Page 21 of Till The Sun Dies (Checkmate 2)

Sonia tilts her head and draws me back to the now. “Laine?”

“Yeah, hello.”

Mid-sixties, perhaps even her seventies, this woman smiles the way a big breasted grandma might. She’s not big breasted. She’s not big anything, but she’s comfortable, even in fancy clothes and tight hair.

Sonia is a contradiction, and contradictions are too much for me to process right now.

“You don’t have to worry so much, Laine.” She leans forward and pats my leg. “I’m just here to talk. To get to know you.”

“But you’re a therapist.” When she nods, I add, “For crazy people.”

Her soft eyes turn sad. “No. I’m a therapist, but you’re not crazy. I’m here to help, to talk about what happened, and to help you find different coping mechanisms.”

“What will happen to me?” I sit higher in my bed and pull the blankets up. “Are you going to send me away?”

“Send you away? Send you where?”

“To a mental hospital or something. Because I tried to…” My arm throbs as I stumble over the horrible words. “Because I tried to kill myself.”

“No.” Sitting back in her chair, she crosses one tailored leg over the other and links her hands in her lap. “I’m not sending you anywhere, honey. I just want to talk. I want to become your friend.”

I don’t believe her. And the machines that monitor my heart announce my distrust with loud, insistent beeps.

“Why don’t we just get to know each other?” She forces a gentle smile. “This doesn’t have to be scary. I promise I’m here to help you.”

A lone tear slides along my cheek and stops on the swell of my lip. “I didn’t want to live anymore. I didn’t want to hurt anymore.”

Subtly victorious, she taps her file and unclips a pen. “You speak in past tense. You don’t feel that way anymore?” When I stare with confusion, she adds, “Do you still have thoughts of self harm, Laine? Do you still want to go away and not come back?”

I stare down at my blankets and the lumps my feet make. “I dunno. I haven’t had much time to think since I woke up. Ang has been here, so…” I shrug.

“Can I ask, Laine… were you having these thoughts for long before this week? Is this something that’s been in your mind for long?”

“About a year, I guess.” I nibble on my bottom lip. “I wanted it all to stop about a year ago, and then the other week, when I accidentally cut my finger, it became a little more real to me.”

She jots down her notes. “What happened a year ago?”

“He…” My stomach jumps. “Graham took me to a club that had not very nice people in it.”

She barely reacts, which makes me think she knows more of my story than I’ve told her. “That was the first time?”

“Yeah. He said it would be fun. A special club for special women who liked to be…” Tears flow over my cheek. “He said women shouldn’t be shamed for having broad sexual appetites, and that there are clubs that adults go to that have all these new and exciting experiences.”

“Just so you know, womenshouldn’tbe shamed for having broad sexual appetites. You’re allowed to enjoy sex however you like, so long as it’s consensual.”

I swipe at the tears that won’t stop. “But it wasn’t consensual. I didn’t want that. I don’t like sex. Iusedto like it… before Graham, but I didn’t like it anymore. He said I wasn’t doing it right, so he took me to that club to… to learn. It was fun for a minute, it was exciting, but then I…” My chest lifts and drops. “I tried some stuff they had there. Umm… Drugs.” My eyes meet hers. “I did drugs, because everyone else was doing it. Graham said it would be fun, and that he’d take care of me, so I did it. Then these other men came into the room… I didn’t want it anymore.”

She writes her notes and doesn’t make a big deal about the torrential tears that won’t let up. “Okay.” Her eyes come back to mine. “You’re okay. You’re safe with me, Laine.”

Hiccupping, I reach to the bedside table and snatch a handful of tissues. I bring them to my nose and blow, and when I feel the burn on the side of my head, I turn and come eye to eye with Angelo.

He watches me through the glass with furious features like my sniffling enrages him.

He can’t hear my words.

He doesn’t know my shame.

But he sees my tears.

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