by Azhar Amien
Chapter 5: This Sorrowful Life
I thought that I would be able to do it. I thought that I would be ready. But I could not talk to these people. They did not understand. I had always respected psychology as one of the most important studies of the modern world. It was almost essential. But the people Sarah had brought me to just did not get it. All those years of studying and experience and they did not get it. They did not understand the hurt.
They lectured me on dealing with pain and on picking myself up. They told me what was happening to me; what I was going through. They gave me sermons on how time would make a difference; suggested even that I needed a change of environment. They grew impatient with my silence. The more impatient they got the more they seemed to talk. It was as though they had grown tepid and off being reduced to listen to marital problems and depression. I did not understand it. In this city they should have been used to dealing with atrocities. Maybe I was simply the problem. Maybe what I wanted they could not give. I had gone through about three or four psychologists by now. I had spoken to the counsellor at the office. It did not help. Sarah had even got desperate enough to send me to an actual psychiatrist after that, but I had not been very helpful to the woman and neither had she been to me. I refused to take medication. I wasn’t sick.
I had truly thought that I needed it. I had believed that it was time. But I was not prepared to face the darkness. I was in Sarah’s car now. I leaned against the window with my eyes half-closed. Sarah had been at the height of her concern after I had confessed to seeing things. I could barely comprehend that I had actually been hallucinating. It was bizarre when I thought about it. But it had got worse after that incident with the writing on the wall. It had happened again recently. I had seen a dead body in my bedroom - my wife. I could still see the blood now; the gaping holes in her chest and her pale, empty eyes. Since then I had been afraid to go back into that room. I had avoided it like a witch’s plague. Sarah spoke then and drew me from my grim thoughts.
“There’s one more person I can take you to Jack. I’ve known her for a long time.”
She waited, as if hoping I’d ask who it was. When I didn’t she continued.
“She helped me before. If it’s not a good fit with her then I promise that we will stop, alright? No one is forcing you to talk.”
I tried to feel appreciative of what Sarah was doing, but I could not bring myself to. The only benefit that I was getting from this was that it passed the time. My thoughts had turned cynical. If nothing else, at least I was doing something. Being left alone with my thoughts was almost impossible to take. I knew that I deserved to feel that pain, but it was maddening.
“I gave her a call already, Jack. She’s waiting for you.”
I had a growing discomfort in my stomach now. What if I couldn’t talk to her either? Would Sarah give up on me? I had not yet told her that she had been a comfort to me. When she was with me I felt the pain less. It was a guilty comfort that I indulged in like a child handed a cake. And it was nice to know that someone still cared. Eventually, we pulled up at the psychologist’s home. She had a nice place. Bright, comfortable and gentle. I imagined that’s what her personality was probably like. Sarah had said that her name was Teresa Brooks. I liked the first name. I sat in the car, looking out of the window at her home. I tried to procrastinate the seconds. Sarah put her hand on my arm, and told me to go in. Her voice had been soothing, and not commanding.
I listened.
I could feel myself slipping, once again falling into the hands of gut-wrenching guilt and sorrow. In the stillness reality had begun to fall from my grasp, and everything distorted into some kind of twisted dream. It had been just under thirty minutes. I sat motionless in my chair, staring ahead of me, completely lost in my mind. I was not paying attention to Doctor Teresa Brooks who sat opposite me, her posture entirely relaxed as she waited for me to speak with a trained patience – as if I really would. She was the fifth therapist I’d been to; all brief encounters that had ended with them giving up on me and my silence and lack of cooperation. I had not been able to give them anything.
I was trying. I really was. But I didn’t want to talk. At least not to these people. It was though everyone was expecting me to break down and weep like a child at any moment, and all would be right in the world again once I did. As though they had the answers and what I was feeling was just another set of symptoms to diagnose and wrap up in a neat little box. How was talking about it going to help? And even if I wanted to how could I find the words? I spent most of my waking minutes forcing my mind to cease to torment me.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, Jack,” I heard Teresa say.
Jack. The name barely registered to me these days as if it had no connection to me at all. I shifted my head so that I could see my doctor clearly. She was a pretty woman. Dark hair and deep green eyes. She kept herself neat. Her expression was comforting but at the same time it was unreadable. Their appearances might be different, but they were all the same in the end. All they ever wanted you to do was talk. They wanted to break you down to your core and manipulate you into handing over your mind, so that they could study it like a cat would a ball of string. They privately judged you, grew tired of you and longed for something interesting during meetings conducted when you were vulnerable, damaged and depressed. But my mind was my own. No one could take it from me. I would not part with it.
