I shake my head and study the floor. Filling pages with feelings doesn’t appeal to me. “Kinda. I write lyrics from them.”

“That’s helping?”

“Yes.” Not really.

He puts his pad and pen on his desk and leans back in his chair. “This is good. You’re processing the nightmares in a way that works. The sexual dreams with the men, that—”

“Stop. I know what you mean.”

“Rex.” He gives me the look. The one that says skating around my issues won’t lead to progress.

“I just . . . it’s hard enough to dream it. I don’t want to hear you talk about it.” I grip my stomach and nausea builds in my throat.

The dreams. Flashes of different faces. Older men with hungry eyes, licking their lips, reaching out to touch, and all the feelings that come with it. The terror, pain, and helplessness. For years I thought those dreams were telling me I’m gay—even though I’m not the least bit attracted to men—but why the hell would a teenage kid dream about them in this way?

“I understand. I do, but if these are actual memories, then we can work on molestation victimization rather tha—”

“I’m not a victim. They aren’t memories. They’re . . . they can’t be.” I tug on my lip ring to keep my fingers off the rubber band at my wrist.

“Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Exactly. I would’ve told someone at the hospital or my case worker from the home.” Hope drips slowly, freeing my lungs enough to take a full breath.

There’s no record of me being abused, only that I tried to kill myself when I was ten and was taken out of foster care and put into a group home for troubled kids.

His eyes go soft with sympathy that just pisses me the fuck off.

“There are people out there that go through lifetimes of abuse and never talk. You tried to kill yourself, Rex. It’s important to ask yourself what would drive a ten-year-old boy to do that.”

I wasn’t trying to kill myself. At least, I don’t think I was. I have a vague memory of pressing the sharp piece of metal into my skin and dragging it down my arm. It was exciting. It made me feel hopeful. I just can’t remember why.

“In your professional opinion, I was being molested and I tried to kill myself. Those seem like two pretty fucking significant things. Why don’t I remember any of it?”

“We’ve talked about this, how children handle trauma differently than adults. They unconsciously lock away the traumatic memories as a form of protection. It’s not that you don’t remember; it’s that your mind won’t allow you to unlock the place where they’re stored.”

I groan and pinch my eyes closed. Accepting that I was sexually molested by men, many different men, is more than I can stomach. And the dreams, they’re so vivid: the conflicting feelings of hating what’s happening to me, but not being able to control my body’s reaction to the touch. I break out in a sweat and wipe my palms on my pants.

Why would any living breathing human being allow that to happen to a kid in his care? God! What kind of a sick fucking world is this? And if the memories are locked in there and somehow they get unlocked, what then?

My skin feels alive, and I’m overcome with the urge to race out of here. “I’m sick.” The words are meant for only me and come out strangled.

“You’re not sick. You were an innocent child who trusted those who were trusted to take care of you.” His words are clipped with anger. “If there was a way I could get more information about the different families, investigate and find out what happened to you, I would.”

“There’s nothing to suggest those things happened. They’re just dreams.” Dreams of a sexually demented and mentally unstable psycho.

“Nothing is just a dream, Rex. Everything has meaning: your fear of letting people in, compulsion to be clean and stay organized. You don’t allow anyone in to mess up the delicate balance that’s keeping you on the right side of sane? All of that means something.”

I dig my fists into my eyes and rub. God, why won’t he stop talking?

“You crave structure, order, because it’s something you can control. Not allowing people into your condo keeps your space safe.”

Stop. Fucking. Talking!

“And your sexual habits . . . Prostitutes and easy women who allow you to get what you need and move on. That too—”

“Stop it! None of this bullshit you’re talking about is real.” I lean toward him and stab my finger into my chest. “I’m a sick fuck! There’s no reason for why I’m sick; I just am. Have you ever thought of that?”

His eyes narrow. “It’s possible, but doubtful.”

“Doubtful? My mom was bi-polar, depressed, and who knows what else.” I shake my head, suddenly irritated that I don’t have a single fucking memory of her that didn’t come from her autopsy report. “My dreams, my OCD, the shit I do to my body, maybe that’s just me and there is no excuse.”

