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CHAPTER SIX
Therapy
Therapy
NOW
Jacksin isn’t sure exactly how therapy is supposed to help him. For one thing, his therapist is creepy. Sure, she’s just an uptight lady, but she creeps him out. Probably because she likes to pry. He never liked people who pried. It seemed sort of rude. If someone wanted to tell you something, they’d come to you--or answer if you asked once. Repeatedly asking about the same information when you knew it made someone uncomfortable was just cold.
Of course, he wasn’t a therapist, either, and he had issues. Maybe everyone tried to claim their therapist was a creeper to get out of having to go. He knew he’d come up with a plethora of excuses, enough that Sampson had finally started forcing him to go--driving him there, walking him to her door, and pushing him into her room if he seemed particularly unwillingly.
Today Sampson had done just that, given him a little shove. It had made his heart lurch as always, but after the invasion of the dogs, Laura’s morning questionnaire, and his nightmares, he paled severely, too. He could literally feel the blood drain from his face.
He saw Sampson flinch, automatically taking his hands away. His uncle looked concerned. “I’m not going to hurt you, buddy. I never would. You know that.”
Please stop taking it personally.
Jacksin tried out a small, understanding grin. “I’m okay,” he said. “I know.”
He brushed his fingers against Sampson’s wrist, which didn’t take away the perplexed and mildly horrified expression, and then stepped further into the threshold that would lead to Dr. Roslyn Mercy’s room.
He nodded to Sampson and Sampson pulled the door closed, concern still written all over his features. Jacksin watched as his soulful brown eyes and wild black head of hair slipped out of sight, painted black in the shadows, before he turned and walked down the length of corporate-like gray pattern carpet to the bigger room.
The bigger room was a sunny place, at least--flooded with white light from big, strong glass windows that lined the east and north walls. A few chairs of differing type, a lounge, a Oriental rug, and a coffee table were nestled in along the west wall. Jacksin did as he always did. He went to the plushest chair, as if to pretend he just really liked the softness and it wasn’t because he was sore he’d chosen it at first, and settled himself in. The softness under the gray pseudo-leather was nice, though; almost comforting.
He almost wished he had a blanket. He could probably sleep like this.
He listened to the wall-fountain run and looked over the magazines--cooking, car, medical health, and all other sorts of mags, but nothing he’d like. He saw the National Geographic, but he knew all the pictures had been cut out; too gory. It was sort of his fault, too. He’d sort of spazzed out. He hadn’t meant to, but the bloody photograph had been a bit too much at the time.
But, really, whose idea had that been, anyway?
Probably not Dr. Mercy’s.
Speaking of the devil, she walked right in. Her kitten heels made no sound on the thin carpet or thicker Oriental rug and then she was seated on the coach across from him. She had papers in her hands and was seemingly only focused on them.
Dr. Mercy seemed uptight. Like, for instance, she was looking like it today with a buttoned-to-the-throat t-shirt, weird, bird-like sweater, femme slacks, and sensible black shoes. She never really deviated from that, either. A fashionable, sort of pretty woman in her mid-thirties who treated freaks like him. A brown-eyed and brown-haired white girl who probably lived a cushy life and got to go to a good school. Heck, she’d even talked some about herself. She was the daughter of a psychiatrist, which had led her to child psychiatry.
He wondered what she’d say if he told her, yeah, he was physically sixteen-ish, but he felt more like a hundred and sixteen. She’d probably just ask him, “Why?”
He thought therapists were supposed to tell you what to do.
Of course, he hadn’t given her much to go on.
He frowned. Whatever.
“So, are you going to ask me highly personal questions about my life now?” he asked, sprawling out on the comfy chair. He put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward; chin resting on clasped hands.
Dr. Mercy gave him a patient smile. “Jacksin, your parents have been paying me to help you through this. I know that’s awkward sometimes, the fact I’m paid help, but I do want to help you. Also, just because your parents have given the task to me doesn’t mean they don’t care; they just don’t think they can help you and want someone they know can. I’d say that them accepting the fact they’re not right for the job is a big deal, even. Some people go in circles, you know, but they just aren’t right for helping out their loved ones, no matter how hard they try, and nothing is fixed. This is good.”
Jacksin stared, unable to help himself. Dr. Mercy had just gone full-on monologue, like some evil villain or whatever, like Cat-Woman or something. It was decidedly weird.