Teresa gently leaned forward and placed her pen and notepad onto the coffee table. I switched off. She had already given up on me before the session had even ended - or started for that matter. I turned my attention away from her. I observed my surroundings. I did like how informal it all was with her though. It was a nice change from the stiff offices I had been at previously. With her, it felt homely. It was nice. I felt a little more at ease. Her place did not feel like a pit.
Teresa folded her arms, “If you’re not up to talking and would like to just sit and have some peace of mind to think on your own, then that’s alright Jack. This is about you. No one is forcing you to talk. You can take all the time that you need.”
I looked at her. She was in all likelihood compromising her standard rules and protocol for me. She was allowing me to do things my own way. But why? She didn’t know me. To her I was simply another patient with problems, bearing the smallest chance of presenting something genuinely interesting. Yet why did she somehow understand my need for silence - for peace? My need to feel, just for the smallest amount of time, that I was not in hell.
I contemplated on this. I heard it being said once that pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. And maybe that was it. Maybe, just maybe, it was my silence that gave life to the pit. Maybe it was the reason that I tormented myself. The reason I could no longer sleep, stand to be awake or live. The reason I still felt so much pain, guilt and sorrow, as though my family had died only yesterday. I did deserve to feel pain. It reminded me of what I had done. What I had lost. But I didn’t want to simply wait to die. I didn’t want to watch the days pass by, unable to do anything while the world carried on without me and I just suffered. I didn’t want to pointlessly fade alone. I’d rather it be quick, if I had the nerve to do it.
But I wanted something else too. Something that I just realised I had developed a craving for the moment my family had died. And now in the comfort of this place, in this moment, I recognised what it was that I desired. I understood. The roaring in me, the hunger. I acknowledged it at last. I saw what it was. And I breathed it in. It was something that all the pain, regret and misery had prevented me from having. It was what I truly wanted deep down inside. Down in the depths where I still breathed.
Vengeance.
I could feel the thirst for it. The thought was calming; it gave me a new sense of vigour. It was finally something that I could make sense of. That I could call real. And in that moment I found an inkling of myself again and, at last, ended my own tormenting silence. I ended it not for Teresa, and not for Sara
h. Not even for myself. But because the words had to be spoken for them to be real, and no longer a vivid illusion in a dead dream.
“I don’t want to mourn. I don’t want to wither away and die. I don’t want pity or justice. I don’t want to move on.”
Teresa waited. She did not interrupt me or even move.
“I want revenge.”
I heard the word out loud, taking form, and it sounded sweet.
I looked into Teresa’s green eyes then and I did not see judgment there as I had expected to. She was not repulsed or disappointed or gearing up to lecture me that I was wrong. She simply acknowledged what I had said. And I appreciated that.
“Would you like to start at the beginning, Jack?” she said softly.
And somehow, for a reason I did not know, I could feel myself nodding. I felt as though I could trust her. That all these thoughts and feelings writhing around inside me could be let out and I could face reality. But more than that I wanted to hear my own story out loud. And I wanted it to give me the strength that I needed. Right now I was a mess. Tomorrow would be different. But even as I began to speak, deep down I knew that I was underestimating the pain of reliving it all. I was not prepared. Within moments the tears were flowing and Hell welcomed me back.
I sat trembling, feeling overwhelmed and wrecked. I was still in the same place I had been when the session had began. Despite going over time Teresa had not stopped me, but had let me speak until I had told my story. She was at the front door now talking to Sarah in a hushed voice. They thought that I could not hear, but I did. Living alone in the quiet and the dark, feeding off the shadows for days on end, had heightened my senses.
“How did it go, Teresa?” Sarah asked.
“To be honest I’m not sure,” Teresa replied.
“But you got him to talk. More than that you got him to talk about what happened. To face it. That’s huge. He’s hardly spoken three words since his family passed. You did well.”
When Teresa responded her voice sounded as if her mind was worlds away.
