“I thought you were very brave,” she says, her tone now solemn. “You revealed more than I expected.”
Lifting my head, I study her covertly. She’s watching me, that neutral smile still planted on her face, ever patient, ever kind. “I wanted to be completely honest and open.”
“Do you think that was smart?”
I think about it before I answer. “I’m not sure. It’s been crazy,” I admit. “All sorts of media outlets reaching out to me. Agents. Publicists. Magazines. Websites. They all want to talk.”
“You didn’t think that would happen?”
“I knew it would. That part didn’t come as a surprise.” I’d been fully prepared. Or so I thought.
“What did, then? Come as a surprise?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. I’m lying. I just don’t want to admit that I thought I would feel better after I told my story. That I’d somehow feel purged clean. Stronger.
The problem? I don’t feel any different than I did before the interview aired. Oh, at first I did. I felt relieved, like I purged it all out of me. But now? I’m the same. No different.
Not healed.
“A lot of people are curious,” Sheila states.
“That definitely surprised me. The sheer number of people who’ve watched the interview and want to know more.” I stress the word more because it’s something they’ve said repeatedly. More of my story, more about my future, more about my past, more, more, more. I feel like I’m being torn in twenty different directions and I don’t know which way to go.
“I don’t think you should’ve been surprised. The media gobbles this sort of story up. Look at those poor girls who were held captive all those years in Ohio. And Elizabeth Smart. Jaycee Dugard. The world was enthralled with their stories. They still are. Every one of them has published a book, done multiple interviews. Some speak in public venues. They’ve turned their tragedies into a message of hope and strength.”
“I’m not sure I’m capable of that,” I admit.
“It’s something we can work on, don’t you think? Not that you need to become a public figure, but trying to find that purpose? Digging deep and discovering your inherent strength? It’s in there, you know,” she says, her tone assured. Like I should never doubt her.
“You really believe that?” I hate that I sound so full of doubt.
“Do you?”
“I don’t know.” I heave a big sigh. “I sometimes wonder if it was a mistake, doing that interview.”
“How do you feel at this exact moment?”
“I wish I were a hermit,” I say without hesitation.
Dr. Harris laughs softly. “You’re already a self-proclaimed hermit.”
Ouch. I change tactics. “I wish I didn’t exist.”
The laughter stops. “You don’t mean that.”
I shrug. Give no verbal reply. It’s true. If I didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have to deal with any of it. I brought this on myself, so I have no one else to blame.
That’s not true. I blame Aaron William Monroe for doing this to me. I wouldn’t still be suffering if he’d just murdered me and been done with it. Done with me.
The thought alone makes me flinch, as if his rough, icy fingers are wrapped around my neck at this exact moment and are trying to choke the life out of me.
“Are you all right?” Dr. Harris asks, and I say nothing. I’m sure she saw me flinch. She doesn’t miss a trick, my therapist.
We remain quiet for a few minutes, the ticking of the clock that sits on a nearby bookcase the only sound. It drives me nuts, that repetitive tick-tock, tick-tock. I think she has it in here on purpose, to drive all of her patients insane so we have no choice but to fill the silence with our problems and troubles.
Finally I can’t take it anymore.
“I wonder sometimes what would’ve happened if he’d—killed me,” I admit, swallowing hard.
“You’d be gone. There’s nothing to wonder. You’d have no future. You’d have been a dead twelve-year-old with a devastated family and a man would have been free to kill numerous other girls after you,” Dr. Harris says point-blank.
She’s trying to shock me, convince me my train of thought is pointless without saying it out loud. She can’t tell me whether what I think is right or wrong. That goes against her counselor’s code or whatever.
“Would it have been better, though?” I ask. “Not for my family. They would have suffered no matter what.” I think of my father, then immediately banish him from my mind. I’m still upset over the way he treated me, but there’s nothing I can do about that. He’s gone. “For me,” I add, lifting my head to meet her gaze. “Would it have been better for me?”
Her face is impassive as usual. God, I wish this woman would show an iota of emotion. Just once. Though I guess this is what makes her so good at her job.
“It would be over,” I continue. “Done, you know? I mean, look at me. I live a shell of a life. I rarely leave the house. I go to school from home. I don’t really have friends. A nonexistent social life with the exception of hanging out with my sister and her boyfriend on occasion, and that’s just lame. And of course, no man will ever want to . . .” Be with me. Touch me. Kiss me.
My voice drifts and I clamp my lips shut, closing my eyes to ward off all the ugly thoughts. They bombard me at the worst times, always when I’m feeling low, knocking me even lower, taking my breath and my strength, all in one swoop.