INTO THE STARS
———
MALACHI
I want to shoot myself.
You can't say that, Malachi.
I internally curse the dark thoughts flooding through my mind. Those words should not be thunk, let alone spoken in the middle of a therapy session. That would be a desperate cry for help, and I am more of a subtle guy when it comes to that.
"From what you have told me, you are here because your..." Doctor Andrews hesitates, searching for an accurate term, "friend thought you should start therapy. Am I correct?"
I nod, my eyes quickly glancing toward the grandfather clock in the corner of the minimalistic room. Fifteen minutes down, forty-five to go.
"Would you like to tell me anything about this friend?" she cautiously asks.
This is my third session with Doctor Andrews. By no means is she a horrible therapist or unqualified—her doctorate and other plaques that are shown off quite proudly in the lobby prove otherwise. I just haven't been forthcoming with information about my past. She knows the basics: my mom died, I spent the majority of my childhood in foster care and my foster parents weren't the best caregivers.
Besides that, she knows close to nothing. Our sessions predominantly comprise silence minus the occasional question from her and a slight movement of acknowledgment on my part or minimal explanation.
I shut my eyes, breathing in and out while mentally preparing myself to speak. "She... isn't much of a friend."
Doctor Andrews hums, jotting down some words in her notebook with her fancy-looking pen that is neutral, just like everything else in this suffocating space. "What would you consider her?"
I jog my mind, thinking over what I could label us that would be sufficient. Calling her mine would be too presumptuous, and I don't think that would be the right term. Brinley isn't mine. Truthfully, I don't think she could be anyone's. I think the idea of being "owned" isn't an attractive thought to her. That's one thing I admire about her.
"There isn't a word that would suffice," I reply, clipped and monotone.
Doctor Andrews moves her head in a minuscule nod. "Why did she think it was appropriate for you to attend therapy?"
The first answer I think of is that I was unable to be the best version of myself. Although my lack of self-love was an issue, I believe my PTSD and childhood trauma was a catalyst.
I died. A huge part of me died that one dreadful night. I felt it and ever since I have been living as a ghost. Death wants you to be so terrified, but the scariest thing is wanting death to sweep you off your feet and take you. And that night when I found my mother, I wished it was my corpse laying beside her. I would've done anything to swap our places because there is no way of recovering from seeing your lively mother so ghost-like and mutilated.
No amount of sympathy can make up for the years lost with my mother. No other pain I undergo will equate to the agony I experienced the moment I felt my innocence and childhood vanish. Or the knowledge that the man with the blood on his hands was your own father.
That semblance of vibrancy the past me withheld almost returned. Every time I am with Brinley, I experience that vibrancy revive. But my anguish outweighs everything else. It is like I am bound for suffering no matter what. That is my downfall, I guess.
Brinley had her own suspicions about my state of mind, hence her suggestion to attend therapy. It just came down to whether or not I thought I needed it. Which is why I am here.
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.
That's why I think my last visit shocked him so much and threw a spanner in his works. With his connection to me severed, he had no ties to the family he betrayed. And despite Kohen being in irregular contact with him, I think me finally locking that part of my life away-never to be reopened-will prompt Kohen to follow in my steps, burying the hatchet once and for all.
Finally, the loudness in my mind dulls down when Doctor Andrews jotting something down diverts my attention to her. After what feels like forever, she looks up at me with a gentleness and non-judgemental expression. "I appreciate your openness in this session and I wish we can continue to grow like this. And I hope you take on some of my advice from this session."
We both stand almost simultaneously. She motions a hand to the door that I know leads to the lobby with a soft smile. I leave out the door, bidding her a muffled goodbye and thanks behind me, ignoring the stares from the receptionist and other people loitering about.
A gust of cold air presses against my skin, a chill wracking my body as I work my black denim jacket on. I rummage through my pockets in search of my phone, finding it in the back of my jeans. Upon opening my phone, my finger hesitates above the top of her contact, everything inside of me telling me not to contact her.
My self-control soon gives out when the desperation to hear her voice wins. Three rings leave my phone, reminding me of what a bad idea this is.
"Kai?"
Her voice comes out the minute the ringing stops, a breath of relief expelling from out of my lungs. Just the mere sound of her voice has the capability of easing every muscle in my body and sending my heart racing. How a person can do so much by doing so little is beyond me. And how I got in this position is lost on me too.
"Hi."
"Is something wrong?" Brinley asks, a worried hint in her voice. Behind her voice, I pick up on the soft click of a door before the rustling something moving.
I clear my throat, rocking back and forth on my feet that have been planted in the same spot since I wandered out of Doctor Andrews' building. "I just... uh, I just wanted to say thank you."
There is a brief silence before her voice comes out again, the slight smile evident in the way she speaks. "For what?"
Such a simple question that leaves endless answers. I have Brinley to thank for a lot of things. I finally let my guard down and she is to thank for that. She is the one that encouraged me to get help—the help I so desperately needed as it appears. She allowed me to realize that the person I once was didn't die and that her love can revive him.
"Everything." One word doesn't suffice, but I don't want to be laying my heart on the ground over the phone.
She lets out a light laugh, exhaling a sigh when the beautiful sound of her laughter subsides. "Thank you. For everything, too. Is that all you called me about?"
I nod my head, even though I know she cannot see me. "That and I missed the sound of your voice."
There is a muffled chatter I can hear through the phone when she audibly pauses. "I missed the sound of your voice, too."
A smile pulls at the corner of my lips, holding my phone closer like it somehow might bring her to me. I don't just miss the sound of her voice; I miss everything about Brinley. I miss how she touches me and how she can erase all anxiety from my body just from her presence alone. I miss loving her and overall, I just miss her.
This break between us is necessary and I don't think my insecurities have disappeared in the span of just three weeks. But I need some leverage, something to get me through until I can finally touch and see her again.
"Goodbye, Malachi," Brinley says once a few beats pass.
I inhale and exhale numerous times until I can find my voice. "Goodbye, Brinley." I love you, I almost say, but the line goes dead.