“I spent years believing the wrong story about her,” I frown. “And she died before I ever gave her the chance to tell me the truth.”
“That must be difficult to live with.”
No shit.
“And then there’s my brother. I hallucinate sometimes, that's why I take medication.”
Her pen stops moving.
“You experience hallucinations?”
“Yes.”
“What do you see?”
I rest my elbow on the desk and look down at my hands.
“I see my brother sometimes.”
Her expression shifts slightly.
“Do you know why?”
“I don’t know,” My gaze drops to my hands. “Maybe guilt.”
“Guilt from what?”
“From killing him.”
Her eyes stay steady on the screen.
“I killed him in self-defense,” I admit. “But I still see him. He shows up when the worst parts of me start pushing forward. When the violent instincts start coming back.”
She nods slowly.
“And before that?”
“Before my brother died,” I answer, “I used to see my father.”
“You hallucinated your father?”
“Yes.”
“When did that begin?”
“When the same urges started surfacing. Whenever the part of me that wants to hurt people started coming out, he would appear.”
She writes something down.
“So the hallucinations are connected to violent thoughts.”
“Yes. My brain reminds me exactly what happens when I let that part of myself run unchecked.”
“Do you believe you were born this way,” she asks, “or shaped this way?”
“Both.”
“If you had grown up somewhere safe, do you think you would still crave control?”
