Page 17 of The Therapist

The office door swung wide with my force, slapping the opposite wall. I had to see how far I could take it.

How far I was willing to go.

How far you were willing to go.

Our two worlds collided. Whether it was an ending or a beginning, I had no way of knowing, and as you know, I like being in the know. I took hold of the lacy collar of your shirt and pulled you to me.

Robin, there was fire in those eyes, framed with heavy black lashes, as I barely pressed my lips to yours. I could taste the hesitation on your lips; the taboo desire.

That taste…it was incredible.

Thoughts twisted in my head as I kissed you.

I wanted to watch you with someone else.

I wanted to see how they gave you pleasure, how you accepted it. I wanted to be that man (or woman) as well.

I wanted to watch but also to participate. Such a foreign feeling for me then. I became insatiable, but I knew you would need to be eased into my fantasy world. I knew I needed to coddle you. Create the illusion of safety. There were already too many hurdles. Patient/ Doctor. Mid-Forties/Thirty.

And one we never anticipated.

You shoved me. Forcefully. Passionately, away from you.

Your chest heaved. You’re breasts straining the blouse you wore. I can recall every detail of that moment. Fear coursed through me. Would this be the end?

Would you lecture me about boundaries, appropriateness, and the like, before shutting the door in my face and never speaking to me again?

I walk through the sterile halls of the psychiatric facility, thefaint scent of antiseptic mixing with the dull hum of fluorescent lights. It’s been years since I’ve been here, but it feels like no time at all. My heart tightens with every step, every echo of my shoes on the linoleum floor. I know exactly where I’m going, even though the path feels unfamiliar.

The last time I came to visit Amelia, she wasn’t as medicated. I remember her eyes—so full of life, before they dulled.

Now, the quiet droning of the staff and the muffled sounds of distant voices are the only things that fill the space between me and her room.

I stop just outside the door, my breath catching in my chest. I know she’s in there. I know what I’ll find: Amelia, sitting in that chair by the window, her body frail, eyes glassy.

She’s lost so much weight. There’s a dullness to her that wasn’t there before. The girl who used to sparkle with life, the girl who was always so bright and untouchable, is gone.

She’s just… a shadow now.

I knock softly.

There’s no response, not even a twitch. But I know she hears me. She always did, even when she didn’t show it.

I open the door slowly, stepping inside. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of machinery that monitors her condition. She’s medicated to the point where her eyes are unfocused, her lips parted slightly as if she’s dreaming.

But she’s not. She’s not dreaming; she’s just existing.

That’s what they’ve reduced her to—existing.

I sit down next to her, careful not to disturb her. She smells like sterile linens and antiseptic, but underneath it, there’s a trace of her perfume—the one she used to wear when we were in college. It’s the faintest whisper of who she once was. I wonder who’s visited her, who brought her perfume and applied it.

“Amelia,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about you… about everything.”

She doesn’t respond. She never does.

“It’s not fair.” The words come out hoarse, edged with all the bitterness I’ve been suffocating on for months.

I swallow hard, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

---