Page 34 of A Taste like Sin
Family psych history of depression in mother. Father alcoholic with repeated parole violations
stemming from an assault charge. Upon assessment with this writer, JM presented with a flat affect
and mood and was evasive when asked about 10/28. Reports poor sleep, night terrors, anxiety.
Current guardian reports that JM is fearful, guarded, and prone to emotional outbursts. Final
impression: post-traumatic stress disorder, rule-out psychotic features.
Fearful, guarded, and prone to emotional outbursts. No wonder Heyworth watched over me so
closely, tightening the leash whenever he felt I could threaten his precious political chances.
To him, I was always the same stray mutt: a damaged little girl with undiagnosed psychological
issues. A threat to his reputation if left unchecked. A trophy to display for his benefit.
A toy to manipulate.
He never loved me.
He merely possessed me.
Damien is standing outside the car when I finally escape the house, battered file in tow. His
clenched jaw betrays an unusual amount of concern. I wonder if he heard the chaos from here.
Breaking glass. Broken trophies. A broken soul.
“You need rest,” he rasps as I come closer. The authority in his tone warns that I won’t be able to
dissuade him this time. “I’m taking you to my—”
“Do you want to know what I really want?” I laugh. It’s a trick question, no one ever does.
But he…
Damien goes silent, his head cocked. When he extends one of his hands toward me, I take it, surprised
by how damn warm he feels. How much I crave that warmth. I’m freezing.
“Tell me,” he demands.
“I want…” The sob I can’t swallow has him pulling me closer. Too close. More tears spill into his
jacket. Within seconds, I’m howling and nothing can keep the gasping cries from coming.
What do I want?
“Control,” I wail brokenly. “I want… I just want answers! I’m so sick of being coddled, and watched,
and whispered about. Did you know he put more effort into stalking my tabloid mentions than actually
talking to me? I want to give them something to stare at! I’m so—”
“I know.” His words undercut my high-pitched whine, low and steady. So damn assured. He knows.
All of me. More than I care to admit to myself or name out loud. “I know, sweet girl.Dulce niña.”