And, anyway, what the frick did she know? She was well aware he now lived with his aunt and uncle because his parents couldn’t handle him. Did she consider their cowardice the height of love, too?
He decided not to ask.
“Okay,” he said instead. He’d leave the psychologist to figure out what the frick went on in his parents’ brains; heaven knew he was about ready to decide he was the offspring of aliens from a particularly brutal, eat-your-relatives sort of planet. “Why do you want to help?”
Dr. Mercy stopped then; stopped shuffling her papers, stopped looking him over like a butterfly under glass. He wondered then if anyone had ever asked that, or if she was so used to pregnant girls and cutter boys who started bawling out their life’s problems the second someone said they cared that his question caused undue confusion.
“Excuse me?” she asked, trying out another smile, one that was mildly less real than her other assortment of happy expressions.
“I asked why you want to help me,” Jacksin said. “If it isn’t for money, why do you want to help? You seem young, sure, but you’re a old hand at this, aren’t you? What makes me special?”
“It’s not about being special,” Dr. Mercy said, stiffly. She sniffed. “You just can’t believe the amount of horrible things I’ve heard about, Jacksin. All I want is you poor kids to have a life after whatever happened to you. I want you to have a better life. I hope for you kids to go to college, or get a job, or join the military--whatever it is you want. I want you to have families and friends and have--”
“A normal life,” Jacksin finished.
Dr. Mercy’s smile drooped a little. “No, a good life.”
“So, if I sign up for the Marines and impregnate and marry some random girl, then leave her to shoot people or whatever, I’ll have a good life?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Jacksin tilted his head, but he couldn’t help but smile. “You’re good.”
Dr. Mercy shifted, crossing her legs another way. “Pardon?”
“You don’t act royally pissed at me when I act like a bastard,” Jacksin explained.
“Please leave that language outside of my office,” Dr. Mercy said, leaning back. She fixed disapproval-filled eyes on him.
“Okie-dokie.”
Dr. Mercy sighed, a gust-like sound, and then leaned over. She got a tin off one of the side tables of her lounge and then put it on the coffee table. “Cookie?” she asked, opening it.
He stared at the food like a normal person would stare at a cobra. He couldn’t exactly help it. He didn’t like surprises, or strangers offering him food, or being forced to deal with anything like deciding whether or not he was hungry. Basically, he was tired and didn’t want to be here--and anxious.
He was also concerned about whether or not Dr. Mercy had a couple of tots and made chocolate chip cookies for them and their little friends. That was weird and made her seem more like that pink-coat-wearing lady from those wizard movies than normal.
He lifted his eyes to see Dr. Mercy having a weird expression on her face; somewhere between her normal weirdness, ohmigosh-lemons-are-sour, and I’m-so-concerned-about-him.
“No thank you.”
“Are you eating?” she asked then.
He shifted back in the comfy chair, drawing his legs up. “Yeah, I eat.”
“But you don’t want to eat now?”
“I don’t like strangers’ food.”
Dr. Mercy looked momentarily perplexed, then she seemed to get what he meant. “I’m not going to drug you, Jacksin.” She paused. “Were you forced to take medication when you were away, or was the food not always safe to eat?”
Jacksin remembered the sweats and vision blur, the memories snatched away from him; the stomach cramps and vomiting. The answer was probably yes to both, but he stayed silent. He couldn’t force his numb lips to move and admit to anything.
Dr. Mercy leaned forward, concern deep in her brown eyes. “This is confidential, Jacksin, please remember that. You can tell me anything and you’ll be okay.”
“There are limits,” Jacksin mumbled.
“Are you going to go past those limits?”
Jacksin shook his head. He carded a hand through his hair and then sighed. A bird flew past the wide windows; a blue-jay, maybe. He tracked the movement from the corner of his eye.
“Good,” Dr. Mercy said, sounding almost relieved.
“How do you expect to help me?”
Dr. Mercy jumped.
Normally, they never went past what they’d just gone through. Either Jacksin stayed stone-silent, or--well, they never said anything of real importance. He couldn’t remember what he’d all said, but he knew well enough that none of it had been particularly helpful.
“Well, it depends on what you tell me happened, really,” she said, in a breezy sort of way--like this wasn’t a big deal. “Basically, I’d like to help you be less scared.”
