Page 129 of The Cute Psycho

"Vlad, this isn't helping either of us. You came here with a problem, and you're not going to solve it if you're not going to be honest with me. I'm here to help you," he says in his fatherly voice.

"This was a mistake," I mutter, rising from my seat and heading for the door.

"Maybe you don't want help," he comments and I stop, my hand on the handle.

My mind conjures up Sisi's face, the thought of having more time with her making me still.

I do want this.

"I don't remember my childhood. Or much of it." I turn back, casually sitting on the couch.

"Good, that's a start. What is the first thing you remember?"

Killing a doctor.

"I was kidnapped when I was three with my twin sister. I don't remember any of the years spent in captivity," I start, detaching myself. "My sister, Vanya, died there," I say, watching her huddled in a corner, her eyes tear-streaked. "I didn't." I shrug.

"Do you think your sister's death might have something to do with you blocking out the memories?" he asks in a gentle voice.

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "Maybe. I still..." I take a deep breath, gazing down at the seat next to me where Vanya suddenly appears. "I still see her," I admit, and her face scrunches up in horror, her mouth opening to yell in my ear. It takes everything in me not to cover my ears, or wince every time she hits a higher note.

"Is she here? Now?"

I slowly turn my head toward the doctor and I nod.

"Interesting. You were probably very traumatized by her death since she was your twin."

I nod. "I spent years thinking she was still alive. And when I found out..."

"What happened?"

"It triggered something in me. I wasn't fine before either, but it exacerbated whatever was in my brain. I started having blackouts... very violent blackouts."

Dr. Reese nods thoughtfully, jotting things down on his notepad.

"It could be a symptom of PTSD. Do you have any idea what happened to you during those years in captivity?"

I stare at him for a moment, debating whether I should show him or not. In the end, I stand up, unbuttoning my shirt and prying it open, so he can see my chest.

"Impressive," he chuckles at the sight of my tattoos.

"Look closer," I say. He leans forward, his glasses on, his mouth opening as he realizes what the tattoos are hiding.

"Can I?" he asks as he raises his hand. I nod, and using his fingertipshe traces some of the scars, frowning. "These are surgical," he states.

"Yes. I'd wager a guess thatthishappened to me in captivity," I add drily. "Doctors did full exams on me and they couldn't find any issues."

I spend some more time going over my blackouts, keeping out the murderous details, but giving him enough to know I am dangerous.

"And your girlfriend..."

"She calms me. But..." I take a deep breath to explain wherein lies the issue, "They've been getting worse and worse. I fear that when a bad one hits even her presence won't be enough. And I'll hurt her."

"I see." He purses his lips. "Have you ever tried to remember those years? They may be the key to understanding your current symptoms."

"That's why I'm here."

"You realize that this isn't an exact science. I can't assure youanythingis going to give you your memories back," he warns, but I wave my hand dismissively.

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