The Fabric of our Souls

My last counseling session is traumatic. All the cards are on the table.

“Can you tell us what made you dissociate? What hurt you?”

I stare at Jericho with cold eyes. Dr. Prestin sits next to him with his legs crossed.

“I know. But I want you to say it and feel the words come out of your mouth. Admitting the things that hurt is important, Wynn. Especially since your time with us is ending.”

What made me dissociate?

Is it fair to point fingers? Whether it’s fair or not, I suppose it’s real for me.

“Words.”

“Words hurt you? Can you elaborate?” Dr. Prestin presses me. His white eyebrows are drawn low. His eyes focus on his clipboard, not the people in the room.

I look hesitantly across the circle at Lanston. His hazel eyes are warm and reassuring. Liam isn’t here today, and I’m sort of glad he isn’t.

“Words that convinced me to die.”

“And who said these words? What were these words?” Dr. Prestin asks matter-of-factly.

“Everyone who ever claimed they loved me.” Every word lodges deep in my throat like a knife. Betrayal by those who were meant to care for me in the darkest of times. “They acted innocent and coy, drawing me in like fresh air. Wishing to know what ailed me. And the only thing I ever learned from opening up to people was that they desired to know exactly what would hurt me, only to turn the blade back and inflict riotous, irrevocable damage themselves.”

Everyone remains quiet, even Jericho and Dr. Prestin, who now looks up and meets my gaze. The counselor lowers the clipboard and removes his glasses. I force myself to look at Jericho and the part of my heart that was frozen over thaws a bit as I watch him wipe tears from his eyes.

And somehow, a great weight has been sloughed from my shoulders. The tear that rolls down my cheek isn’t filled with rage or hot with disdain for the world.

It’s sadness for myself.

The first grief I’ll allow myself to feel for the sins against me.

Why is it so hard to show ourselves mercy? Did a part of me believe that I deserved what I endured, just as Liam does? Why didn’t anyone help me? Didn’t I ask more than once? Didn’t my eyes scream loud enough for those that observed me so callously to stop?

“Coldfox, what hurt the most and how have you come to reject this disbelief?” Jericho clears his throat and returns his glasses to the arch of his nose. His green eyes are significantly softer on me, filled with sympathy and grief.

He has a hard job. Taxing on a soul, I’m sure.

I have to think for a moment. There are so many that hurt for so long. Monster. Demon. Evil. Insufferable child. Miserable bitch. Though they all hurt and damaged me in unique ways, I think one was worse. One broke me, unlike the rest. One made me realize that perhaps death would be the only cry loud enough to be heard.

No one heard me. No one ever fucking heard me.

“Being told that I was, inevitably, going to kill people. Being told that they could see the sinister evil inside my soul. That looking at me made them sick.” I choke on tears and swallow hard, blinking past the emotions and fighting all my inner safety walls to get the words out. “That I was better off dead. Because all my existence did was make them wish to die.”

Lanston stands from his chair and walks to me, tears streaming down his cheeks as he lowers to my level. Words evade him; his mouth opens and closes but he cannot find the right ones to speak. He pulls me into a tight hug, and it says everything he can’t.

I break, wrapping my arms around his torso and sobbing into his shirt.

Finally, Lanston finds the words he was trying to conjure. He speaks so low I know only I can hear him. “You wanted to die so they didn’t feel like they had to.”

Hearing someone else say it…

It saves me.

“Thank you,” I whisper.