“Why?” he asked. He folded the sleeves of his sweater-shirt up, and then down; flickers of old scars flaring over pale skin when he exposed his forearms. “Isn’t being scared a good thing?”
Dr. Mercy looked confused at that. “Fear is a natural human reaction, yes. Sometimes it goes too far. People get phobias--fears without reason.”
“I have reasons to be afraid, though,” Jacksin said. “In reality, I don’t think I’m that bad.”
“You’ve become extremely anti-social, have a phobia of being touched, and fear dogs. When I took you out to the park that one time, you jumped at every loud noise, every yell. You ate the ice cream I bought you, but said you might get sick after you were halfway through with it.”
Jacksin felt himself flush. He couldn’t help it and he knew it went from his throat to his forehead, more or less. He knew there had to have been a reason for that outing.
“Hey,” she said soothingly, “it’s all right. You don’t need to be embarrassed, I’m just telling you the facts. You asked.”
Jacksin said nothing.
“I want to help you get past those things. Your uncle, Sampson, says you haven’t really talked much either, and you haven’t spent time around people your own age. He says you stay away from your friends and avoid your other family..”
Jacksin felt himself bristle, hackles rising, even as he felt betrayal sink heavy in his gut. He knew Sampson had to tell her stuff, but--he couldn’t picture Sampson tattling on him.
“I generally avoid people who thought I was dead,” Jacksin said. “It’s too Jesus-y for me to go and be, like, hey, I’m not really rotting in some stream or chopped up in a dumpster. How’s your winter been?”
“Not letting people in is the worst thing to do, Jacksin,” Dr. Mercy said. He could picture her wagging a finger at him, like he was a misbehaving five-year-old.
“They wouldn’t understand,” Jacksin said.
“You don’t know what goes through other people’s heads, Jacksin, or what their home life is like,” Dr. Mercy claimed, “maybe they would. You have to give them--”
“It’s not my fault,” Jacksin muttered.
That caught Dr. Mercy’s attention. “What’s not your fault?”
He felt himself blank out. What had he meant by that? He couldn’t remember. Maybe he meant something along the lines of the fact it wasn’t his fault no one could look him in the eye, anymore--at least those so-called friends of his. No one but Booker, and Booker was sort of blind.
“What do you know about what happened?” Jacksin asked instead of answering. He couldn’t scramble fast enough for an answer to please her, anyway.
Dr. Mercy brushed some of her hair behind her ear and her silvery watched flashed when it hit the light. Jacksin tried to avoid being startled; acting like the metal was dangerous. It wasn’t a needle or knife. That was clear, but--
“Your aunt and uncle and parents were very kind,” she said. “They let me know as much as they could figure between themselves.”
Jacksin stilled, but asked, “And that is?”
“Roughly ten months ago your friends Blaze and Booker and yourself were out in the woods by the side of the highway leading to Brennan,” Dr. Mercy said. “Yelling caused you to go deeper into the woods and you found a wounded man being attacked by dogs.”
He shivered, eyes almost glazing over as the dark things tried to drag him back down.
“He had no ID or other form of identification and his fingerprints came up with nothing. He was held, thought to be an illegal immigrant.
“Shortly thereafter, your friend Blaze--Blaze David, old enough to be more so runaway material than abduction material--went missing. You were the last person to see him. The police stepped in after twenty-four hours, but found nothing where you had been. They searched any haunts of Blaze and all friends’ homes but found nothing.”
Of course they didn’t.
Dr. Mercy continued, “A little more than seven months ago, you disappeared in a similar fashion. The news talked of serial killers targeting older teen boys. Some questioned if Blaze had you,” she paused, “hadn’t just run away.”
Jacksin got the underlying meaning, but he didn’t speak up. Half the time, protest was seen as agreement these days.
“A few weeks ago, you returned during a snowstorm--Blaze and you. He went to his home, you to yours. You were covered in blood and gore and injured badly. They took you to the hospital and, luckily, it would appear you are healthy.”
Lies.
“That is, physically. I mentioned your fears. You also suffer from insomnia caused by vivid nightmares and night terrors. I wonder sometimes if it doesn’t go farther than that. Gianna mentioned you sometimes talk to yourself, or get scared at nothing, like you’re seeing something that isn’t there--”
Jacksin swallowed hard, twisted his hands where they rested in his lap. “What do you think happened? When you try and fill in the blanks, I mean.”