“Throughout my career I’ve followed the same thing that everyone I’ve learned from over the years has taught me. That what we have to do is make our patients talk about their problems – make them real, bring them out into the open, and only then can the healing process begin. They need to face their fears, their problems and their demons. Running only drags it all with them. We have to help them, right? But mostly the truth is that we just can’t. Not by ourselves. They have to help themselves. We can only push them in that direction.”
Sarah remained silent.
“But this is different. He’s different, compared to the kind of people I usually see. I dragged out his story and told myself that it will help make him heal. That I’d feel good about myself afterward, because I’d have eased his suffering. But now maybe all I’ve done is just torture a man, and turn his pain into something worse.”
More quiet.
“You asked me how he’s doing, Sarah? He’s a wreck. But, yes, you are right. We did make progress if he is expressing himself, no matter what form that expression takes. I want him here tomorrow. He may be in a dark place but he’s not hopeless. He’s lucky that he has you.”
“Please help him.”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
Their discussion ended and Sarah entered the room. She approached me and placed a hand onto my shoulder, lightly telling me that it was time to go. I almost did not want to. Teresa’s place was nice. I knew that if I left it I would only be returning to a pit. But I went with her anyway, and we drove in silence. The drive felt longer than it had when we had arrived initially. I found myself hoping that the quiet lull I found myself in during the journey would stretch on, but the car eventually stopped and I was back where I did not want to be. I turned to Sarah. She clearly was not herself. She looked as though she had aged years in the last two weeks. I knew the feeling. And with a nagging guilt I also knew that she deserved something from me, after all that she had done to help.
“Sarah,” I murmured.
She turned to me in haste, but quickly composed herself, “Yes, Jack?”
“Thank you,” I said. My voice was so feeble.
She put her hand on mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. I accepted the gesture. And then I left the car. I slowly walked to my door. The sun was setting. Darkness would be here soon. And the shadows would come back for me. I stepped inside. I could hardly believe that I used to live here; that I once called it home. It all seemed so long ago. A different life; a different man. But it was just two weeks. A lifetime when you were in agony. I looked up at the hallway of rooms. I wanted to stay away from my bedroom. I did not want to see Nicole’s body again.
For some reason I found myself strolling towards Jess’ room. I was scared. I so badly wanted to see a reminder of her. But would I see her mangled body? Would I break? There was just one way to find out. I had made a small bit of progress. Teresa had said that. I wasn’t hopeless. I could do it. I pushed open Jess’ door, deciding that the bandage needed to come off quickly. The room opened up before me. I took in the pink walls. I took in her assortment of teddy bears. The only one that was missing was her favourite white bear that clutched a red heart to its chest. She had always kept it with her whenever she could. I didn’t see it. My puzzlement faded quickly. I took in her story books. I took in her purple bed sheets. I took in her Hello Kitty alarm clock.
And I fell apart.
I choked and cried. My heart ached so badly I thought that I would die. My little girl. My Jess. I was supposed to protect her. My mind became an accuser. I slid down to the ground with my back to the wall, and I gazed upon the room. I didn’t have the strength to move my body. With a crushing guilt I knew that I had failed the one angel in my life. It was all down to me. I had not been dealt some unfair hand. I had brought it all upon myself. I had provoked the evil of men I did not understand. They were all bigger than me. I was nothing.
I remembered how I had pushed Nicole to have a child. She had wanted to wait. She didn’t want to raise a kid in such a terrible city. But I had wanted a child of my own. I had had a perfect vision in my head of how amazing Nicole and I would be as parents, and how a child would make things better for us. She would be our ray of light. I thought of how we’d give our child everything in the world, and love it more than anything. And for a while I had lived that dream. Jess had been perfect. She had lit up my world, just like her mother had. I loved her so much that the absolute best side of me still felt like it wasn’t good enough, like I wasn’t expressing my love for her enough – like I wasn’t getting through to her how much she meant to me. It sometimes hurt. I didn’t know the words or the expressions to show it, but I so badly wanted her to know. I’d do anything, just so that she could have the smallest idea. I’d walk through fire for her. I would sacrifice everything that I had dreamed of if it meant that she would be happy. I would die for her.
