Page 4 of The Therapist
Testing it.
Almost hoping for an electric shock to steer me away from it, but nothing happens.
My phone vibrates on the table, the screen lighting up.
A text from Nora Lockwood.
We haven’t spoken since her wedding just three weeks ago, which was an extraordinary event, but then, why wouldn’t it be? She is a remarkable person, and everything she touches in life becomes exceptional.
She’s been off honeymooning the last two weeks.
Instead of opening and reading the text, I power down the phone and plug it in to charge.
Confiding in her could be so easy, but I’ve cut myself off. Fear and shame and judgment ever-present in my gut, I’ve kept him and I a secret.
Secrets feel special, and my deviant lapse in judgment remains a guilty pleasure so long as it only belongs to me. I alone must live with my choices, my regrets.
Maybe I’ve been punishing myself. He is clever and manipulative, and eventually, I just gave in. It wasn’t all my fault.
At least, I tell myself that.
He seduced me, and I didn’t fight it. But he’d say I’m just as bad. That I’m a fiend for him. For the things he asked me to do.For the things I agreed to. So maybe we’re the same. Maybe we deserved each other.
Maybe this damned letter taunting me is my penance.
I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s at least two inches thick.
I don’t look at it because I’m not going to read it.
I’m only holding it as a test.
I tell myself that as I carry it upstairs with me into my bedroom. My skin prickles.
“Bedtime Flash, com’on.” My tone is harsh with emotion. I sigh and pat my thigh for Flash.
“Com’on bud.”
***
My eyes pop open. My tank soaked through from night sweats. The red offending numbers read one thirty-two on the nightstand. Those same numbers cast a glow on the envelope beneath the paperback I read earlier.
Flash stirs at my feet. Panic wraps its icy fingers around me. I curl my toes, followed by my fingers, before uncurling them in the same order. It grounds me.No one knows your involvement.
I grab the envelope and clutch it to my chest. It could say so many things. It could shatter my memories—taint them forever, or it could lift me up and give me strength.
Bringing it to my nose, I sniff it—as if perhaps his smell still lingers on it somehow.
With my eyes tightly closed, I can almost hear his sultry voice calling to me. I should not have carried the letter upstairs.
I slip a finger under the tab and pull at the envelope gently. Sliding my fingers inside, I pull out a thick wad of pages.
In the darkness, all I have are the sensations. I can’t see the handwriting. I cannot read the words.
I let the moment linger, relishing these last bits of sanity before switching on the bedside lamp.
Robin,
It started out innocent. I swear. I just wanted to watch you, live, in the flesh. I had no intention of anything more or less. I certainly didn’t intend to ruin your life. I’m writing this letter because I need to confess.
