, living in some seedy flat with his only friend, eating tinned food most days because it's all he could afford. She wasn't about that lifestyle. She was born into money, wore designer labels and lived in one of those big, fancy mansions with her rich parents."
Fern took notes.
"Tiff was persistent, though. She never took no for an answer. She came back every weekend and pestered me until I agreed to one date. I remember my friend, Brian, telling me to suck it up and enjoy life. You might find this hard to believe, but the first time I sat across the table from Tiffany Fisher, I trembled to the bone. I said the wrong shit, insulted people for no reason whatsoever and got more food on my shirt than I did in my actual gob. It was shambolic. A living nightmare. I do not miss those days."
Fern is a good listener.
"Apparently, I did something right. Tiffany came back for more. We started dating weeks later." I must open up for the therapist to understand. "We encountered problems almost instantaneously."
Fern hummed. "What kind of problems?"
"I hadn't experienced a normal situation with a woman before..." My knuckles tapped the armchair's armrest. "I had no issues becoming aroused, but I struggled with maintaining an erection." Brian joked that I might have been gay. "It had nothing to do with attraction or lack of desire."
Fern scribbled another note. "Did masturbation play a role in helping with erectile dysfunction?"
"You know, I have never been one to masturbate," I admitted, and again, her expression showed nothing. "In fact, I refused."
"Before I address that," she said with a lifted hand, "can I ask how you overcame erectile dysfunction with Tiffany?"
"Lots and lots of practice," I half-joked, evoked by memories of us in bed together. "Foreplay mostly."
Tiffany would give me head until I passed out.
"We had an unhealthy sex life. Sexual intercourse became almost non-existent once the honeymoon period was over." If you can even call it a fucking honeymoon period. "I slept on my side of the bed. She slept on her side of the bed." She often gave me silent treatment. "I will be real with you because I refuse to exhaust too much energy on the woman. I told her at the very beginning that I had issues. I never lied to her or feigned to be the perfect guy. I gave her a choice to decide. I'd have understood if she wanted to leave me to be with someone more loving, romantic, and reciprocal. But she stayed. She wanted to be with me, even if it meant accepting the worst part of me."
I studied the floor for a moment.
"I should have known better." Pinching the bridge of my nose, I kicked my legs out and crossed them at the ankles. "Of course, she wanted to stay. My best friend and roommate slept in the bedroom opposite ours, and she warmed his bed whilst I worked all the hours under the sun."
Fern's brows knitted as she licked the seam of her inner lips. "They had an affair."
"When I found out, I thought it might be a one-off." But there are details about that night I have revisited over the years. Warren had crouched by a suitcase in the bedroom. He never told me what he found inside, but he was privy to something I disregarded. "I caught them in bed together." They made love in my bed. "I think they planned to leave that night. Run away together."
Fern's head tilted. "Is this when the relationship came to an end?"
"Yes, I walked away and never looked back." I omitted gruesome details, the events of their murder, the fire and Warren's involvement. "Hey, I am not mad. I met good people, started a new life and flourished. Everything happens for a reason, right?"
"What about adolescence?" She jotted something down. "Did you experiment growing up? Normative sexual behaviour includes anything from an interest in media content with nudity to sexual events with others. You previously mentioned that self-exploration is not something you often partake in. Does this apply in adult years and adolescence?"
"I had a very dysfunctional childhood. My house operated like a military operation: school, tea, bath, bed. I never played outside or mingled with the kids in our street." Yolanda beat me if I talked to certain children in school. "Obviously, as I matured, I started to notice girls, but I never had the opportunity to befriend them." Mary is the only girl I spent time with, and it happened in secret. "In regard to media content, I had no access to adult material."
Fern waited.
My throat swelled. "Can we put self-exploration on the back burner for one moment?"
"Of course." She made a note of what I had said. "Your house operated like a military operation. Could you explain this to me?"
