***TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter implies CSA (childhood sexual assault). It does not contain any descriptions or details but I still felt the need to post a warning.***
How exactly did you exit this type of situation? Hey, so I'm gonna go get dressed and head back to our room. See you in there? I avoided his eyes as he passed me shampoo.
We were in the shower. Together. And he just... I just... What was wrong with me? And why was my body still humming? Kissing him had been one thing. I could write that off as being emotionally charged or a lapse in judgment. But this? There was no coming back from this. When we ended up talking about this, and I was certain we would, I wasn't sure what I would say. Sorry? I was horny? Please don't hold it against me?
I wanted to bury my face in my hands and wallow over my own stupid actions. I faced the showerhead, my back to him. I couldn't look at him. Not yet. Alex gave me my space as we washed away the evidence of what had transpired between us.
When he handed me a towel, I tried to find words. "You don't owe me an explanation," he said gently. I swallowed, taking the towel. "I don't have any expectations."
"Okay," I said, wrapping myself in the fluffy material. My heart was still pounding but the lust had finally left my veins. I took in a slow breath as he left the doorway of the shower.
By the time I exited, Alex was no longer in the bathroom. I took my time as I picked out clothing, taking notice that all the cabinets were now unlocked. I searched through them, unrushed. I chose a soft pair of black leggings and an over-sized t shirt. They clung a little to my damp skin as I made my way back to the sink. The steam had faded and patches of the mirror had cleared. I stared at myself for a moment, somewhat surprised to see that I looked the same.
I hadn't expected to see a difference, but I felt different. My walls hadn't dissolved, but a few of the bricks had crumbled under the weight of my time here. My defenses weren't as strong.
When I woke in the room on the other side of the door, I had braced myself for the worst. For a villain that would take with no regard to my feelings. For a monster that would taunt me with my own actions. One that would tell me it was my fault that this happened to me.
I didn't expect the quiet way he waited for me to yield. To want. My entire defense strategy had centered around fighting off his physical advances, not mental ones.
How could he know me so well already? My parents were clueless when it came to my mental health. They had pushed me into therapy years ago and yet nothing had really come of it. They didn't dig in. They didn't try to really understand. They cared. They were more than willing to spend the money to try to get me help, but they didn't question much.
I had never really dated. Men made me uncomfortable and I wasn't really sure why. I had a feeling, but one that I didn't dare bring up. Especially not in therapy. I wasn't ready to face any more trauma. I didn't want to discuss the hazy memories that scared me so much I didn't let myself think about them.
In therapy, we talked a lot about my dad. My 'Daddy issues'. It was an easy topic to focus on. My relationship with my father was riddled with so many issues that my therapist never bothered to dig deeper.
But Alex had honed in on it almost immediately. Had questioned the way I held everyone at arms length. How I shied away from others. Had suspected more when others had just attributed the behavior to feelings of distrust related to my dad leaving us. They had assumed it was about becoming emotionally close to someone else, not physically.
When I finished combing through my hair and adding product, I wandered to the kitchen to find Alex waiting with a cup of tea for me.
"So were you an actual licensed therapist or just in school when you started stalking me?," I asked.
I had caught him off guard again. I realized it when he began to choke on his tea. He opened his mouth to speak but then let out a nervous laugh. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting that question." I waited for his answer as he poured a second cup of tea. Then milk. As he added sugar, he finally spoke. "I just finished my clinical residency a couple months ago."
"Uh..." I said, hesitating. I didn't know what that meant. "Can you...?"
"Yeah, I'm sorry. I had just finished my masters degree when I found your story online. I started watching you around the time I started my clinical residency." When I didn't respond, he continued. "So I was starting to counsel clients but had others reviewing my work and sessions. It takes about eighteen months to finish residency before you become fully licensed and are able to counsel without everything being so closely reviewed. I just finished residency a couple months ago. I decided to take a break before starting full time at an office." He took a sip of his tea.
"So you picked me up as a graduation gift?," I said flatly.
"No," he said, giving me an admonishing look. "It took time to prepare before bringing you here."
"I guess I was curious if psychology was something you had been interested in before or after. I wasn't sure how long of a process it was to become a therapist."
"I've always been curious about how the mind works, but you've definitely made it more interesting," he said casually as he walked towards the living room. I followed.
"How so?"
"Lots of ways. Some are more obvious and others... not so much," he said, sitting on the couch. I took a seat on the other side, folding my legs underneath me. I waved my hand, motioning for him to explain. "Okay..." he said, seeming to search for the right words. "In the beginning, your fantasy intrigued me. Why does someone even fantasize about being kidnapped and forced?"
