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Somehow, though, George never managed to fix whatever my dad wanted him to.
I was still always just a fuck-up in his eyes.
“Why do you need therapy?” I ask.
“Because I’m depressed,” she repeats, and her tone of voice is making me sound like I’m stupid.
“You don’t look depressed.”
“What does a depressed person look like?” she asks, rolling onto her side to look at me. “What do I need to do to meet your criteria? Should I start looking a bit like you?”
She raises an eyebrow, and I’m a little glad that some of her attitude has returned.
“Me?” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “I’m not depressed.” I’ve got a mission. How can I be depressed when I’ve got a purpose? A goal?
“Oh, right,” she says. I feel like there’s something off with her tone. It’s kind of flat as if she’s gone through the motions and knows how she should be behaving. But it’s not how she actually wants to behave.
It’s hard being around her knowing that she’s not acting right, but then I hate myself for knowing that even in the first place. I barely know this woman. Why should I care if she’s behaving abnormally?
“What do you mean?” I demand, looking at her more intensely for clues. “How am I depressed?”
“I didn’t say you are depressed,” she replies.
“No, you implied it,” I retort, and she gives the barest of smiles.
“Your hair is greasy,” she tells me, and I shrug. “When was the last time you showered?”
“Wednesday,” I reply. I don’t mention that it was Wednesday of last week, but it’s not like I don’t get clean. I wash my pits, face, and balls every day. Or at least every other day.
“Showering takes energy, takes me away from my goal. Every now and then I’ll quickly wash myself off when I’m here alone and with nowhere else to be, but it’s not the priority.” But saying it out loud makes it feel like an excuse.
“I feel that,” she says, nodding. “It’s hard work being depressed.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“No? Then what’s your deal?”
“My deal?” I ask. “My deal is none of your fucking business.”
She nods, closing her eyes, not pushing me. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what changes within me. What makes me want to tell her, but I do.
“I had a mate,” I say, and her mouth parts ever so slightly, but she doesn’t seem to react in any other way. “Her name was Lainey, and she was perfect.”
“Was?” Nora asks gently.
“She was murdered,” I add. “She was pregnant with my baby when hunters took her.”
“And, yet, you now work for that organisation,” she says. I nod my head, although my eyebrows raise a little bit.
I never told her I was a hunter. Does she know who I am? Or did she maybe assume this because I took her the other day?
She doesn’t seem to realise she shared something she shouldn’t know, and so I tuck it away. Clearly, in this state, she’s vulnerable and is oversharing.
“I want to find them all and kill them, one by one,” I say, watching her for a reaction. “And then, I’m going to kill myself.”
“I suppose it’s good to have goals.”
My confession doesn’t seem to take her by surprise, and I’m not sure why. It unsettles me, causing me to doubt everything that we’ve discussed.
