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CHAPTER SEVEN
The porcelain cup clinkedas he set it down, the bitter remnants of coffee leaving a sepia-toned stain onthe white table. The cafe buzzed with the subdued symphony of mid-morning: thegrind of beans, the hiss of steam, the murmur of conversations blending into acomforting white noise. He savored these mundane moments, a veneer of normalcythat coated his fraying edges.
‘Excuse me,’ a voicechimed, slicing through his haze. A woman from the adjacent table leaned towardhim, her fingers brushing against the small metal pitcher of cream that satidle among his coffee debris. ‘Are you finished with this?’
He turned to face her,noting the playful spark in her eyes.
‘It’s rare a womanasks me for my cream,’ he smiled. The corner of his mouth tilting upward in asmirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
She let out a chuckle,airy and unguarded, as she retrieved the pitcher.
‘There's a first timefor everything,’ she laughed, holding his gaze for a moment longer thannecessary before retreating to her own space—a territory marked by a laptop andan array of papers. ‘Thank you,’ she nodded from across the way.
For a fleeting moment,he indulged in the warmth of the exchange, the harmless flirtation that allowedhim to feel almost human. But the transient comfort dissolved as swiftly as ithad appeared, replaced by a shadow that crept over his heart, icy tendrilstightening around it.
His thoughts,traitorous and unbidden, veered toward those who'd tried to dissect hismind—therapists with their probing questions and discerning eyes. Women who'dpushed too far, who couldn't peel back the layers of his psyche to reach thecore of his torment. Their efforts had been futile, their sessions ending infrustration—for them and for him.
When he had sat acrossfrom them, something primal stirred within, a beast clawing at the cage of hisribs. Anger, rage, mania—it surged like a tide, drowning reason, flooding himwith an urge to unleash the darkness that writhed beneath the surface. It wasas though certain words, certain glances, were keys turning in locks,unleashing a version of himself he neither recognized nor could control.
He clenched his jaw,the memory of the therapists' faces blurring into a singular image ofhelplessness. They had delved too deep, asking questions that had no answers,or perhaps answers that were better left buried. In their presence, he had felta disquieting kinship with chaos, a sense of being an imposter in his own skin.
The sound of laughterfrom another table snatched his attention back to the present, to the café thatserved as a temporary refuge from the storm inside. He needed to find solace,to quiet the cacophony in his head. Soon, he would meet with a new therapist, anew woman with familiar green eyes that mirrored his own—a reflection that heldboth promise and peril. He clung to the hope that she might be the one tountangle the knots within him, to soothe the fury that threatened to consumehim.
The clatter ofporcelain and the hum of idle chatter faded into a distant background chorus ashis gaze fixated on the scene unfolding across the café. A young toddler, hischeeks streaked with tears, wailed in distress, gripping at the hem of hismother's coat. The woman's lips curled into a sneer, her voice sharp as sheadmonished the child, commanding him to silence with a severity that seemed toslice through the ambient noise and strike directly at his core.
It wasn't the child'scries that ensnared his focus; he had heard countless children cry before. No,it was the mother's reaction—harsh, unyielding—that sent a shockwave of angercrashing through him. His heart rate surged, thumping erratically against hisribcage, as if trying to break free from its bony prison.
His hand trembled onthe table, knuckles whitening as they clenched into fists. The world around himblurred, details smudging into a hazed canvas painted with his rising fury. Hervoice echoed in his head, louder than any other sound, a relentless chimeinciting a mania he could not quell.
Visions flooded hismind, dark fantasies of wrapping his hands around her slender neck, squeezinguntil the scolding stopped, until all that remained was silence—a silence thatwould satiate the tumultuous rage.
He could feel himselfslipping, losing grip on the fragment of control he fought so desperately tomaintain. He knew he shouldn't be here amidst the innocents who were obliviousto the tempest raging in his core. The therapy, the endless sessions—they weremeant to quiet these urges, to subdue the beast clawing at his insides.
But nothing worked.Nothing ever worked.
With a start, he shotup from his chair, his movements erratic, drawing the attention of those aroundhim. They turned to stare, eyes wide with confusion or concern, but none daredto approach. They couldn't understand the war that raged within him, the battlebetween man and monster.
He lurched forward,forcing his legs to carry him away from the temptation, away from the scenethat threatened to unleash the chaos simmering beneath his skin. Every step wasa triumph over the darkness, every breath a plea for salvation as he barreled pasttables and patrons, their faces blurring into indistinct shapes.
Bursting through thecafé doors, he emerged into the bright morning air, gasping for respite.Outside, he staggered along the sidewalk, twitching with residual anger,murmuring disjointed apologies to an audience of none. His eyes darted around,paranoid of judgmental glances, but the passersby spared him no more than afleeting look before continuing on their way.
‘Control,’ hewhispered to himself, a mantra to still the tremors that wracked his frame.‘Control.’
He wrapped his armsaround his torso, hugging his body tightly as if to physically hold himselftogether. He needed to get away, far from crying children and stern mothers,far from the triggers that threatened to unravel him.
He leaned against thecool brick wall of a nearby building, allowing its solidity to ground him, totether him back to reality. Slowly, the haze began to lift, clarity returningwith each laborious breath.
The cityscape meldedinto a blur as he moved through it, the sound of his own footsteps echoing inhis ears like the ticking of a clock, marking the countdown until hisappointment. Every minute that slipped by was a step closer to her—the newtherapist with the verdant eyes mirroring his own, the woman who might justhold the key to his labyrinthine mind.
He had glimpsed herphotograph on the clinic's website, and something about those familiar featureshad ignited a flicker of hope in the darkness. She had his cheekbones, high andpronounced, a genetic echo that whispered of kinship in a world where he oftenfelt alien. It was absurd, perhaps, to feel this connection to a stranger basedsolely on a digital image, yet it was there—an invisible thread tugging himtowards her.
‘Could she be the oneto understand?’ he pondered as he navigated the crowded sidewalks, dodgingpeople who carried on with their mundane routines. He could not, would not,continue on this path of solitary suffering. The bitter taste of desperationclung to his tongue; he needed her insight, her expertise. Anything to quellthe beast that lurked beneath his skin, waiting for moments of weakness to clawits way out.
As he turned a corner,the towering edifice of the therapy center came into view, an imposingstructure of steel and glass that promised a semblance of salvation. Itsreflection warped across the neighboring buildings.
‘Three hours,’ hemuttered to himself, checking the watch strapped too tightly around his wristas if the pressure could keep him grounded. ‘Just three hours.’
He continued marchingforward, trying to outrun the shadows that trailed him, his anticipationgrowing with each block traversed. A cool breeze ruffled through his hair,offering a brief reprieve from the stifling anxiety that clung to him.