But now I could only love her memory. Illusions and fantasies in my mind that were destroying me. Over the last two weeks it had become my obsession, like some sort of sick masochistic indulgence that I prayed to be rid of, but couldn’t let go of. As I gazed upon her empty room, a shallow, broken memorial painting my worst nightmare, but once holding the most beautiful part of my life, I realised again that this was entirely my fault. The realisation crushed what was barely left of me. It may not have made rational sense to trace Jess’ death back to me wanting to have a child and Nicole wanting to wait, but I felt the weight of that responsibility now. Maybe I wasn’t directly to blame back then, but I had definitely had a hand in setting the stage for my own misery.
It hurt to be there in her room. But it also felt good, for the briefest of moments between the ache, to be in my daughter’s room rather than out there. And so I remained, torn between two worlds. One of pain and one of inexplicable comfort. My eyes soon closed. I drifted. For the first time in two weeks I dreamt. It started out pleasant. I was with my fami
ly again. We were happy. Nicole, Jess and I were playing that Hungry Hippo board game the kids always loved. It was a game that allowed for up to four players, and each one controlled a plastic little hippo. When the game began each player had to repeatedly hit the trigger behind their hippo as fast as possible to eat the little balls in the centre of the board. The player who had eaten the most, once they were all gone, was the winner. In the beginning we had always let Jess win, but soon enough she was better than both of us. And she cheated too. She was smart and cunning in a cute way. She had used the fourth unmanned hippo as her own, giving her a slight edge. But we didn’t care. We loved it. We loved seeing her happy. My dream was good.
But like all bad things it happened within seconds.
I was ripped away from the good dream, and thrown into a nightmare before I had a chance to brace myself. Nicole and Jess both went rigid. They looked at me. And I stared back, shocked, unable to believe what I was seeing. Blood began to form on their clothes. Ugly cut marks appeared over Nicole’s arms, her neck and her body. The blood ran like water.
“You left me, Jack,” Nicole whispered.
“You didn’t stop, Daddy. You said you would but you didn’t. The bad men killed us because you didn’t listen,” Jess accused.
All words failed me in the nightmare. All that I could see was the blood. So much of it.
“You killed our little girl!” Nicole screeched.
I snapped awake. I was covered in a cold sweat. My heartbeat was out of control. I felt sick. I breathed in deeply. I had to get out of here. I scrambled to my feet and went to the living room. Perhaps I should leave this place. How could I ever live here now? But I wasn’t ready to leave behind the only connection I had to my family. I collapsed onto a couch and closed my eyes. I tried to relax and prayed the night would end quickly. I had to go back to Teresa.
“God saw what all of us did; all of us who were responsible for my family’s death. But He let it be without any intervention. He doesn’t seem to mind what we do. It took that to make me realise... God doesn’t make the world like this. That’s on all of us. It’s not His fault. Our carelessness, our pride and our savagery; we do it all to ourselves. We don’t appreciate what we have until it all vanishes before our eyes. And then it’s too late to take it back, say sorry or pray. Then all we’re left with is our regret and our pain to remind us every day, in our private moments, that we failed.”
Every word felt harsh on my tongue and the bitterness left me for something else: anger. Sometimes it took over the pain. It gave me clarity. Teresa watched me with that patient look of hers and she frowned slightly, “I’m curious, Jack, why are you saying ‘we’?”
I humoured her question, “Because I was arrogant. I considered myself above the mistakes of other people. It’s them not me, I always thought. Now I’m just like the rest. No different.”
“I notice that you still wear your wedding ring, Jack. Why is that?”
I automatically reached for it to feel that it was still there.
“I won’t take it off. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
Teresa nodded and did not probe further. She changed the subject. “In our recent sessions, Jack, you’ve been more aggressive. I’m not saying it’s bad. Quite the opposite actually. You’re feeling. You’re more in control. Tell me, what is your anger directed at?”
I sighed and ran my hands through my hair, “Everything. The world. Myself most of all. I’m angry at my mistakes and my pride. I’m angry that I didn’t listen to Nicole. I was too damn proud to accept that I was out of my depth. I wanted so badly to stop these animals that I lost sight of what truly mattered: my family. Jess.”
Teresa let me speak. If she was as surprised as I was that the anger allowed me to speak so bluntly she didn’t show it. I had lost track of which session this was. The third? Or perhaps it was the fourth? I couldn’t remember. But it felt good to talk on my terms. I went on.
“And do you know what the biggest joke of it all is? My big arrest at the docks. All that I did was worth nothing in the end. Absolutely nothing. It changed nothing. And most of it was dumb luck anyway. I was never any good at playing their game. I thought I had what it takes. I don’t.”
