Estranged • h.s.

12

I stare at my hands, watching as my fingers flex out and back into my palm. My nails settle right into the same spot each time I bring them in. Like little morbid pieces to a scarred puzzle on my palms. I don't know when I started doing it again, mutilating myself like this. Somewhere between Jackson taking me and a few days ago when Harry pried my nails away from my palms like they were fire. 

The crescent grooves mock me, mock the progress I had convinced myself I was making. I was supposed to be stronger than this, to be able to handle whatever was thrown at me on this damning quest for revenge. But that pipe dream is washed away now, and I've fallen back into an internal hell. 

I can't even properly think of why I want it anymore. Not when I'm being constantly reminded that I'm not strong enough to do it. 

"Cecily, tell me how it made you feel." 

I clench my fists as I look up at my therapist. She's a fairly young woman, barely pushing her late thirties. Zayn talked me into starting therapy about a month after I got back. I put it off for a while, but Mandy has been an outlet for me for the last year. And one of the few people who call me Cecily. 

She also always makes sure I show up every two weeks. This week it didn't take much convincing. Not with being stuck at home for the last three days because Zayn insisted I take some time off. 

"It made me feel like shit, like I'm losing the little control I had." 

She nods, looking at me closely. "And how are you losing that control?" 

"I'm weak. I did all of this mind and body training just for me to fall right back into the mental hell I was in last year. And my ex being there didn't fucking help." 

"This mental hell, is that your last relationship?" 

Okay, so she doesn't know everything. She knows Jackson was abusive, and that Harry and I left things on incredibly bad terms. She knows there was a betrayal, but not many real details of it. 

"Yeah, the one before and after my last boyfriend. Everything he did, it all comes crashing back sometimes and I feel like I'm there all over again. Like someone else is controlling my body." 

"It sounds like the other night was very hard. How did it feel to have someone there, in a time where you felt that you were losing some sense of control?" 

I mull over her question. In reality, it was kind of nice not to be alone. The problem is that it was Harry. 

"I wished it would have been anyone but him. He's been here barely four weeks and he's already confusing me, making me forget what I really want."

"What do you want?" 

I laugh, pulling at a loose thread on my sweater as I keep the sleeves pulled over my hands tightly to keep me from mutilating myself any further. "I want," I trail off, inhaling a breath before looking at all of the cars passing by her window. "I want to feel safe," I whisper, matter of fact. "And I don't think I will until I know that they can't ever hurt me again." 

"When will that be? What will convince you that they won't ever hurt you again?" 

When they're dead, but I can't tell her that. She's good at keeping our discussions confidential, that's her job, but if she knew how many men I've killed, she'd freak. And she'd sure as hell have to tell someone if she knew how many I still planned to kill. 

"I don't know," I say with a sigh, looking at her as she examines me. She gives me a sympathetic smile, which I've learned to appreciate. She's good at offering a sense of understanding without any words.