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“Sure thing, Doc. I’m all ears,” I say, trying to sound as interested as I possibly can.
“So, we’ll be doing something called cognitive-behavioral therapy which will focus on changing your self-sabotaging behavior. What that really means is that we’ll go over some things on how to cope with your problems or even stress in a healthy way instead of it making you want to continuously use drugs. You with me so far?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Now for your withdrawal treatment, I was opting to go the no medications route but there might be some instances where you might need it. But we’ll have to see how that goes as we go along. Some people develop other issues during this stage that may require some sort of medication while some don’t.”
“Gotcha,” I say, not knowing what else to tell him. Kidnapper is sitting a few feet away from me, listening to everything. The doctor hands him some papers and he collects it.
“Those are a list of things she should be eating to get her body back to a healthy weight and healthy in general,”
“Thanks, Doc, I appreciate it,” he says.
The doc leaves some more instructions that I pay no attention to before he leaves for the day. Apparently, I’m getting a visit every other day until this detox shit or whatever fancy word he used is complete.
When dinner time rolls around, the kidnapper makes grilled salmon, broccoli, and mashed potatoes. He feeds me again.
“I can eat by myself you know,” I grumble at him.
“I don’t trust you to not throw it away. If I’m feeding you, then that means you eat every single bite,” he says. I hate that he’s right. After we’re done, he hands me a bottle of water and makes sure I drink some of it too. “Need to keep you hydrated since it should be helping as a way to lessen your cravings.”
“Whatever,” I grumble at him.
“Let’s go,” he tells me as he stands from the table.
“Where?” I question.
“To exercise,”
“Fucking hell. I don’t want to fucking exercise!” I snap.
“You have to. It’s part of your treat—” he starts but doesn’t get to finish. In one quick move, I grab the empty plate and fling it at his head.
I quickly rush behind the counter to the kitchen. The first thing I grab is a glass and I fling that at him too. I spot the knife and pick it up and hold it out in front of me.
“Let me go! I don’t want to stay here!” I scream at him.
“Why not? I’m fucking helping you here! Do you want to go back out there and continue doing coke and who knows what other kind of drugs you’ll get yourself mixed up with? You’ll probably get yourself killed? Is that what you fucking want?” he yells at me.
“Yes! That’s what I fucking want! Who the hell are you to keep me from doing what I fucking want to do? Why do you care if I die? I want to! Fuck!” I scream.
“I’m sorry but I can’t fucking let you go so you can kill yourself! I need you alive,” he says.
“So, you’ve said but why?” I cry out.
“When you get better, I’ll tell you. You might hate me but I’ll live with it as long as you’re alive and clean,” he says.
I lunge for him with the knife but he anticipates my move. He’s much faster than I am and he deflects it. We both go tumbling to the floor. I land on my back with him on top of me as he grabs the knife and flings it away from us.
He looks down at me. I lift a hand up to touch his mask but pull it back at the last second and he grabs both of my hands and places them above my head.
“Not yet,” he tells me.
“Are you freaking hard right now?” I shriek.
“I guess you standing there with a knife in your hand, intent on killing me, was a turn-on,” he tells me.
“Psycho!” I snap.