It was an open-ended question. "Imagine waking up on Christmas morning, and everything is how it should be: excitement in full swing, presents under the tree, music on the radio, turkey in the oven and an adorned table. You think nothing can go wrong. Your father is happy, drinking beer. Your mother is smiling, singing carols. You become seated after unwrapping parcels, and suddenly, all hell breaks loose. I am talking, the food is on the walls, the dinnerware is on the floor, the table is upside down, and your parents are screaming at each other. That was the early years of my childhood in a nutshell. In the morning, life is normal. By the evening, life is carnage. They were volatile. Toxic. I never knew what to expect."
She took a sip of tea. "Did you witness domestic violence in the home?"
"Somewhat." Arlo was a good man. "My mother would attack my father, screaming, yelling, kicking and punching. Christ, she'd hurt herself, too. She'd hit herself in the face, scratch her arms and chest, throw herself into walls and roll down the stairs." It was madness. "She hurled dishes at him once for coming home too late, and she often accused him of extramarital affairs." Although, they never married. "He denied her unsubstantiated statements. "
"Would you consider her an abusive woman?"
You have no idea. "Yes."
"What about your father?" Her question was merited. "Did he become violent or abusive toward your mother?"
"No." Arlo showed great restraint when Yolanda exploded. "Not that I remember."
"Your father never retaliated," she mused, and my head shook again. "And how did their volatile behaviour affect you?"
I decided to wear my heart on my sleeve. "Arlo loved me. He never even raised his voice or threatened me. When my mother lashed out, he'd take me to the garage whilst he fixed cars—to remove me from the situation, I guess. Sometimes, I helped. I handed him tools and..." Christ, I missed the geezer. "He stayed for longer than he should have. With Yolanda, I mean. I never noticed at the time. But, looking back, he was miserable. He had to get out of there."
Fern neglected notes to look at me whilst I spoke.
"My memory is all over the place. I recall certain instances but not the time, the day, or what colour shoes I had on my fucking feet. I know my father lived with us, but not when he left. I think my mother suffered from some sort of mental disorder, but I couldn't tell you if she was diagnosed." Yet, there was medication and drugs all over the house. "She had manic episodes all the time. Her impulsiveness is definitely a trait I inherited."
Fern wrote a short paragraph on the page. "Can we discuss the extent and the nature of your mother's actions for one moment? You described her behaviour as 'manic.' Did her extreme change in cognition affect you? Either physically or emotionally."
Yolanda's voice echoed in the back of my mind.
What's wrong with you, Bradley?
Why do you act like a girl, Bradley?
Where is your father, Bradley?
You're a fucking queer, Bradley.
I hate you, Bradley.
I love you, Badley.
Bradley. Bradley. Fucking Bradley.
I should have aborted you when I had the chance.
"Mr Jones?" Fern probed, and I blinked back to the present. "Did her extreme change in cognition affect you? Either physically or emotionally."
I wanted to be a better father to my son, Dominic. I wanted to have a relationship with Emma. Maybe someday, I can have a relationship with her son, too. But I had to bare my soul to this woman first; it's the only way for us, Emma and the kids, to be happy together.
"I hate her," I said, and she looked up from the notepad. "No, I despise her."
I will never forgive her for what she did to me.
"Did her behaviour affect me? It fucking ruined me." My shoulders squared as I hunched forward. "She reached into my chest and ripped out my fucking heart. I am half the man I should be because of that woman."
Fern toyed with the delicate gold chain around her neck.
"My mother did not bring me up. She dragged me up by the fucking neck. She exposed me to the darkest, evilest parts of this world—a place where young, innocent children had no business."
Fern's piercing eyes stared into the depths of my soul.
"I..." Tears beaded on my lower lashes. "Years of depression, helplessness, self-loathing and self-harming as a consequence."
I have lived with shame and guilt for long enough.
"Yolanda Kelleher did not deserve to be a mother. Fuck the beatings, long periods of starvation, verbal abuse and the disturbing game of drowning me in the bath because I so happened to look at her the wrong way." My face twisted in anguish. "I will even waver all the medication she used to ram down my fucking throat. Maybe I was sick. How the fuck should I know?"
