THE SCARRED MAN

5 YEARS PRIOR...

THE NIGHTMARES are killing me.

And I don't mean that metaphorically— they really are.

Allyssa suggests I see someone, talk to someone. That someone being Dr. Ashkira, A Trauma-Informed Therapist.

Allyssa says I can trust her, assures me that everything discussed with her remains confidential.

But sitting here in her cozy office now, I don't quite get that impression. not that I mean to intrude, but she doesn't necessarily give off that vibe— if I'm being honest, she doesn't even give off any particular vibe, at least not any that I can read from this distance.

Her Chartreuse walls aren't helping issues either.

Who even uses Chartreuse in a 'therapeutic' setting?

'Can we just sit here in silence? I don't really want to talk,' I say before she can get a word in.

Her round glasses give me the creeps; she looks like she's considering my request, her mouth pursed thoughtfully. Then she nods.

And just like that, we sit in silence.

I don't utter a word, and she doesn't either.

I'm trying to distract my mind, taking in the ambiance... it's strangely unsettling. Nothing in this office makes sense, so I won't even start to describe it.

One thing does catch my eye, though. it's grotesque-like, sitting on a shelf plastered to the wall beside her desk. I can't help myself; I'm not exactly enjoying the silence I requested either.

'What's that?' I ask, pointing.

She followed my gaze and chuckled. almost indistinct. Almost like a little girl offered a candy.

'My son made that,' Her voice is poise, reassuring. 'He says it keeps bad things away.'

'You have a son?' I ask.

'Mm-hmm.' she hums, a million-dollar smile brightening her face. 'He's thirteen this summer.' She sounds proud.

'What's he like?' There wasn't a warning; I'm almost too curious.

She drags a long breath that heaps her chest, rearranging herself in the one-seater, 'What's he like...' her hand tucks beneath her chin, 'Well, he's not like every other kid his age. Charli— his name is Charlie, he likes comics, the dark, gothic fantasies. he's probably the biggest Michael Jackson fan there is. Got that one from his father, he got nothing from me, actually. Oh, and I think he has a crush on his best friend, but he'd never admit it. He's a shy little heartbreaker, that one. He's a good kid, kind too.' She looks at me for a long time, her smile not once slipping. 'I guess that wraps him up.'

I nod, looking away from her.

'How does it feel... loving him?'

She doesn't mean to show it, but I catch it; the brief slip in her smile, a shadow of pity beneath her lenses, the tense in her shoulders.

I try not to show anything. Though, I'm not sure how well I'm doing at hiding it. I'm a mess of conflicting emotions, and she sees that. and that threatens to break me. if I'm not already there yet.

Finally, she says, 'It's incomparable, really, but if I had to put words to it, it's like... Christmas, all over again, whenever I'm with him.' I nod again.

there's a comfortable silence between us— at least I hope that's what it is— before she asks, 'Have you ever felt anything like that?'

I'm not surprised by the question, but my reaction says otherwise. My eyes dilate, gooseflesh pricks my skin. I feel completely exposed.

I could lie, tell her with a helpless smile breaking into my face that I feel it all the time. I probably won't delve into any more details, but I'd tell her it's a feeling unmatched, too.

I shake my head instead.

Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, and I can't hold them back.

'Okay,' she says softly. She lets me breathe, once, twice, before, 'Have you ever thought about it?'

I nod,

'How did it feel— the thought?' I notice she isn't writing anything. I expected the cliched note-taking from the movies.

I swallow a lump growing in my throat, 'I don't know.' I shift to the edge of the two-seater, 'It feels... Otherworldly. Don't know if that's good or bad.' I let out a half-hearted chuckle, which she mirrors.

'Would you like to see a picture of him? Charlie.' She surprises me with the offer.

Words fail me; I don't plan to come back after this session. But still, I encourage her,

She isn't as excited as before, She takes out her phone, searches for a photo, and shows it to me.

There's a boy, lost in a smile against a blurred background, dressed in all-black overalls, his tacky brown curls tumble all over, almost covering his icy blue eyes— eyes she claims he didn't inherit, though they are the same as hers— if you look closely, you will find the world in them, the imperceptible glint whispering, 'I've got all that one could ever seek in this tiny, fleeting world'

My chest tightens; I'm not even trying to hide my vulnerability anymore.

I'm suddenly a liability to the person I've been building myself to be, yet I don't feel threatened.

