Page 30 of Reckoning

My heart lurches. Neither of us have spoken about that night, about any of it since. Sometimes I wondered whether I imagined the entire thing, that perhaps I’d just had an overactive imagination.

“The man with the blue eyes.” I whisper.

He nods. “They’ll come. And if I’m dead, then they’ll take their pound of flesh from you.”

“What the fuck is this? What is going on?” I hiss. Only he doesn’t answer, he just sits there, broken and defeated.

* * *

“…Andhow did that make you feel?”

I blink back, staring at his almost nondescript face. With his horn-rimmed glasses, and his neatly parted hair, he looks the exact image of what a therapist would be if you googled it. He’s practically a cardboard cut-out, with his brown tartan knitted jumper and his beige, boring slacks.

“Sofia?”

I grind my teeth. My anger spiking enough that I’m contemplating picking up one of the thick leather bound books from his shelf and smacking him with it till he shuts the hell up.

On the window the stick of incense is churning out a steady stream of smoke, filling the room with what I guess is meant to be a calming hint of lavender, vanilla, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.

I don’t know how many sessions I’ve had now. I used to keep count, but when the numbers got above twenty I stopped caring. If I had my way I wouldn’t be here at all - but these are court-ordered, though there’s no legal paperwork to state that. No, this was a deal Roman and Hastings thrashed out after my last ‘incident’ hit the headlines.

Neither of them believed my side of the story.

Neither of them believed that someone drugged me, that someone set me up. I guess it was a hard story to sell when one minute I was walking through the ruins of the old Montague House and the next I was lying in a street, high as kite, as if I were just another addict.

So here I am, stuck with Martin. God, even his name irritates me though I can’t pinpoint why.

Most sessions I barely speak, what right does he have to pick through my trauma anyway? To determine how I should correct my behaviour as a result of it.

But the few times I have - the few times his probing questions have broken down walls I know were crumbling - I’ve come away a complete mess and it takes me days, weeks even, to get over it. And then I have to see him again. Like a bad record on repeat.

“They recorded you.” He says. “That must have felt violating.”

I blink, registering the words, feeling another flash of rage. Violating? He thinks having a camera shoved in my face was the worst of it?

“Was there no point in which you decided to play along?” He asks.

My nails cut into my palms. My heart suddenly stops as something close to actual fury engulfs me. “Play along?” I repeat.

“Many in your situation might have chosen to do so…” He smiles gently.

“My situation?”

“Abusive marriages.”

I’m on my feet, I don’t even realise I’m stood up until I’m towering over him. “They drugged me and raped me, over and over and over.” I snarl. “They tortured me, they….” I lose my words as a wave of trauma so sharp cuts through my thoughts. “You think I should have played along? You think I should have smiled sweetly while they queued up to fuck me, one after another?”

“That’s not what I meant, Sofia.” He says moving to stand.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” I hiss.

“Sofia,”

I gulp as he stares down at me. He’s only a head taller than me, but something, some fear in me stirs.

I step back, trying not to stumble over my own feet. “Don’t touch me.” I snarl as he reaches out as if I need a hand.

“Maybe we should call it a day.” He says gently.

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