Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
"Him, who?" Dr. Ezra asks, his voice infuriatingly calm.
"You know who!" The words explode from me, filling the quiet office.
"Sometimes it helps to say it," he says softly, and I want to punch his gentle, glasses-covered face. Rain lashes the window behind me like my own rage made manifest.
"The fucking monster!" I spit. "My abuser. The same man who---" I heave out a huge breath, the memory of hands on me, holding me down, making my skin crawl even now. "The same man who used to rape me almost every day. My sister fucked him intentionally."
The words hang in the air, ugly and raw. Outside, thunder rumbles, distant but growing closer.
"Did she know he was your rapist?" Dr. Ezra asks, as if we're discussing the weather. As if my insides aren't being shredded as I speak.
"No." I rake a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. "He'd tricked her. He was just using her to get back at me and Mads, but still! If she'd just followed the rules---"
"Your rules," Dr. Ezra interrupts, his pen making that scratching I despise.
I glare at him, stalking back to the chair and dropping into it. "Yes. My rules."
"How old is your sister?"
I shrug. "Twenty-three now, I guess."
"Does she have any learning disabilities?"
"What?" I frown at him, the non-sequitur catching me off guard. "No."
"So why did she need rules?"
My eyes narrow. I see where he's going with this. The bastard is clever, I'll give him that. "You've met Moira, what? Once? Twice? You clearly don't know her. She's incapable of taking care of herself."
Dr. Ezra tilts his head at me, the light glinting off his glasses. "How do you mean?"
"She's a sex addict, for one." The words come faster now, my accent thickening with every syllable. "She can't hold down a job. Won't go to treatment. I've kept her safe and out of trouble her whole life, and believe me, that's been a full-time job. And this is how she repays me."
He interlaces his fingers under his chin, just staring at me, allowing uncomfortable silence to stretch between us like a live wire. The clock ticks. Rain falls. The city moves below us, oblivious.
"You don't know how many times I've had to bail her out of trouble," I continue, unable to bear the quiet. "Literally bail her out of jail sometimes for public indecency on multiple occasions. Our mother was total shite, and I basically had to raise Moira from the time she was a little kid, but I couldn't always be there."
My hands clench on my knees, knuckles white. "She's always been a wild little banshee. And then when we got older, I had to keep a roof over our heads, and she just got wilder and wilder and discovered fucking, and then---"
"Then what?" Dr. Ezra prompts when I cut myself off.
I toss my arms out. "Then I had an even harder time keeping her under control!"
"And that was your job? To keep her under control?"
"I love the little shit," I say, my voice dropping. "I don't want something awful to happen to her. So yeah! That was my job."
Dr. Ezra nods, his expression unreadable. "But since you've been in this fight with her, have you kept doing that job?"
His words take a little of the wind out of me, deflating the anger that's been propelling me forward. "Well, no. I guess I decided it was finally time for her to grow the fuck up."
"And how has that gone?"
I sigh, sinking deeper into the chair. "Fine, as far as I know. I mean, I haven't gotten any bailout calls."
"So maybe some space between you wasn't such a bad thing."
My glare cuts back to Dr. Ezra, sharp enough to draw blood. "What's that supposed to mean? She's me feckin' sister, an' she always will be. Family means somet'in' where I come from!"
He leans in, the scent of his aftershave---clean, clinical---reaching me. "Tell me about that. Tell me about your first memories of your sister. Or your first memories at all."
I shuffle uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair, the leather sticking to my palms. "I dunno."
"Take your time."
It gets all quiet, and I shift again, my leg starting to jiggle as my foot taps against the plush carpet. The rain has slowed, no longer pounding but still steady. A dull ache builds behind my eyes.
"I guess my very first memories are things like---it was brighter in the house," I finally say, the words feeling rough in my throat. "Dad was still there, and I remember Mam... happy. At least, happier. Sometimes. She still drank, but it wasn't like later."
Then my chest gets tight as more memories flash, so fuzzy at the edges I'm not sure if they're real or if they're just stories I've told myself so often I think they're real. I can almost smell the damp of that old flat, hear the drip of the leaky kitchen faucet, and feel the worn carpet under my small feet.