Everything shut down.
My heart stopped beating.
My breath slowed down.
My mind flashed with memories.
The ringing in my ears reduced to a low pitch as I blinked to regain consciousness. Dabbing the sweat on my forehead, I studied the painting on the wall.
"Tiffany wasted months trying to arouse me," I said quietly. "She went down on me all the time, and all I could do was stare at the ceiling and count the cracks in the paint. When we had sex the first time, I never orgasmed. I spent the entire moment reading the canvas above the bed: forget what hurt you, but never forget what it taught you. I memorised the stupid quote. I remember thinking, how can I forget? It's in here." My finger tapped the side of my head. "It's never left me. It will die with me."
Fern placed the pen down on the notepad.
"To get a handle on one's frenetic mind, I had to switch it all off. I buried my emotions. It's how I got through it. Multiple sexual partners. Meaningless sex. Drugs and alcohol."
Warren taught me how.
"You name it. I fucking did it. It's easier than commitment. I can feel good about myself without the complications of a needy, demanding, expectant significant other or the guilt I felt whenever I tried to be the epitome of chivalrous or perfection. It beats hating myself, hurting myself, blaming myself."
Fern closed the notepad.
"I still focus on pointless shit." My clammy hands rubbed my cotton clad thighs. "If it feels wrong with a woman, if she is saying things or doing things I disfavour, I latch onto something until it's over." Biting the corner of my lip, I pointed to the plant on the bookshelf. "I will focus on anything to stay present. In the present, I am in control. If I let myself wander back to the past, I am reminded that life's suffering is all because of her. How does that even begin to make sense, huh? Why the fuck am I built this way?"
Humiliation weighed me down like a heavy sedative.
"When did sex become a chore? When did self-objectification become a cure? Why do I need to be this person? Who am I trying to impress? Myself? I have to prove that I am okay—that I can fuck my way through women without a care in the world because I am Brad Jones. And Brad Jones is not some weak, emotional victim. He is emotionless, detached, the most conceited womaniser within the city of London."
Fern set the notepad on the side table.
"It's all a lie," I rasped, feeling something wet trace paths down my cheek. "I never wanted to be the bad guy. I wanted to be the good guy. I wanted to hold the woman I loved at night without the image of a monster climbing into my bed." Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I turned to hide the shame in my eyes. "Yes, the beatings hurt. Yes, the ridicules left indelible scars. But nothing, and I mean nothing, hits harder than the memories of us." My eyes became too blurry to see her face. "She was supposed to protect me."
When Fern reached for the box of tissues, I raised a dismissive hand.
"There aren't enough showers in the world to remove her touch from my body." Or enough drugs and alcohol to help me to forget. "Her voice keeps me awake at night. Her face turns my dreams into nightmares."
Fern's head nodded imperceptibly.
"Self-exploration." Looking at her despairingly, I tasted salt on my lips. "Boys get curious, right? I suppose they notice things and go to their dads for advice. I bet they give in to impulses when they realise how good it feels to explore. It's normal behaviour. I don't need a therapist to tell me that. I skipped that part, though. I have no memories of even being curious. All I have is her voice, telling me it's our secret. And her face, disappearing under the blanket."
Fern is professionally nonjudgmental.
"Why would I masturbate? Yolanda did it for me." As I watched her, hoping for answers, I felt a trickle leak from the corner of my eye. "Why would I enjoy sex when she made sure I hated it before I even understood what it meant to be intimate? You want to know why I struggled to maintain an erection growing up. Maybe it's because I associated pleasurable feelings with her. I do not have the tools or the answers to prevent that."
I dried my cheeks. "For me, the worst part came after the abuse when she laid in bed with me, holding me, kissing me, loving me." My hands shook as I gestured to my chest. "I wanted it to be gone. I didn't want to feel it, smell it, taste it, touch it. I wanted it all to disappear as if it never fucking happened."
Fern's gaze held mine.