I gripped the arms of my chair so tightly that soon my hands went numb. My blood burned.
“You blame yourself, Jack,” Teresa acknowledged.
“Yes. I tried to do the right thing. I thought I could take on monsters when I had everything to lose. I tried to be a good man in a city that’s owned by goddamn animals.”
“You’ve said that you don’t want justice. Wearing a badge don’t you think that it’s what you should be after?”
I gave her a hardened look. I had long lost faith in what I used to believe in. Now I saw the truth for what it was.
“Justice is for the self-righteous, for heroes from comic books. Justice is meaningless.”
“So is revenge, Jack.”
“No. If they’re dead that would not be without meaning. They’ll no longer be able to hurt anyone else ever again. It will be over.”
“But it won’t help you. Revenge will accomplish nothing for you. It won’t help you move on.”
“Maybe not. But I feel I have no choice.”
“Why?
“Because I have nothing else.”
There was an uncomfortable silence then as I uttered that truth. The look Teresa gave me then was difficult to read. There was no pity, judgment, condescension or disappointment there. In her look there was only a sad sense of understanding. I didn’t know if she really did get it, but I appreciated that she didn’t resort to the alternatives.
“So what do you want to do now, Jack?” she asked in her usual quiet tone.
The question was so simple, yet it was so difficult to answer. I thought about my family. I thought about all that I had endured in the last two weeks, and before that even. I thought about Sarah struggling every day to face the city’s monsters. I thought about what had been done to Nicole and Jess. And the anger burned like fire; a cancer infesting inside of me that I feared I would not be able to control. I feared even more that I did not want to. It gave me life. I balled my hands into fists and my teeth clenched. Teresa noticed and opened her mouth to speak, but I did first.
“I want to kill them.”
The silence was cold. For a long time neither of us spoke. Teresa had not even lifted her pen. She studied me. She gave away nothing. And then she asked a question that cut me like a knife.
“And then what, Jack?”
“What?”
She shrugged, “What comes after that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give it some thought,” she said, not in a way that condescended, but in a way where she genuinely wanted me to think of an answer. And so I thought about it. The answer was simple really. It was perhaps the likely, or the only, outcome. It made sense. It was fitting.
“I suspect that I’ll die.”
Teresa folded her arms and watched me. I could almost feel myself smiling. Taking down as much of the cancer that ate away at the city, as many who had been responsible for my family’s murder, before my end? It would be a good death. There was nothing else that I could do that would mean as much. There was nothing else out there for me.
“I get why you would want this, Jack. You feel that you have the right to hurt those who murdered your family. This isn’t a crazy thought. It’s fair.”
I listened.
“But is it really what you want?” she continued, “Maybe you’ll feel good about it for a while. Maybe you’ll manage to get revenge against a few. Maybe you won’t make it one night. There’s no way of knowing. But I believe, strongly believe, that you can have more than that.”
“Like what?” I replied in a tone that was more cynical than I had intended.
“A life,” she said.
I almost laughed.
“Really?”
“Did you get that from Sarah or did she get it from you?”
Teresa smiled. It was nice.
“I had a life, Teresa.”
Her smile turned sad.
“Now it’s gone. Because of them and me. Sooner or later we all have to face reality. We have to stop being kids who hide from responsibility and embrace delusions. There are only two innocent victims here. Everyone else, myself included, is just accountable.”
Teresa slowly sipped her coffee. I had left mine to get cold.
“I don’t know what happens next. But I know what I want to happen.”
“You’re giving up what you could still have, Jack.”
“I had it. I won’t again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m not going to wait and hope.”
“Jack I don’t want your anger and your grief to make these decisions for you. It’s not about just waiting and hoping. It’s about taking control of your life again.”
“But Teresa that is what I’m doing.”
Teresa breathed in deeply, “I’m not here to tell you what to do. But I hope that you think about what I’m trying to say.”
I smiled, “Time’s up.”
She appeared startled and looked at the clock to confirm.
“Thank you Jack. We’ll continue tomorrow?” she said. Her reluctance to see me go was clear.
I felt a strange sense of clarity. I was more sure of my decision now. My decision to take control back. I wasn’t going to have a normal life. That was a fairytale. I didn’t believe Teresa, but she meant well. And she had helped me to put my thoughts into place. I owed her.
