Page 95 of The Beginning and End of Everything
And with that, he opens the door, and he leaves me.
53
Brandon
Ilean back in the office chair, staring across the desk at Dr. Watson. She's in her late thirties with a sharp, blond bob that screams, “speak to the manager.” Propping her elbows on the desk, she stares down the length of her nose at the paperwork in front of her.
I sigh impatiently and fold my arms over my chest, wishing I hadn’t turned myself in. This is proving to be bullshit.
Finally, she looks up at me, a small smile touching her lips. "It's been almost two years since you deserted, Mr. O’Kieffe."
"Well done. You read my file," I say through clenched teeth. I don't like the word desert. It implies that I left people who were relying on me, and I didn't.
"Well, that’s my job." Her fingers drum over the table. "Why did you leave your post?"
"My post was at my best friend's side." My chest tightens with a pain so old and engrained you'd think I would be used to it by now. "He died. Job done," I grate out.
"I understand it must have been hard to witness your friend pass away, but your job was with the military. Again, why did you leave?"
I snort, plastering a smirk on my face as I lean forward. "I have no loyalty to the army. It's never done shit for me." I watch her watch me.
"Why have you turned yourself in?"
"I have my reasons."
"You're good at avoiding questions, aren't you?"
"Honestly, I'm just going through the motions. So why don't you just sign whatever you need to sign, and I can get out of this shithole."
"It's not that easy, Mr. O’Kieffe. You need to understand, you committed a crime, and while I’m here to help you, I need to understand why you left, why you've turned yourself in."
"I don't know why I left." I shrug one shoulder. "Vehicle blew up, everyone died except me. I got out, and I started walking, and I didn't stop."Until now, until her.
She jots down something on her notepad. "Do you have trouble sleeping—nightmares, flashbacks?"
I frown as I remember waking up with my arm pinned across Poppy's throat. I nod.
"How do you handle those?"
I huff a laugh. "You tell me."
She nods. My leg keeps bouncing. I just want to get this shit over with and get out of here. I don't need her psychoanalyzing everything—things no bloody degree can give you a clue about. She can't help me. There's only one person who can help me, and I left her to come here. I swipe my hands down my face.
The doctor opens her desk drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper. She hands it to me along with a pen. "I want you to answer these questions based on your feelings over the past three months as best you can."
I don't take it; instead, I just glare at her.
"Brandon, I need you to answer these so I can help you."
I take the piece of paper and pen, glancing over the questions.Do you feel on edge? Do you feel worthless?Sighing, I toss the paper back onto her desk. "This is a waste of time."
"Not many people willingly walk in here twoyearsafter they've deserted, so why, if you aren't going to cooperate, are you here?"
I drag both hands through my hair and sigh. My heart thumps heavily in my chest, and I almost don't want to talk about Poppy, as though she's my crippling weakness. "I'm tired of running. Tired of flying under the radar."
"Okay." She leans over her desk and pushes the paper back toward me. "Then fill this out."
Fuck my life. I take her paper and tick no to every single one of her questions, then push it back across the desk. "See, I'm fine."
