Page 73 of Kill Me

Harley - Present Day

Day 2 of therapy

“Do you need a break?”

She shakes her head. “No, I could do with another drink though.”

I stand up and reach for her glass before heading to the kitchen to replenish it for her. I wonder if she notices that even in therapy she diverts from the question. When I first asked her about what she remembered the other night, she continued the conversation and went in a different direction until I asked her a question she felt comfortable answering. Determined to get to the bottom of it, I walk back into the room we use for her therapy.

“I’m curious,” I ask. “When you deflect from one subject to another, are you aware of it?”

She looks confused for a second but processes her thoughts before speaking out loud. “I didn’t deflect. You asked me about when my OCD started, and I told you.”

“That was actually the second question I asked you. The first question was about your recovered memories. But you continued the conversation and made jokes until I asked you the next question. It’s not a criticism, it’s an observation.”

“I’d never really thought about it until you just mentioned it, to be honest. But you may be right. The only way I’ve ever known how to get out of conflict with my mum and my brother was to deflect. To make a self-deprecating joke or to agree with their criticisms. When I would disagree or offer up an opinion, it would usually result in a violent or verbal confrontation until I did agree.”

“Have you ever been badly injured by them? Like ended up in the hospital?” My tone screams concern.

“Not that I can specifically remember. I remember injuries. Scratches on my chest that I would blame on falling into objects and pretending to be clumsy. My mum would bruise me in places that were hidden. My stomach, my head, any place that was always covered in clothes. Eric just didn’t give a fuck. If he hurt me, he’d own it. By the time my dad would be home from work, it wasn’t even worth trying to give my side of the story.”

“When you were just recalling the day he came home, the moment you spoke about your dad, your tone softened. Why?”

“I never even realised I did that. My dad has always been special to me. I don’t know if it was the idea of him as a dad or what he could be, or the fact that I always hung my hopes on getting away from my mother on him. Which to some would be unfair… but he’s my dad. He’s supposed to keep me safe. To some extent, he didn’t know the things they would put me through, but there were times he saw things and instead of saying something he shrank away from the confrontation.”

She takes another gulp from her drink. She hasn’t cried yet this session, and I’m trying to determine if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

“As I’ve gotten older, it’s gone from anger to indifference. The understanding that it may not be just me who is being abused, or that maybe he stays blissfully ignorant because the truth is too ugly. They say the truth shall set you free, but in this instance, for my dad, I think the truth would kill him. So he’d rather stay close than be too far away.” She fidgets with the reaper in her lap.

“Him allowing them to drop me off at the hospital and sign me over—that shocked me. I felt a level of anger I had never experienced before. Actually, probably more devastation than anger. For the first time, I felt like it made our relationship irreparable. Because how could a father watch not only his wife do this to his daughter, but also his son? The only reason I could even fathom is fear of the unknown consequence. But at some point, fear isn’t an excuse anymore.”

“What do you think your dad could do to make your relationship repairable?”

“At minimum, he would need to leave my mum. And if the reason he stayed was fear of never being able to be in my life, then that is no longer a problem. Granted, he doesn’t know where I am or how to find me, but I don’t know if I would ever be able to trust him again. If he stayed because he was a victim of hers, then that would be one thing. If he knows the levels of abuse I was subjected to, that’s another.”

“Why do you think he stays?

“I would imagine she used the one thing that would force his hand—me.”

So you’re not totally closed off to it; it’s just dependent on the circumstances?” She nibbles on the edge of her cuticle as she nods her head, a small part of her nail jagged and angry, symbolising the current state of mind in regards to her dad.

“Okay. That’s something we can monitor with CCTV and surveillance. When the time is right, and you’re ready, we can look into that. I think we need to go back to the harder stuff now. It’s time to talk about that recovered memory.”

She stares straight into my eyes, and all of a sudden her body begins to tremble. “Quinn? Talk to me…”

Quinn

Since the very first time I had stared into his green eyes, they had come to resemble things I loved. But in this moment, all I can see when I look into his eyes are the same eyes that Eric had. His expressions weren’t the same, but in my mind they were, and I was taken back to the night of the rape.

“They raped me.” I say it matter-of-factly, so there’s no room for confusion, but it seems I wasn’t clear enough.

“They?”

“Yes, they. My brother, his best friend Dane, and my best friend Millie. Right now, your eyes are triggering me.”

“Okay. Do you want me to switch out with Lulu for a few minutes?”

I nod. “Yes, please. I’m sorry.”