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He repeated it like amantra, willing it to be true. The isolation of the room became a fortress inhis mind, a bastion against the inevitable hunt. He had been careful, alwayscareful. Paid the late Rebekah Holden in cash, just as he'd paid the others, leavingno financial breadcrumbs to follow.
Yet the specter ofcapture loomed over him. Exhaustion clawed at his limbs, but surrender was notan option. Not yet. There was still a chance, slim as it might be, that hecould outpace the shadows that chased him. But first, he had to quell the storminside, to leash the darkness that snapped at its confines, eager to breakfree.
The man’s fingerstrembled as they delved into the worn fabric of his suitcase, a drab oliverelic that had seen better days. It lay sprawled open on the chipped laminateof the motel dresser. As he sifted through the motley assortment of clothingand personal items, his hand brushed against something cool and metallic. Hepaused, heart hitching in his chest, and extracted his mother's necklace fromthe rubble.
It was a delicatething, the silver chain fine and almost ethereal in his large, rough hands. Thependant, a small and intricately wrought angel, seemed to mock him with itspromise of guardianship. He remembered her voice, soft and steady, recountingtales of its protective virtues as she clasped it around her neck each morning.
She had been hisanchor, the one who could still the tempest that raged within him, her presencea balm to the tumultuous urges that threatened to consume him.
Gripping the necklacetightly, he could almost feel the warmth of her hands, the gentle touch thathad so often steered him away from the precipice of his own dark impulses.
But those hands werenow out of reach, her voice but a fading echo in the chambers of his memory. Hehad left, driven by a need for distance, for space, unable to endure theclaustrophobic weight of her concern.
Alone in the soullesslight of the motel room, he let the necklace dangle from his fingertips,watching it spin slowly, catching glints of light from the flickering bulboverhead. His mother had kept him leashed, her compassion a constant reminderof who he needed to be, what he must contain.
But severed from thatlifeline, he was adrift, a vessel battered by inner storms without a harbor insight.
With a suddenmovement, he placed the necklace on the dresser. It lay there, incongruousamidst the stained brochures and empty fast-food wrappers, a relic of a lifeslipping through his grasp. He looked away, a knot of desperation coiling inhis gut. Even now, the darkness gnawed at him. Sweat beaded on his brow as hestruggled to cage the wildness inside him, to dam the flood of urges thatsurged against the fragile barriers of his control.
He needed help morethan ever before, yet the void left by his mother's absence seemedinsurmountable. Her soothing tones, her tender assurances – they were echoeslost to the vast emptiness that now defined his existence. He was alone, pittedagainst the relentless tide of his own nature, and the realization clawed athim with cruel, unforgiving talons.
He stood motionless, aman besieged by his own psyche, staring at the necklace as if it might yieldsome secret, some key to the serenity that eluded him. In the quiet room it wasjust him, the throbbing vein of panic in his temple, and the inexorable pull ofthe abyss that beckoned him with whispers of surrender.
The frayed edges ofthe motel room's drab carpet curled up like withered leaves as he paced. Hemoved back to the suitcase, and trembling with an anxious energy, fumbledthrough the clutter, sending a worn wallet skittering across the surface beforeit fell to the floor.
Ignoring the wallet,his hands plunged deeper, seeking the printed list that was his last hope, hislifeline. When his grasp finally closed around the crumpled paper, he seized itwith a reverence reserved for sacred texts, smoothing it against his thigh. Thenames and numbers blurred before his eyes, swimming into focus only as heforced himself to take measured breaths.
Clasping the list, heperched on the edge of the bed, the phone a cold weight in his hand. His thumbhovered over the keypad before pressing down with deliberate force, summoningthe dial tone that filled his eardrums. Each ring seemed to echo in the confinesof his skull, a countdown to what could be salvation or condemnation.
‘Hello?’ came thevoice at the other end.
‘Simon,’ he croaked,the name feeling foreign on his lips. ‘My name's Simon. I need help. Now.’
There was a pause, ahesitation that prickled his skin with dread. ‘Hi Simon. Are you looking tobook a therapy session?'
'Yes. Tonight.'
'I'm sorry, sir, butI've finished for the night, but we can certainly arrange for another time.'
His heart hammeredagainst his ribcage, each beat a drumroll of panic. ‘No, it can't. Please, youdon't understand—I need someone right now.’
He heard the sigh, asound that carried with it a weight of professional boundaries and personalexhaustion. ‘I'm no longer at my office, but how does next Friday sound? I'mfully booked until then, I'm afraid.'
He wasn't sure whatthe day's date was, but next Friday might as well be an eternity away. Thebeast within him would not be caged until then—it demanded freedom, demandedaction. It was a relentless entity, clawing its way through the fragile facadeof normalcy he had so painstakingly constructed.
‘Please,’ hewhispered, a plea that held the tattered remnants of his sanity in itstremulous grasp. ‘I can't wait. I can't.’
He felt the fabric ofhis shirt cling to his back, damp with sweat born from fear. His knuckleswhitened around the phone, the only lifeline he had in a world that wasslipping beyond his control.
'I wish I could offersomething sooner, but I'm unavailable. I can connect you with another therapistif you wish. I have a trainee named Alex who can...'
'No. No trainees, nomen.' Simon's voice cracked, the words splintering into desperation. ‘I needsomeone to talk to, can't you make an exception? Tomorrow morning, at thelatest.’
There was a pause onthe line, and Simon's pulse pounded in his ears, each throb a hollow echo ofhopelessness. He could feel the urge crawling beneath his skin, the darkimpulse that had driven him from his mother's watchful eyes, that had compelledhim to uproot his life.
‘Alright,’ thetherapist finally relented. ‘I can fit you in at eight AM tomorrow, but I canonly give you forty-five minutes.'
‘Thank you, thank youso much,’ he gasped out, relief flooding through him like a wave washing overparched sand.
