Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
"My car's out front," Brant says and gestures to the exit. "Let's head to the house. We can dive into everything on the way."
Brant yanks his G Wagon into drive and the SUV purrs to attention. The doctor quickly reaches for his seat belt and clips it into place. The armored SUV had been a recent purchase—one that had sat, practically untouched, in one of the garage bays. Brant and I don’t really have friends, we rarely have a reason to need more than the two comfortable seats in his Aston Martin. I run my hand over the quilted leather of the backseat realizing I can’t hear any noise from the outside, not even the 787 that is taking off right outside the tinted window. The soundproofing is incredible. Still not worth the exorbitant price tag, but incredible all the same. Maybe it’s the bulletproof panels and glass, able to block both high caliber rounds and the pesky sounds of real life.
"My primary objective is to fix this as soon as possible. I've cleared everything else off my plate to focus on this.” Brant glances over at the doctor and I can’t help but admire how handsome his strong profile is.
"Fix this?” Dr. Terra questions. "You mean, removal of your additional personalities?"
I bite the inside of my cheek as Brant brakes at the exit of the private lot, his fingers drumming the wheel impatiently as the gate slowly opens. Patience is Brant's weak point, in all areas of study. I can already predict his frustration at catching the doctor up on the history and details of our situation. So far, he’s been annoyed at a dozen everyday inconveniences that Jillian used to handle. It’s just growing pains, we’ll sort and smooth everything out with money and employees, but money can't walk Dr. Terra through Brant's past. Money can't fix the fact that, right now, my man feels broken.
As soon as the gate opening is wide enough, Brant floors the gas.
"Dissociative Identity Disorder is not an easily fixed affliction. While other psychiatric disorders can be controlled by medication, DID is not a 'curable' disease. The original medication you were given as a child, I have to assume, was depressants, given to a level that would have dulled any personalities to a point where they were undistinguishable from your core personality. It makes you a bit of a—if I can use laymen’s terms—a zombie. Obviously, that's not a solution worth exploring."
Brant's hand tightens around the pen in his fist, the flex of his forearm distractingly attractive. I place my hand on his arm and squeeze the muscle there.
Brant's gaze jumps from my hand to Dr. Terra's face, then to the garden view. His office’s floor-to-ceiling windows do a stunning job of showcasing the three-story greenhouse that straddles the space between this wing and the next, and right now the vivid purple violets and blood-orange hibiscus are in full bloom.
"So what solution is worth exploring?" Brant finally asks, his pen poised over the page, ready to write notes on the response.
"Intensive therapy. It's not sexy and it takes time, but it has the highest probability of success. I’ll create a plan, one with schedule sessions with a local psychiatrist. Initially, you’ll need to meet with them at least three times a week. There will be a series of hypnosis sessions in which the doctor will speak to you and Lee and counsel you both through the process.”
“And that will fix it?” Brant asks.
The doctor hesitates. “Well, I believe that eventually, Lee will either fade away or that parts of his personality will merge with yours. It’s not a guarantee, but it’s likely, depending on how Lee responds to the therapy.”
Brant responds in minute ways that would be invisible to most people. There’s a slight pull of the skin around his mouth. A bulging of the veins on the back of his hand as he grips the pen tighter, then writes something down.
…depending on how Lee responds to the therapy. It’s safe to say that right now, out of the three of us in this room, I am the one that knows Lee best. My hypothesis? He’s not going to respond well.
Brant carefully places the pen and the notebook on the black desk and then meets Dr. Terra’s eyes. When he speaks, it is with careful and thoughtful precision. “It just doesn't feel like someone else is inside of me. Could she be wrong?”
He doesn't look at me. We’re sitting right next to each other, our knees brushing underneath the conference table, yet we’re a hundred miles apart. Could she be wrong? What he was really asking was if I was lying. A month ago, I would have been offended, but right now, I didn’t have the energy to care.
The doctor doesn’t react, maintaining his level of warm professionalism. “Everything you’ve shared so far is consistent with DID, including your inability to feel the other personalities or be aware of them. You may not know Lee yet, but you will before this process is over, assuming you participate in my suggested therapy program."