"I'm pretty sure I know where it stems from but I'm curious what conclusion you came to," I admitted. I held his gaze. If you had told me two weeks ago I'd be discussing my fantasy over a cup of tea, I would have died of mortification. What a bizarre turn of events.
He smiled. "Okay. I think you want to experience intimacy. Yes, sex, but not just that. Closeness too. The intimacy that comes from a relationship." He talked more when I kept silent, I realized. So, I let him do the talking.
"You're scared... of everything. Every time I touch you, I see the panic in your eyes." I almost interjected to remind him, yet again, that I was here against my will. "Not just with me, Jamie. You forget. I watched you. For two years, I watched you. How you interacted with others. And I know I didn't see everything, but I saw enough to know that any real attention from men made you uncomfortable. When casual conversation turned to flirting, you began to retreat. When they leaned in, you leaned away. It's not that you didn't want them to come closer. You couldn't let them come closer. I saw that time and time again and you'd echo those same observations in your diary."
I looked down at my tea, taking a sip and nodding. "Okay, so how does that tie in?," I asked before looking back up at him.
"There's two parts to it, but they're linked. The kidnap fantasy fulfills the need to be close to someone. To not have the option to retreat. A long term relationship. Being forced allows you experience the things that you desire without it being your fault."
I tried not to react to the words. "Without it being my fault?"
"I think something happened. Something that made you feel like sex was something that you shouldn't want," he said cautiously. My stomach sank and it must have shown on my face. "We don't have to discuss it. I'm not trying to force you to talk about it if you're not ready to. I'm just trying to answer your question."
"Okay."
"I think that whatever it was that happened scared you away from being physically intimate with someone. And I think that when someone gets close to you it reminds you of it. I think you're tired of being scared. I think you want to replace that memory with a different one, but you're not sure how to do it. Because you still view sex as something to be ashamed of."
The words hung between us for a while and I again wondered how he could so easily see me. How he could break down what took me years to understand in the matter of a few sentences.
"You've never fantasized about violence or being truly forced. Just the facade. You want love. You want kindness. But, you also crave someone else stepping and taking over so you don't have to decide either way. You say 'no' because you're scared, not because you don't want it. You fantasize about someone who loves you and is willing to be the villain so you can remain innocent."
And suddenly, there were tears in my eyes. I tried to blink them away. I took a deep breath trying to find the right words to say. "I wasn't expecting an intense therapy session when I brought this up," I half laughed.
"I'm sorry," he said with a sympathetic smile. "I won't dwell on it." I finished off my tea and leaned over to set the empty mug on the table. "To answer your original question, the fantasy was obviously the first thing that caught my interest when it came to my field of study. I spent a lot of time trying to understand you, but you're not open about your feelings, even in the privacy of your diary. Everything there is analytical. You observe emotions rather than feeling them when you write out your thoughts. You remove yourself from the equation. It's almost as if you're taking notes down about someone else. It's like looking at a picture of a picture."
"I do tend to do that," I admitted. "I try. I try to just be myself... I just can't."
"Well the more you practice opening up, the easier it gets. I know," he said in response to my eye roll. "I don't necessarily mean with me. Use the journal I gave you. Please."
I looked away. "You keep pushing the journal. And I haven't outright said it, but I'll say it now. There's a reason that my diary was a file on a computer with a password and not just a physical journal."
"Your parents?," he asked.
I inclined my head. "It's the reason they started me in therapy. Fat lot of good it did me. I'm still fucked up," I sighed, picking at the skin around my nails.
"So they read it and then told a therapist. I'm sorry that they invaded your privacy like that."
My eyebrows pulled together at the absurdity of his words and I couldn't help but laugh. "Alex, you no room to talk here. My parents going through my diary is a drop in the ocean of crossed lines as far as you're concerned."
This time he looked away. "You're right. I'm sorry. I-"
I watched him, trying to figure out if he was being genuine or putting on an act.
"I... forget sometimes that you don't know me. That you've only even known that I exist for..." His eyes closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. When he spoke again, his voice was fragile. "I fell in love with you before you even knew I existed. I've come to know every expression that crosses your face. The polite smiles reserved for strangers. The way your eyebrows pull together when you're deep in thought. How sometimes your smile doesn't reach your eyes and I can tell that you're wearing a mask that's going to crumble as soon as you leave the room."
I had looked away long before he finished. "Alex," I said somewhat curtly. When he talked about me that way it made me feel like he actually cared and for some reason that was worse. I didn't like eyes on me. I was so used to being a background character. People like me weren't meant to be the center of someone's attention.