He’s quiet, his expression blank and probably not at all surprised by my outburst. He’s heard it all before. Without concrete memories, therapy has been me chasing my tail around a big fat void.

The small office grows tight with my heavy breathing. Silence fills the space between us. People don’t understand what it’s like to not have a past, to have no roots, nothing that grounds me. At least if I had a history I could remember it would explain why I am the way I am. It’d be like discovering the germ that causes the sickness in order to formulate a cure.

A cure. I want that. “How is it possible to work through shit I can’t fucking remember?”

“Subconsciously, you do remember. Your dreams are the mind’s way of processing it.”

“No! I can’t . . . deal with that. It’s too much.” My chest is rising and falling faster, and I roll my lip ring a few times to keep my fingers off the rubber band on my wrist.

“I understand. You’re going to get there, but only when you’re ready. These things don’t happen over days or weeks. It takes years, lifetimes of talking this stuff out, and we may never get to the why of it all. But our goal is to help you deal with the now. In order to do that, you must accept the possibility that you were sexually molested.”

I cringe and avoid his eyes, more than done with this conversation.

He exhales heavily. “How about things at home? Have you had anyone over? Friends? Women?”

I lean forward, elbows to my knees, head in my hands. It’s questions like these that make me realize how far from normal I am, how fucked my head is, but more importantly, how little progress I’ve made.

“Not yet, but I did, um . . . There’s a girl who I’d like to have over. Maybe.” The thought of having Mac inside my home pulls me in opposite directions. Having her in my place might be nice. Right? I take a deep breath and try to slow my heart rate.

“A girl?” His voice is high, perked up with interest. “Tell me about her.”

With another deep breath, feeling a little calmer now that we’re on a different subject, I sit back. “She works at one of the clubs I play at. We’ve been talking and I don’t know, it’s like she’s known me for years or something. I can’t explain it.”

“That’s comforting to be around someone who’s at ease with you. You’re an intimidating guy, so I’m sure that doesn’t happen often.”

Is that all it is? I don’t freak her out, so I like her? Wait, I like her? “I guess.”

“Maybe you should ask her to come over. Not to stay long, but just stop by for a drink before you go out?”

“I don’t know.” Asking her over and out on a date? Two things I’ve been avoiding for, well, forever.

“Rex, I know you’re uncomfortable, but you’re capable of a lot more than you think.” He exhales heavily and grabs his pad and pen off his desk. “You ready for your fight?”

“Yeah. I’m down eight pounds; the rest should be easy.”

“That’s great. I’ve no doubt you’ll win. This Reece guy probably shit himself when he found out he’d be fighting T-Rex.”

I chuckle and a warm feeling expands in my chest. Not having parents, Darren’s words are the closest thing I’ve got to parental pride. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.

We talk a little longer about my fight, and before I know it, we’re both laughing and arguing over UFL stats and predictions. I appreciate the lighter conversation and the fact that he doesn’t redirect us back to the heavy stuff.

“I’m proud of you, son.” He walks me out and claps me on the shoulder. “I know it feels as though you’ve got a long way to go, but I assure you, you’ve come a long way since your first visit.”

“Thanks, Darren.” I give him a chin lift. “See ya next week.”

I’m walking across the parking lot to my car when I hear him call my name.

“Consider what I said.” There’s a smile in his voice.

He’s talking about going out with Mac. I’m reminded of our kiss last night and the desire to work harder to overcome all my shit if it means being able to spend more time around her. And even though having Mac inside my house makes me dizzy, it might be a first step to getting better.

I’m a fighter. I’ve never backed down from anything in my life. Why should this be any different?

Simple. It shouldn’t.

~*~

Mac

It’s seven p.m. when I finally venture out of my room. After I got home from work last night, I couldn’t stop replaying my night. Stuck in the storage room only to have Rex come and save me. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was struck with the same déjà vu as I was: the way his fingers froze on mine and his face paled when I repeated the very words he said to me fourteen years ago.