1. Jax

Jax

" J ackie, Jackie, Jackie." Doctor Sparrow, my psychiatrist of six years, joins his sausage fingers together and lays them over his protruding belly. "You're a very sick individual, and though you have made a great deal of progress in the last couple of years, we still aren't there yet. We can't upset the progress we've made by starting fortnightly appointments."

He doesn't even bother looking at me when he says it. The condescending tones are so familiar they don't even upset me anymore. I am a stone in this office. Everything I feel, I bury so deep it doesn't exist. Except the hate. It's like a snake coiling and writhing in my chest.

And the fear.

He leans back in his chair, and it tilts with him. A black throne for the dark king, and in this office, and in my life, he reigns supreme. He clicks his overpriced pen that has his name in gold along the side and spins it in his fingers before making a note on my file.

I shift in the uncomfortable egg-shaped chair. It's a dreary off-white colour and designed to make me feel like there's nowhere to go. I wince at the way it makes me fold in on myself, the way it presses uncomfortably on my thigh. As I turn my head, a sharp pain in my scalp makes me flinch. I lean forward, free my dark brown hair from the chair, and smooth it down my chest so it's a silken mane again- it's the only thing I control in this room. My chair doesn't tilt back, it's stiff, hard plastic, and puts my back to the door. Every time I sit here, in the back of my mind, I wonder if today will be the day they storm the room and carry me off.

"Okay, Dr Sparrow." The meek voice is one I've perfected over the last six years. Born out of necessity. I loathe that tone in my voice. It is everything I never was and is everything they've forced me to become. It is a sign of my weakness and stupidity. The price I'm paying for the mistakes I made.

"Tell me about what's been going on in the last week since we've seen each other."

He runs a hand over his shiny scalp, turning the grey strands dark with either sweat or oil. I can't be certain which, though it could be a combination. The lavender shirt designed to make him look harmless is too tight on his middle-aged man body, the material bulging in between each button to reveal pasty white skin.

The shirt matches the one painting in the room. A lavender tulip watercolour that I had loved the first time I'd seen it, before I knew what it all meant. Before I was introduced to my new reality.

I look down at my own top, making sure my curvy frame is suitably covered. I've always been, not exactly self-conscious about my weight, but aware of my body and trying to make sure it's covered. Don't be so bitchy , I remind myself. For an instant, there's guilt, and then I remember who the hell I'm looking at. The man's my nightmare. I'm going to judge, even if it gets me a one-way ticket to hell.

"Well, everything's been pretty quiet. I caught up with my friend River, and we watched TV on his tablet. I went to work and went home. Nothing exciting, really." I shrug and lick my lips, distracted for a moment by a bird flying past the window.

"Anymore of those phone calls?"

I wince. I was hoping we could avoid that subject. The creeper calls are unnerving me. The mouth breather on the other end is winning his psychological game with me. "Yes. Ten more calls while I was at work. It's no problem, though. I'm not worried. I mean, it's just some kids or something." The false bravado should have won me an award.

There is a long, pregnant pause as Sparrow stares straight at me, as if waiting for me to confess. It's a look I remember many a teacher giving me when I was in school. The consequences are steep now that I'm an adult.

"Eugene contacted me. He's concerned. He says it's affecting your work."

My oxygen seizes in my lungs, the ability to speak stolen as fury washes over me. My boss called my shrink and tattled? Oh, boy, is he going to hear about it. A little voice inside mocks me, "Really? Are you actually going to do something about it this time? " The nasty little voice is right, and it makes me want to cry. There's nothing I can do. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.

"I don't know who it is. They've never said a word. It's just breathing. Truly, it's no big deal."

He writes on his pad and uncrosses and recrosses his legs. "It's probably no one, but try to focus harder at work. You don't want poor Eugene's generosity to expire, do you?"

I grit my teeth, force a smile, and nod. "No, I don't want that. I'll do better."

"Have you met anyone? Any relationship potential?"

I screw up my nose. This question, at least, is a simple answer. "No." Hell no! Fuck no! Can we get a no in the back? NO!

"You can't keep living in the past. You aren't that person anymore. Living with no human contact is not really living. Sooner or later, you're going to have to push yourself past those barriers you are so afraid of and accept your responsibility to society."

He hasn't said it outright, but I strongly suspect Sparrow is one of those men who believe women should be barefoot and pregnant. If that isn't where he's going, I'm not sure what other responsibility I could possibly owe to society. However, I don't really care enough to ask.

"I will. When I'm ready, I'll go out and socialize more."

"I'd like you to start working on that over the next week."

It's like I didn't even speak. I cross my arms but quickly unfold them before he can see. My gaze is drawn past him to the huge bookshelf that takes up most of the wall. I've read the names on the spines of those books dozens of times. Each one is a peacock's feather flaunting his intellect, his career, his passion. Behavior, Psychology, Psychiatry, Medication, Therapy, Techniques, Neural pathways. Freud, Jung, Schema, Exposure. On and on. A wall of books to show how much he knows about how broken my mind is.