She stood up from her chair. Before I left I turned to her and placed my hands onto her shoulders. She looked slightly taken back.
“Thank you, Teresa,” I said. I was being sincere.
She smiled, “A little early for that.”
I dropped my hands.
“Actually it’s just the right time.”
The drive back home was brief. Sarah was more chatty than usual. It had been a while since I had enjoyed it. I even talked back to her a few times. I could see the relief on her face when I spoke, and the hint of her smile return. When we arrived I thanked her and exited the car promptly. For the first time since my family’s passing, I didn’t feel empty, lifeless and as though I was drowning. I felt a little more in control. I was sure of what I wanted to do. I entertained myself with the thought of revenge. Even if it was the dream of a fool, it was the only good thought that I had to hold onto.
I unlocked my door and pushed it open. Something fell to the ground. Confused, I looked down. It had been wedged in my door. An envelope. It was light. Someone obviously wanted me to find it as soon as I arrived. But why? There was nothing particularly interesting about the envelope. It had my name in full written on the front in an elegant black font. That was curious. It was almost as if the sender had been trying to highlight that its contents were important. I tore it open in a single motion. I did not know why I had suddenly begun to feel nervous. There was an ominous feeling about the envelope that I could not place. But curiousity did its job as usual, and I reached inside and my hand grasped something hard, almost like cardboard. I pulled it out. It was a yellow piece of paper attached to a something, covering it up. The paper itself was cheap-looking, which was a contrast to the black font on the front of the envelope. I read it. The world halted. The pit inside of me roared to life. And I stopped breathing.
On the yellow slip in neat red ink it was written: “Feeling sorry yet?”
The words were a mockery. A malicious taunt that drove a shiver down my spine. There was a sad face drawn underneath the veiled insult. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I peeled the yellow paper back and saw what was behind it.
It was a photograph. Of me.
In the picture I was sitting on the curb, pointlessly staring out onto the street. I saw what I truly looked like. A lifeless shell of a man. It had been taken more than a week ago. Someone had been watching me after my family had been killed. Someone had been enjoying my suffering from afar. The shock slowly turned to rage. I crushed the envelope and its contents in my hand. My blood burned. I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw hurt, and my face turned hot. I started to see silver stars. My neck ached as a vein popped. My heartbeat went wild. My breathing became rasped. I gasped for air. Sweat dripped down my face. My fingers cramped. My vision shifted out of focus. The anger was unlike anything I had ever felt before. There was a ringing in my ears now; loud and overbearing. With a burst of fear I realised what was happening to me. I was having an attack. In the state I was in, trying to calm down would be like trying to catch a bullet with your bare hands. I fumbled for my phone. I had to call Sarah. My hands were shaking so violently that I dropped it. I crumbled to the ground. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying not to hyperventilate and struggling to bring myself under control. Black spots started to appear in my vision.
I thought that I would die. And for a moment I almost wanted to.
But then it was over.
I fell in a heap and found myself sprawled on the ground staring at the sky, clutching the contents of the envelope tightly in my hand.
I looked at Teresa. She looked at me. I had not said anything this entire session. I had simply sat, counting the seconds by tapping my thumbs together. It had just passed two thousand and four hundred seconds. Forty minutes. I could tell that Teresa was uncomfortable with my behaviour or perhaps fearing that I was regressing. She had also noticed my counting. It was time to speak.
“This will be my last session.”
Teresa appeared instantly worried.
“I have to ask why.”
I shrugged, “I need a change of environment. To get away.”
Teresa sighed, “We both know that’s not true, Jack. We’re adults here. After what you’ve told me in previous sessions I think we both know what this means.”
I smiled, “I apologise for that. My anger got the better of me that time. I know that I need to control my temper. Really, Teresa, I just want to get away for a while. That’s all. I don’t want to be in that house anymore. Honestly, you’ve helped me a lot; made me see things clearly.”
I could see the slightest bit of agitation in Teresa’s demeanour now. But we both knew that everything in this session would have to go on her official records. And if Teresa continued to insist on what I had said in my previous sessions, it would almost be as though she was encouraging me and actually pushing me towards the idea of revenge. She had no choice but to accept what I said. And so she played the one card that she still had - the card I knew she’d play.