"As I got older, I built this huge barrier between me and other people, specifically women, because I feared that tight, sickening feeling in my gut. I made such a big deal out of it. Now, it's not just an undesired emotion. It is a coping mechanism, an instinctual reaction. If you are foolish enough to climb into my bed and seduce me whilst I sleep? I won't hurt this time. But you will."
Her eyebrows cinched.
"I found someone that I think is worth fighting for, but I am terrified of hurting her. And before you say something illogical, I will tell you that I have done it before. I have hurt women during sex. I have woken up with their necks in my hand in a blind rage." The last time I felt my mother's hands on me, I roused in the dark, snatched her throat and put her beneath me. I had this strong urge to kill her. And she was scared. She realised that I was not a young, timid little boy anymore—that I was big enough to fight back. "I will not lay there and take it again."
My thumb and forefinger rubbed the dampness from my eyes.
"I won't go on my back for no one." Leaving the folder on the chair, I rose to my feet. "Men can be sexually objectified, too, and it's not fun. At least, it wasn't until I owned it. This is my body. If I want to abuse it, that's on me." Her stare lingered on my shoes, and sudden humiliation crawled to my cheeks. I exposed every dirty detail to someone I didn't even know. "I shouldn't have come here."
"Mr Jones," she said as I headed for the door. "Do you love this woman?'
My footsteps flattered.
I have never loved anyone.
"The only person I learnt to love is myself." I snivelled into the palm of my hand. "You can burn the notepad. Don't think I won't come for you if it gets out."
"I don't believe you," she said brazenly, not that I had the energy to turn and berate her. "Name one other person, male or female, that has a special place in your heart."
Liam Warren.
And I fucking missed him.
I am drowning without him.
"Warren is the brother I never had," I whispered, the lump in my throat too big to swallow. "His imprisonment is justifiably mourned by those he impacted."
"Is there anyone else?" I heard the chair creak as she stood. "Another close friend, perhaps."
I had many close friends.
"I have a son." He is half of me, the best part of me. "Dominic."
"What about female friends?"
"Yes." I could hear Alexa shouting at me for not naming her already. "Alexa. My boss's wife."
A rope of silence unravelled before she spoke up. "Hurt the brother you never had." She strolled with determined strides until our eyes reacquainted. "Wrap your hands around his neck."
My eyebrows snapped together.
"Put Alexa underneath you and watch life evaporate from her eyes." Her chin tiled as she stared up at me. "Grab your son, the boy who loves you unconditionally, and remove him from the world."
I felt an odd tightening in my chest.
No, I could never harm Dominic.
I am his father—his protector.
"Feel those emotions. Feel it here." Her hand touched my chest, where my heart thudded painfully in response. "If you can control this pain and anguish for them, you can control it for her."
I listened closely.
"You have convinced yourself that women will suffer. Therefore, you cannot be intimate in a relationship. I wonder, if you practised the same self-control in the bedroom as you do outside of the bedroom will you surprise yourself." Her eyes glittered with a challenge. "As you said, you are in the driver's seat. Find ways to demonstrate self-control and change the narrative."
I stared at the empty spot where she once stood, even when she returned to the chair.
"Consider this unexpected session free of charge and without obligation." Her calmness took me aback. "If you decide to come back and commit to private therapy, I charge, by your standards, affordable monthly rates."
Barely cognizant of what she said, I ducked out of the room as the walls closed in on me.
The fresh air had never felt so luxurious. I wiped my eyes, breathing in the early hours, and unlocked the Bentley.
Falling behind the steering wheel, I started the engine, grasped the back of the passenger side headrest and reversed onto the main road.
I drove to the cafe with Fern's voice in my head.
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I will be back for typos. ❤️
Thoughts on the update?
—Brad?
—Fern?
—Arlo?
—Yolanda?
—anyone I missed?
—I am not 💯% satisfied with this chapter. I will most likely come back and tweak it at some point, but I posted it for you until I can put my finger on what's missing.
Please don't forget to vote. ⭐️
Thank you for reading. ❤️