He knows shit about my mind.

I fight the urge to twitch and shift in place. Any sign of impatience will grab his attention, and a barrage of more unwelcome questions will come, and I'll be here half the night.

"What about the hallucinations?"

I freeze in place. It feels like he has just whacked a huge bruise inside me with a stick. Prodding it painfully. Violating me. Those are mine.

"I have seen a couple of them, but it's getting better," I choke out.

"Ah, good signs the medications are having a positive effect. That's great news."

I sit quietly while he makes notes.

"Let's talk about Louis."

I hate this part of every session. My eyelids drift closed, but I force them open and focus on the third button down on his shirt.

"What would you like to know?" Dull, hollow tones. I always hope we won't do this, and I'm always disappointed when he indicates that's what we're doing.

My heart is pattering harder in my chest. My hands are sweaty, and I carefully wipe them down the tops of my jean-clad thighs, and regret the movement when his eyebrows raise. I hate those thick grey caterpillars on his face. I've heard caterpillars will roll if their hair gets caught on fire; I've always wanted to know if his eyebrows will roll right off his lying, scumbag-

"I want to know about the day he asked you to marry him."

I wonder if a physical dagger would be this painful. Surely, not. My knee bounces, and the dull click of my heel on the carpet pulls my attention back quickly. I cross one leg over the other. Sparrow looks at the knee-high boots with five buckles, purses his lips, and meets my eyes with blatant disapproval.

I shakily inhale and curse when he immediately starts jotting something down. I lick my lips and look at the floor in front of his desk to buy myself some time. Everything that happens in this white, clinical office is a game of words, actions, reactions, what's not said. I need to find the right ones to give him enough, just enough. He's like a leech, stealing all my memories from me, getting fat on the pain.

"It was raining. I loved the rain, back then." I let myself fall into the scene. Listening to the rain on the windows right here, in the now.

"How old were you?"

"I was 24. We'd been together in that house for four years, and we both had good enough jobs where money wasn't a total issue."

"Had times been tough before then?"

I shrug and look at him. His watery blue eyes peer at me dispassionately. Telling him these personal things about my past cheapens the memories, even if I don't want them anymore. "Everyone has tough times. We had a few. Slept in the car for a few months, but we had each other."

"You were lucky."

"I thought so, then." There is no hiding the rich bitterness in my voice. I don't even try.

"So, back to this rainy day."

I glance at the window in the room's corner. A massive oak desk sits just in front of it. He keeps the best views for himself. I wonder if he studied his books, what they would say about him.

"It was raining, and I cooked this dinner to celebrate just for the hell of it. Turkey, roast vegetables, gravy." I force a laugh. "Hell, I even baked an apple crumble for dessert." Me? Cooking? I didn't cook a single dinner for him. I can't cook. My only attempt resulted in me setting the kitchen on fire and a hysterical night laughing in his arms while he poked fun at me. I forcefully shove that memory aside. It's not welcome. "He was late."

He wasn't late. Louis was never, ever late. If he said he was going to be somewhere at a certain time, he was there, rain, hail, or shine. He was like clockwork.

"Late?"

"It was unusual. I was angry, and then scared. Maybe something happened to him? Maybe there was a car accident or, I don't know, maybe he was held up." I widen my eyes and lean forward. "I was beside myself thinking he could be lying in a ditch, dead somewhere."

"It must have been terrible." He's observing me with an intensity now that makes me nervous. Interested in all the words I have to say. I have to be careful not to oversell it.

"He comes home two hours late, walks in and looks at the cold food on the table, and his face just falls. He apologizes, and I cry. I hug him, checking for injuries, blabbering my fears out in barely recognizable English." Good grief, if I'd done any such thing, Louis would have packed me up and taken me to the closest doctor to see if I'd had some brain-altering medical episode. "I'm still losing it when I pat his pants. I put my hand inside the pocket, and I find this box. While I'm opening it, he falls to one knee, so by the time I look down, he's smiling, and he asks. It was the most romantic moment of my life."

"What words did he use?" Of course, he wants to know the exact words. I force my fingers not to curl in on themselves.

"He said, ‘I love you more than anything, be mine forever.' The ring was a beautiful square-cut diamond; he spent a month searching for the perfect one. I don't even know what happened to it." The stories are good, and I can see Sparrow believes me. He's writing furiously.

It's also complete and utter bullshit. The real memory swirls up in my mind, and for just a moment, I let myself remember.

I lay naked on the bed on my stomach, head in my hands, and laugh. The room smells like him and me. If I could bottle it, I would. The happy, post sex glow has me giddy, and I'm just happy. Life is good. Really good. He's leaning against the headboard, casually stroking my arm with the side of one finger. A hint of a smile on his lips and a band of light turning his blonde hair to gold. His dark brown eyes glint with humour. The sun is shining, but we don't care; we are in our own little world.