"By the time I had fallen in love with you, I had already rationalized my actions. I had told myself that it was okay because of your story. I had convinced myself that maybe we were perfect for each other. It's not that I wanted to fix you but I wanted you to need me too. So instead of watching you leave the bookstore and waiting for the next time I'd run into you, I followed you home. I tried to learn as much about you as I could. To make sure when I approached you, there was no room for error. Jamie, I wanted to do this the right way. I kept telling myself that I'd introduce myself the next time we crossed paths. Then I'd cross another line so I could learn more about you. By the time I had stopped looking away when you locked your bedroom door, I was in too deep to approach you the right way. And I worried that it would be obvious how much I knew about you. That I would scare you away. The way everyone does."
"It's weird hearing you talk about it," I said, quietly breaking into his monologue. I wasn't sure what part to address first. "You would have scared me, Alex. It wouldn't have mattered how you approached me. But, that doesn't justify your actions."
"I know," he said, his voice soft.
"To be... open, I've never had an issue with being attracted to men, but attractive men scare me. Older men scare me. There's always been a... distrust there. And the more people around me that like those attractive, older men, the more wary I am."
He stayed quiet as I sat with my words. Did I want stop? Or did I want to talk about it?
I could stop at any time.
"I think..." I took a steadying breath, fixing my eyes on the bookshelf across the room. My eyes traced the spines. The different colors. Some bright. Some muted. I imagined the texture of their pages beneath my fingers. I took another deep breath, a little more centered. "I think it was my friend's dad," I said quietly. And though calm, a hot tear slid down my cheek. "I'm not sure. I'm not even sure anything happened." I could feel the mask I wore slipping. "I don't remember much from around that time. I have flashes of memories. There's blank spaces there that scare me. Faces I can't remember. Scenes that cut to black as someone enters a room. Like a character that's been redacted."
I was breathing hard. Long, slow breaths that were meant to keep the black dots from creeping into my vision. "I can't remember that friend. I can remember what their bathroom looked like. How their living room was set up... But, I can't really remember her or her parents. I can't even remember her name. But I can remember the door clicking shut and the lock on the worn bronze doorknob. And feeling... trapped."
Tears were freely falling down my face. And that single flash of the door closing and the lock being turned played again and again. Each time like a fresh razor on open flesh.
Lock it away. Push it down. Bury it. Don't remember. You don't want to remember. It's better forgotten. Just forget. Nothing happened. You imagined it. Nothing happened. It didn't happen.
"I don't want to remember, Alex," I sobbed, desperate for air. "I don't want to remember." He had closed the distance between us and pulled me into his lap. His arms surrounded me and at first I panicked at the weight of them. Felt trapped. I tried to pull away but he held tight.
"Trust me. Let me hold you. It'll help. You don't have to remember. Not until you're ready," he said. The tenor of his voice surrounded me. I could feel the way it resonated through his chest. "Deep breaths." I did as he said, holding the breaths for a few seconds each time to force my breathing to slow. I held him as tightly as he held me.
"It didn't happen," I cried, dragging in labored breaths.
"You're here with me. You are not in that house. Jamie, I want you to tell me five things you can see in this room," he said calmly, holding my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him.
I gritted my teeth, forcing my eyes to stay open through the stinging tears. I was shaking. "Books."
"Good girl. Give me another."
"The chair."
"More."
"You."
"Yes," he said softly. "Two more."
"My mug," I said, focusing on each object and trying to slow my breaths. "The TV."
"Okay, what's next?" he nudged.
"Four things I can touch," I said, my breath hitching on a silent sob.
"Give them to me." And so we continued until we had finished.
By the end I was exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, and physically. Alex continued to hold me until my breathing had fully returned to normal. I struggled to keep the mind fog at bay. "I need to sleep," I whispered. I was so tired. I didn't want to be awake anymore. I wanted the dark to swallow me up. To fade into the black and never remember what might have happened in that room.
"Okay, I've got you," he said, slowly standing with me so he didn't lose his balance. I laid my head on his shoulder and let him carry me. Too soon he was setting me down on the bed. As I pulled a blanket up, he began to turn away.
"Wait," I said. He looked back. My mask was off but his was up, full strength. "Please don't leave me."
He looked at me for a moment before before his face softened. He pulled back the covers on the other side and slipped under. "Come here," he said, holding open an arm. I tucked in, holding him as he held me. I listened to his heartbeat and I played with the edge of his shirt. "I'm so sorry, Jamie," he said, so much restrained sorrow and anger in his voice. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
"So am I."