“I haven’t cleared you, Jack. I don’t think you’re ready to stop therapy.”
I smiled and nodded, “Teresa, I’m not quitting therapy. I will continue to go. But not here. I don’t want to be in this place; this city. You’re very welcome to recommend alternative therapists elsewhere. Of course I’ll let you know where I decide to go.”
Right then I knew that I had her. And she knew it too.
“Time’s up,” I said, keeping up the facade with another smile.
I got up and began to walk towards the door.
“Jack, wait!” Teresa called after me.
I stopped.
“What are you going to do?”
I felt the anger take hold. Something inside of me had snapped when I had opened that envelope and seen its contents. They had destroyed my family. And now they watched me? Mocked me? They were enjoying the after-hours special to their sick murder. They were dogs. The kind that needed to be put down. The hunger inside of me writhed. I let it breathe. I just had to say the words.
I will make the
m suffer,” I whispered.
I did not recognise the venom in my voice or where it came from. But it felt right to give life to the hatred I felt. I was not sure if Teresa heard me. But if she had the session was over in any case. It didn’t matter. I stormed out into the daylight.
Sarah was furious.
“You quit therapy?” she exclaimed, pacing around my living room while I sat in my chair. “What is going on with you, Jack?”
Teresa had most likely filled Sarah’s head with a whole lot to worry about. Of course she wasn’t allowed to provide any confidential information from our sessions, but speaking to someone she knew on a personal level she had no doubt made it clear that I was not ready to stop.
“Honestly, Sarah, I’m fine. I’m tired of it. I need a break.”
She glared at me.
“I was actually thinking of returning to work soon.”
Her expression softened.
“You don’t have to rush this. Why would you-”
I cut across her, “I’m done sitting around. It’s been more than two weeks.”
Sarah pulled her chair up to the front of my couch. She clasped my hands.
“Jack, please. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Sarah...I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But really, I’m okay.”
I stood and brought her up with me. I embraced her then.
“What are you-”
“Thank you for everything,” I said gently, and kissed the side of her head.
I let go of her. She looked at me, uncomfortable with herself, but her expression was soft.
“You know that I care about you, Jack. In a lot of ways you’re all that I have.”
I smiled, “Then we have something in common.”
She looked down at the floor, “I should go.”
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s nothing. Just been a long day.”
“Drive safe,” I told her and watched her leave. Soon enough it was only the silence that remained.
I took the envelope out of my jacket pocket as well as its crumpled up contents. I smoothed out the photograph and studied it. I subdued my anger, but only by as much as I could. I let my mind work for the first time since receiving the message. I already knew what it meant. But I needed to think it through slowly, and approach it from all angles. If my family’s murderers, or the mob itself, had been watching me since then, the obvious implication was that I was under surveillance. I had no way of knowing whether it was twenty-four hours a day or even still ongoing. But I thought about the resources that they had back in that warehouse. It would be easy for them. I needed to move cautiously and mask my true intentions. They weren’t stupid of course. They knew that by sending me the photograph they were giving away the game to me that I was being watched. But they didn’t care. To them it was all just sick-minded entertainment. And I was little more than a fly.
I thought back to the warehouse raid. The last two weeks had prevented me from seeing what should have been an obvious truth - what I had known all along. How could I have not? I had been correct that night. There was no way that the mob could have known we were coming. No one knew that we had found all that surveillance equipment. No one but us. Which left me with only one answer. It was crazy, but I was certain. After all, it was famously said that once you eliminated the impossible whatever remained, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. I faced the truth then, with a certainty I had not felt in weeks.
There had been a mole on our team that night.
That was the only explanation for how the mob could have known in advance to move all of the surveillance equipment in such a short time. Despite how careful we had been, despite Sarah’s own recommendations, the mob’s reach was greater than ours. There were only five of us who knew. Sarah was the only one that I truly trusted. I had no reason to doubt her. There was no one else on the entire police force who I’d place my faith in. Not now. Not ever again. That left only three names. Ray Coleman. Will Harding. Marcus Fields. Three men. One of them had talked. I was going to find out who did. I was going to find out what he knew. I was going to face the man who had played a role in the murder of my family. For all I knew he was actually one of the killers. The anger wanted out of its cage. I freed it, letting it take its hold of me. I made my vow. When I found out who it was, I would kill him.