All I feel is my world crashing, and there are no pieces to gather.

I'm a menage of countless emotions I cannot start to discern.

'I can see why he's a true heartbreaker,' My voice betrays me, but I quickly cover it with a subtle throat clear. I manage a smile. I know I'm a see-through, but I still smile.

'He wants to be an astronaut... he flaunts it in everyone's faces.' She laughs. 'Do you have something you aspire to—'

'I have no aspirations— no dreams. Only nightmares.' I'm suddenly agitated, irritated, hyper-defensive.

'What kinds of nightmares?' she's careful with her threads, and choice of words.

'I don't want to talk about them.'

'Alright.'

She pauses, then asks gently, 'Family... what does that mean to you?'

I want to think about it, but there's nothing to think, 'Family is the people who stay. the people who make you feel safe.'

'Do you think you have that?' I don't reply to that.

'Can you tell me about your family?' I'm hesitant. Not only that, the topic sends me off the edge. It makes me anxious, and angry, and... aggrieved.

'I'll tell you about my father.' I say, finally.

'And your mother?'

'We don't talk about my mother.'

'May I ask why?'

I shrug, 'No reason. It's an unspoken rule— No one talks about my mother.'

She looks like she'd like to press further, but she doesn't. and I'm grateful for that.

'Alright then, Let's hear about your father.' Like a portal, those words transport me to the past. A past I somehow managed to survive. a malicious story written just for me.

I feel myself shudder visibly.

I blow out a sigh, 'Where do I start?'

'I'll help. Should I?' she asks so carefully like I could be her Thirteen-year-old teen. I nod.

'When you think of your father— do you think of him often?'

'Sometimes.'

'When you think of him, who do you see?'

I brace myself, Though I know there's no real preparation for this. 'A magician.' She doesn't react, so I take that as a sign to go on, 'An evil magician, I think everyone in that family is.' 'A God. The Devil. A Rapist. Destruction. An icon. A role model. A killer.'

There's no indifference in her gaze, no judgment, as she asks, 'Who are you to him?'

'A prey.'

'Do you still feel as though you are?'

'Not anymore.'

She nods thoughtfully, 'Tell me about him, Davies.'

'He never was a father, A fath—' my voice breaks, and I clear my throat. 'A father should be proud of his child, should love them, especially when that's all the child ever wanted. I loved my father; I still love him. But I was always the odd one. The disappointment. So, I could never do anything to earn my father's love.'

'My father was always in control— excessively dictatorial. Once anything isn't done his way, he becomes... unrecognizable. Unfortunately for me, I was always at the receiving end of that. My father didn't love me, and he never bothered hiding it. He loved my brother instead, and they would both rub it on my face,' I feel tears cascade down my cheek, Inconsolable, I am. I don't think I'll ever recover from my past.

'I always wanted to prove to him that I could be that son. That which he saw in my brother but never in me; I spent my years perfecting my grades, but it was never enough for him. I still feel like I owe that to him all the time; I played football even though I sucked at it, my father would still punish me for every slight mistake. His punishments, I never could escape. One way or another, I'd pay.'

'Sometimes, I sit back and wonder... if this had been a different time and space, would things have turned out differently? Would my father look at me every day, and hatred wouldn't burn in his eyes? Would I have gotten a father, who I could call mine, like others did, theirs?'

'I'm a joke— because even now, I love him. I still admire him, the man he became. But God, I hate him. I hate who he was to me.'

'He made everyone hate me, he made my mo— he made my life hell. He was abusive, he burned me, cut me, punched me, threatened my life constantly, and called me names. He robbed me of my childhood. He haunted me. He killed me—And I was only a child.'

'I was only a fucking child, but my father made every moment feel wrong. Whenever I think of my past— I can't. I can't because I'd see the monsters who shaped it. I'd see my father killing me all over again.'

'My father broke me. He shattered me and reshaped me. and did it all over again. he wrecked me, my father. With him, I was always sinking, never catching my breath.'

'I've never felt real. I still don't feel real, because I... I don't think any real person deserves to go through all that I went through. I don't think any real person should be haunted by constant nightmares of their father killing them over and over again.... it's cyclical. It never ends.'

I sigh, my chest heaving.

'So, that's who he was, An evil magician. And I—'

I pause, my voice lowered to a whisper,

'I am, and always will be, the scarred man.'