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And… we’re back to my diagnosis again.
None of the professionals can believe that my symptoms manifested so early—or that it took until I was fifteen and Madelaine was dead before anyone took them seriously.
I clench my fists so tightly that my fingers are straining against my gloves, pulling the leather taut. “You’d be surprised at how far back my memory goes.”
“What did he look like? Did he change his appearance over time or look the same?”
That’s a pretty standard question. And a safe one.
“They can make themselves look however they want.” Dr. Gillespie wags his pen at me, gesturing for me to elaborate. I shrug. “Black hair. He used to wear it short, then let it grow out some. Crazy silver eyes, like dimes or something shining out of his face. He was super pale, too.” He was also the prettiest man I’ve ever seen in my life, but I don’t tell the doctor that. Instead, grasping for something else to say, I add, “He looks exactly the opposite of the golden fae.”
I regret the words almost as soon as they’re out.
His hand twitches. The pen he was clutching slips from between his suddenly lax fingers. “Fae?”
Oops. My throat goes dry, the memory of that fae trying to push it’s way through. I’ll talk about Nine. But the monster? “I… I don’t want to talk about that. Forget I said anything.”
Dr. Gillespie is wearing that same knowing look from before. He’s read my file. There’s no way he doesn’t know about the golden fae, a creature of fire and laughter and the power to make others do whatever he wants them to. Like how he lured Madelaine to him, or how he caused me to wear these gloves forever.
Nine is safe. I’m not afraid of him.
But the golden fae who promised to come after me?
I visibly shake.
Dr. Gillespie sees that, too. Aware that I’m so close to the edge, he backs off. “Then tell me more about Nine.” When I don’t argue, he pushes. “So your first memory is from very early on. What about your last? How often did he appear to you? What would he say?”
As someone who was initially diagnosed as schizophrenic before my personality disorder was pinpointed, these are the sorts of questions that I’m used to. I’m so relieved that he’s letting the golden fae go without pressing me for answers, I willingly continue to discuss Nine.
Besides, I know what he’s expecting from me. He wants crazy? I’ll give him bonkers.
For the next twenty minutes I ramble on, telling the doctor everything I remember about Nine: from how he rarely strayed from the shadows, to the very clear warnings he gave about never letting anyone touch me. I probably just confirmed my haphephobia to Dr. Gillespie. That’s fine. Like I told him before, I’m not afraid to be touched—not exactly. It’s more like I was brainwashed from a very early age that if you let anyone with Faerie blood touch you, you give them power over you. A touch of your hand is like giving the fae permission to reach inside of you and steal part of your soul. For the magical race, that power is everything.
Madelaine’s murderer proved that six years.
Logically, I know the fae can’t exist. Deep down, I accept that they do—and that no one else will ever believe me. So I might as well keep on pretending.
It’s a good thing it doesn’t bother me when I lie—to the doctors, the techs, or even myself—or my stomach would always be tied up in knots.
There’s a strange look on Dr. Gillespie’s face as I speak. His pen is still where he dropped it. I don’t think he took a single note. He’s peering at me closely, as if trying to figure out if I really believe any of what I just told him.
This is new to me, too. For once, I told one of my doctors the absolute truth, even if I stopped short of admitting that I heard Nine’s voice for the first time in years last night. Let him think I’m lying. It’s freeing to realize that I honestly don’t give a crap what this man thinks of me.
I’m out in two weeks, two days, and a couple of hours. My release is already in motion. Unless I do something really terrible, I’m out in half a month.
When I’m done—when there’s nothing left I want to share about the Shadow Man—Dr. Gillespie takes a deep breath. I don’t think he knows what to make of any of that. We both gotta know that my file says I’m not a big talker mainly ‘cause I have a hard time connecting to other people.
But that wasn’t for Dr. Gillespie. That was all for me.
He waits another few seconds before he chuckles weakly. “Quite… quite an imaginative child.”
“Yeah.” I shouldn’t feel this triumphant. “That’s what each of my first four foster families said, too.”
And the point goes to Riley this time around.
6
I didn’t always have to hide Nine. For most of my life, though, I did.