Dr. Mercy looked perplexed. “I doubt my thoughts will be true, and I don’t wish to confuse you.”
Jacksin barked a dry laugh. “I’m already muddled enough, no thanks to those bloody useless pills you assigned me.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her to the chase.
“Yeah, I still don’t sleep,” he said, voice rumbling deep in his chest. He smiled, something closer to a grimace, and asked again, “What do you think happened?”
Dr. Mercy put down the papers, them neatly folded now; probably color-coded, too. “You know that’s not in my job description, right?”
“I just want to see how you think of me.”
She sighed, eyes closing for an instant, and then sat up straighter. “I’m relatively certain that, yes, you two were abducted,” she said softly. “I don’t know by whom, or for what reasons, but I can guess--but I won’t bring up something that could trigger bad memories if possible. We’re not equipped to deal with that yet. I suppose that Blaze and you got away from him, but are maybe scared if you mention him, try and get him in trouble, he’ll try and get you back.”
Jacksin cocked his head, taking in Dr. Mercy. She’d stumbled over a lot, stopped herself plenty, but she seemed honest enough.
“I suppose this is where I ask how right I was,” she said. She gave him this sort of smile and--some of the weight lifted off his chest. He still didn’t feel like talking much, though.
He’d sort of begun to understand it wasn’t really helping anyone, though. He didn’t want to force anyone to walk on eggshells. He really didn’t. He just didn’t understand why it was his job to make people feel better.
He licked his lower lip, sinking back into the cushions, and listened to the flowing water, a steady, melodic sound. He tried to relax his muscles, but his hands stayed fisted in his shirt.
“You were pretty right,” he said then.
Dr. Mercy froze where she’d bent to get one of the cookies from the tin. Her dark eyes flashed to his and he pictured Blaze for a second, something new. His hands curled tighter.
She slowly eased herself back up, as if not to scare him. “In which ways?” she asked, softly. She then seemed to berate herself mentally or something, because she flinched. “You don’t have to tell me. This is good progress, but if you feel up to it--”
“We were abducted, I guess,” Jacksin said. “You were correct to assume it was a man and not a woman, too.”
Dr. Mercy slowly got her yellow legal pad and sat back, pen in hand. She wrote down a few things. All in all, she acted like a person pointedly trying not to spook him. It was sort of hilarious. Or, you know, it would be. If he wasn’t on the brink of letting the cat wholly out of the bag.
So, he thought about everything but that. He contemplated whether or not Dr. Mercy’s way of doing things was normal, because he was pretty sure her whole shtick was pretty old-school and whether or not the water in the fountain was, like, tap water or purified. But his brain, after the forceful thoughts as he listened to the clock tick away at the hour he had, his nails digging into the arms of the chair now, always led back to the dark places.
Then they led back to Blaze.
“Blaze might be upset.” He’d meant to think it, not say it aloud, but there it was.
Dr. Mercy glanced up. Her eyes had this soft quality, one he didn’t see much in the icy woman. Again, something made him want to talk.
“This is confidential, remember?” she prompted.
Jacksin remembered. That wasn’t his problem. “He could take me back.”
She stilled.
“Honey, you’re very safe,” she said, as if that would make him feel better.
The cops had let go of their interest in him for the most part. He wasn’t helpful in the answering questions department, or he hadn’t been. It had been enough to make them suspicious, probably.
If he was a virginal white girl, maybe the news and them might have been more interested--if you stressed the virginal part. Maybe they would have sent people who wouldn’t just shove him around, asking sharp, pointed questions, and making accusations at him, if only because plenty of better-to-do children kept rolling back in body bags, too. They didn’t even think they were related, or, if the police force did, Dr. Mercy and everyone he knew hadn’t brought them up. Same wounds, but--
“Would you be willing to tell me about him, maybe?” she asked.
She winced again.
He thought about how young she really was--a psychiatrist’s daughter, trying to fill in her daddy’s shoes. Probably coddled and spoiled, but ignored.
“What would you like to know?” he asked, instead of answering right away.
“What he looked like, a name if you can recall it--”
“Everybody called him The Monster.”
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