Page 10 of Brainwashed
“I’m feeling great, actually,” he replies, eloquent diction spoken in a British accent. Even if he wasn’t smart, the way he speaks would certainly fool you into thinking he was. “No nightmares all week.” He crosses his fingers together.
I nod and make a note. My eyes dart to his. “Tell me about the person you’ve been seeing.”
He shifts. “Right. Well, we’ve had three dates now.” His eyes fall to his lap, which is usually what happens when he’s unsure about telling me something. I simply sit quietly in wait. “I like them a lot… But I’m nervous.”
“Nervous?”
“They want to get physical…” he mumbles, his eyes flinging up to mine. “They’re begging for it, in fact.” My head tilts as he leans forward and whispers, “I’m afraid the medication won’t be enough.” I nod slowly. “What if it doesn’t stop me from… hurting them?”
We’re both quiet for a moment before I take in a breath, then let it out slowly. “I’m going to be painfully honest with you, Trevel.”
“Wouldn’t expect any less.” He huffs.
“There isn’t a medication in the world that would stop you from doing what your mind commands you to do. There are things that can dull you, sure. Then there are things like your current meds, which help to tweak your brain chemistry. But regardless, you are stillyou. You’ll need to understand that. Going into any relationship, after what’s happened to you, and what you’ve done, will be extremely difficult.”
His indigo eyes glisten, his forehead lining dismally. “Please tell me there’s abutfollowing that little gem of wisdom.”
“I’m not so sure, unfortunately,” I tell him honestly. “There is no real way to know if your nightmares will manifest themselves into a reality or not. You’ve shown exceptional signs of mental growth and stability since you were in Riverwoods, but the fact remains…”
“So it’s like a waiting game?” He scoffs and rubs his eyes. “Why am I even trying, then?”
I can do nothing but stare at him.
He stands up and begins pacing. “Sometimes I think…” He stops, then shakes his head.
“Think what, Trevel?”
He comes to a halt and looks down at me. His eyes have gone dark, and when he speaks again, his voice has changed. It’s deeper, husky and lined with something like strained curiosity.
“Sometimes,” he says with our eyes locked, “I think about just giving in to it. Theinevitable.”
A chill washes over my flesh.
But not one of fear.
Never of fear, no. Not for a long,longtime.
This is my truth, after all. My elicit, morbid fascination.
Exhausted and sweaty, I wait for the elevator to take me back up to my penthouse apartment. I got home from the office an hour ago and came straight to the building’s gym for a workout. Exercise is something I can say I sincerely enjoy. Often times, the physical strain on my body is the only way to decompress my mind, though I won’t say it shuts my thoughts upcompletely.
Tonight, I’ve had my session with Trevel lingering in there. Even though I saw two patients after him, his words stuck with me, as they tend to.
All of my patients are severely troubled in some fashion. It’s just the nature of what I do; my training and my profession. I don’t like totoot my own horn, so to speak, but I’m one of the most sought-after psychiatrists in the country, specializing in behavioral studies, treating patients with severe mental illness.My shelves are lined with awards in my field of research. I’ve written books—not all of themrenowned, but that’s another thing.
Even so, Trevel Fenwick is one of the more intriguing cases of my career as a clinical researcher, and by far my most interesting patient.
He was sexually abused as a child, by both of his biological parents. His childhood trauma is extremely disturbing. It definitely helped me grow my bearings as a researcher only a few years out of John’s Hopkins, becausedamn…
Just reading about his past has the potential to stir up a lot of unpleasant emotions.
When he was eleven, Trevel ran away from his home in the UK and became a transient, eventually making his way to the States, where he began a five-year career as an underage sex worker.
When he was sixteen, in New York, Trevel was raped by a group of men. Once he recovered from the injuries sustained during the attack, he tracked down all four men and killed them, brutally. One by one.
He was convicted of only two charges of first-degree murder—there wasn’t enough evidence to link him to all four deaths. Being that he was underage, he was able to gain citizenship and served two years in a juvenile detention center before he was sent to an institution in Connecticut, eventually being relocated to Riverwoods right here in Georgia, which is where I met him.
Needless to say, I was immediately captivated by Trevel. For someone with no more than a basic elementary education, he’s smart as hell. Well-read, well-spoken. He can converse for hours about art and music, recites Shakespeare and Dickens. All self-taught.