"You know you're mine, right?"

I smile at him. "I picked up on that fact four years ago, babe."

"Jojo," he gets all serious and sits up, twisting to reach into the top drawer of his bedside table. When he turns back, he's holding a ring with a red-black stone. "Make it official so I can stop murdering all the men who come knocking, trying to steal your fine ass."

I stare at the ring, and then put it aside and crawl up to straddle him again. I grind my cunt against his hardening cock and take his face in my hands.

"Yes."

His eyes shine with a triumph that makes me feel like a goddess. He sits up and wraps his arms around me, kissing his way to my neck. He moans as I take him inside me, as I ride us to orgasm.

"Mine forever now, Jojo," he whispers to my sweat-covered skin before he looks deep into my eyes. I stare back, needing him to see everything I feel, everything I'm promising.

"Forever, babe."

My eyes burn, and I look up at the ceiling and try to think about something else. I have to protect what moments I can. He can't have that one. I'll die first. It's too toxic. It's one of the few I have left that hasn't been dissected.

"Are you angry you never made it to the aisle?"

I swallow back the vicious retort. "I'm happier I didn't end up married to him, to be honest, I can't imagine how things could be worse, but if there was going to be anything that made it harder, that might have just been the straw that broke the camel's back."

Dr Sparrow throws back his head and laughs, his jowls wobbling wildly. "That is a very fair point, Miss Shade. Your life could have been much, much worse had you, how do they say it, ‘put a ring on it'?" He chuckles again and dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief.

I grin back in what I hope is a casual way. I'd prefer to throw myself at him and strangle the life from his body, but alas, we are all prisoners of society's constructs. My silence stretches as I wait for his mirth to die down.

"The time is up. I was going to go meet up with River," I say hopefully.

He puts his notepad and his pen down with a slowness that screams danger. "I'm disappointed." His eyes flick to my left, and I stiffen. A black wood door sits framed by two short bookcases. The door is shut, but just him glancing at it makes my heart thunder. I hear the threat that isn't spoken.

"I'll make sure I can stay extra long in our session in two days," I say tightly, hoping my anxiety doesn't betray me. Everyone says my light grey eyes give me away, all my thoughts and feelings exposed for anyone to read. I've worked hard to turn them into steel shutters, and slipping up in here would be the worst. I refuse to let my eyes slide to the door, fighting the urge with everything in me. There would be no way I could hide the terror if I did.

He frowns and leans forward. He seems to be searching for something in my eyes. I struggle to keep my facial expressions open and friendly. "All right, I guess that's okay."

"Thank you, Dr Sparrow." My relief is a physical thing.

"You're welcome, Jackie. Now, just remember, if you see anything, call me. If you hear anything, call me. Night or day. You aren't alone in this fight anymore."

Why does he insist on calling me Jackie? I had my name legally changed years ago. I hate Jackie. My name is Jax. I want to scream it at him. It's probably some slick psychiatrist ploy to unravel me.

"I will. You've been so kind to me." Argh, if I don't get out of here, I'm liable to choke on the syrup I'm spitting out of my mouth.

He pats my knee. Two taps, but it feels like he's branded me with something slimy. I stand up quickly, my muscles protest as I unfold. At the door, I pause and glance back. He's watching me with a dark look on his face. I escape the room and shudder, working hard to make my legs move slowly and fluidly, trying hard not to run.

Dark shapes twist and twirl out of the corner of my eyes. In the darkness, always in the dark. How late is it? It looks like it's nearing sunset. I must have been up there for hours. Sparkles of rainbow halos shimmer and vanish. I pretend I haven't seen a thing. They can wait for their turn. For exactly four blocks, I march with even steps, pushing down the tide of emotion that is bubbling up inside me. At the fourth, I turn the corner and finally am out of sight of his window view.

I throw myself against the wall, banging the back of my head against the bricks. The pain does nothing. I stare across the road, ignoring the looks I'm getting from two old women who are wheeling a trolley down the street. Their brown and dull clothes hang off emaciated bodies, but one pauses, her eyes roving over me. I press my fingertips into my sternum, trying to erase it all.

"You good, girl?"

I jerk towards her, startled. She's halfway across the road.

"I can help you," she says.

I shudder. "No. I'm good!"

Before she can say anything else and get across the road to rob me blind, I take off.

I can't escape my reality anymore than I can bottle that memory back up. His voice is clear as day, the sounds that he made when we were happy, his touch, his smell. I remember how much I loved him. I would have died for him. How good life was then. Food on the table, nice things, smiling, laughter, dancing, friends. Things I don't have anymore. My life was great, and I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world.

Now, my life is just another dumpster fire. That love is ashes, long gone, and that girl, well, she died, too. Nothing of that life remains but memories I buried.

And that's where they're going to stay.