Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
I pick at a loose thread. It’s a habit because for so long, all I had was a blanket to pick at. This one is thicker, higher quality and clean, but it’s a blanket nonetheless.
The thin thread slips between my fleshy fingertips before sliding past my nails as I start my story. “This story is about a girl named Marie.” Just saying her name makes my heart squeeze in my chest.
Her face flashes before my eyes. Beautiful green eyes that were so clear and so pure, I felt she could see to the very depths of my soul. Her skin was pale and her hair was always combed just so. She kept it perfectly straight as though she were put together, but she wasn’t in the least.
“Marie?” John asks me, and then crosses his ankle over his knee. The movement makes me look up as the memory of her voice echoes in my ears. “Doctor Everly.”
I nod my head, hating how real her voice sounds.
It takes me a moment before I’m able to speak. “She had a very abusive father. Her mother fled in the middle of the night when she was only six and left her there.”
The pain is nearly consuming as I talk about her in the past tense, but that’s where Marie will always be. Never again to be here with me.
“He hurt her?” John asks, and it disrupts my thoughts. I part my lips to exhale and answer his question. “Badly.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” John says with true sympathy. “You knew her well?”
My hair brushes my cheeks as I nod and say, “I was her shrink.”
“For almost ten years he systematically abused her in every way possible.”
“That’s horrible,” John says although his voice is absent. I feel the need to look up, to look into his eyes to see what he’s thinking, but I can’t. All I can picture is how Marie looked the last time I saw her. I knew she wasn’t well, but they wouldn’t let me go to her. They wouldn’t let me keep her from leaving. She left me, and I knew it was the last time I’d see her.
“I couldn’t save her,” I whisper and let the warm tears slide down my cheeks. “I begged her, the last time I saw her, I begged her to take her medication but she didn’t believe it would work.”
Marie never had a chance. The moment she was saved from her father, the true beast destroyed her. Her memory.
The home she was in was temporary, and they didn’t care for her. They just wanted a check. The city bus brought her there, and the program paid for it and her medication but she was always alone. The burden was left on her shoulders, except for the small moments I had with her.
“She’d gotten worse the last time I saw her. She started hurting herself.” My breathing is ragged and I lean my head against the wall, closing my eyes and willing the images to go away.
“She needed more help than I could give her.” There wasn’t a phone call I didn’t make. Marie became my priority, but I had no rights to her. I had no legal way to protect her or to take her like I so desperately wanted to.
“She’s gone?” he asks me.
I wipe the tears away and take a steadying breath. When I lick my lips, the salt coats the tip of my tongue. It’s only then that I come back to the moment, to what I can change. To what I can prevent.
“Her death affected me very deeply because it reminded me of-” I hesitate and swallow before I say, “Jay.”
John shifts uncomfortably in the steel chair and the metal legs scratch the floor. “Because his father abused him?” he asks.
I’m careful about answering, but I decide to ask, “What do you know about what he did?”
John glances at the red light for a moment, as if distracted by it before looking back at me. “Jay has told me a lot,” John answers with a tone that tells me he’s uncomfortable.
“Did he tell you his father liked to see how much pain Jay could take before screaming for his dead mother?” The words slip out of me like a void. The brutality and tragedy seeming cold as ice on my lips. I look up into John’s eyes as I explain, “It wasn’t good enough unless his father believed it was genuine.” He tortured him in so many ways. As if it were a game and he was simply trying to find the best tool that was most effective. But nothing ever would be. He would never win; he’d never be content.
“Is that what Marie’s father did?” John asks, forcing my gaze back to him. To the present. To being in a basement twenty years later, brought back by the one boy I wish I could have saved.