MERCY

by KC Decker

  “She was screaming for Mark Sexton,” the nurse says, omitting the part about her handprint on my skin. Both Sutton and I look away from each other, snapping our necks to look in her direction.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Who is Mark Sexton?” Sutton asks at the exact same time. Of course, he focuses on the other man’s name on my lips instead of the fact that I clearly need to be medicated.

  “Don’t worry, Doc, he’s probably just one of the hallucinations that pins me down and drips acid on my skin—I seriously doubt he’s boyfriend material at all.”

  “Thank you, you two. I’ll have a look at your reports in the morning,” he says, all but dismissing them from the room. I’m still a little bitter about the slap and the manhandling me out of the room like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum, but I’m really mad at Sutton.

  “All of this is totally unnecessary. Why do you persist?” I ask, challenging him for the umpteenth time.

  “Who is Mark Sexton?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Sutton!” I jump up from my spot on Lyla’s former bed and begin to pace the room. “Why do I have to suffer like this? Do you get some sick pleasure from seeing me unravel?”

  “The only pleasure I’m getting right now is from you waving your ass at me—are you even wearing panties?” he asks, as my mouth drops open and stays there.

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. Sutton. I. Want. A. Second. Opinion. You are hell-bent on me not being schizophrenic, and I want to know why?”

  “Because. You. Are. Not. Schizophrenic. Oh, and you’ve had about eight second opinions, so are we done with that yet? Still want a new doctor, Mercy?”

  “Don’t you know how hard it is to go through this? To suffer like this almost nightly? Listen to my voice! This rasp is not because it sounds sexy—it’s from screaming for my life!”

  “Come here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you need a hug, and I need to be the one that gives it to you.”

  “You want to get fired or something?”

  “Do you think I don’t know that one of them slapped you? They are writing their reports and covering their asses right now. I would be less surprised to see the Tooth Fairy come through that door than one of them,” he says with total conviction.

  This is the Sutton I want. The man that desires me, not the doctor that pushes me away. Instead of sitting down next to him where I was before, I take a seat on his lap and rest my chin against his shoulder. His embrace feels strong but tender. Not doctorly at all.

  “How did you know one of them slapped me?”

  “First, by their demeanor. Then by the evidence left on your cheek. I could lift fingerprints from that,” he says softly, overlooking his anger for now. One of his arms is draped over my thighs while his palm is kind of cupping my t-shirt covered butt. The other hand in buried in my hair, holding my head against his body.

  “Do you remember anything from your session with Dr. Gingham?” he asks.

  “Not really. Did I do anything embarrassing?”

  “No, Honey. You were perfect,” his words are pained, but their impact is far less noticeable than his touch because his hand is now sliding under my shirt and touching my naked ass. The gasp gets stuck in my throat while my eyes fling open.

  “Mercy, I don’t know what to do. You have some past trauma that needs to be addressed. There is some really ugly stuff locked away in your subconscious.”

  “What are you saying? Stuff, I don’t remember?” I pull slightly away, the perfect distance for him to close the gap with a kiss.

  “Can we go to my office? I’m about to cross the line.”

  “First, let’s talk about how you would cross the line,” I probe, before cocking my head to a perfect kissing angle. I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

  “There are a thousand different ways.”

  “Show me one,” I press.

  His hand moves from my butt and finds more neutral ground on my thigh. Before my disappointment can manifest, he glides his palm under my shirt and up the side of my ribs. The tickle of his touch is so intense, I almost feel like I have to pee.

  “What are you doing to me?” he whispers as his thumb finds the bottom swell of my breast. I don’t answer his question because I can’t, and he isn’t looking for an answer anyway.

  When his thumb swipes over my nipple, all my insides clench. The sensation he is causing between my legs is confusing, as though my nipple were hardwired to the pleasure center of my clit. His eyes flit between boldly looking me in the eyes, and then drifting achingly to my lips.

  I would lean forward and kiss him, were I not paralyzed with how freakishly close I feel to an orgasm. It used to take me thirty completely committed minutes to waken that part of myself—now, his cautious touch is enough.

  His thumb gains tenacity and begins to assertively drag my nipple back and forth. At this moment, I would concede everything to him. Such a simple touch, but it’s fogging my brain and presenting as more stimulation than I thought possible.

  “Tell me what those little gasps mean, Mercy,” he mumbles into the space between us.

  “I…It’s…I think I’m gonna—” his fingers close around the bud of my nipple and simultaneously pinch and tug.

  “You think you’re gonna come? Right here on my lap?” his words are provocative, and the last ones I hear before everything spills over, and I’m awash with something more complex than a simple orgasm.

  “But, I’ve hardly touched you,” he chuckles, and he’s right, but it’s not just his touch. It’s the potency of my need for him. It’s the raw and savage emotions I harbor. It’s wanting him so much, but being kept at arm’s length. It’s never having felt the loving touch of another, and now, having that touch burn through my skin. For once, not to harm, but finally to re-build.

  “Put some more clothes on, I’ll see you in my office in five.” That’s it. That’s his reaction. I’m having some sort of profound experience, and all he can think about is getting out of the temptation of my room.

  “No.”

  “What did you just say?” he asks with surprised amusement.

  “I said, no. I’m not your fucking doll to play with on a whim. You don’t get to start fires and then stand back while the forest burns down.”

  “How very poetic. But I’m still your doctor, and we have some work to do before you go back to sleep.” He closes that statement with a kiss that’s delivered like his own slap to my face. In fact, his anger—or sexual frustration meets mine head-on. The kiss itself isn’t angry; it speaks more to the unfairness of all this.

  I can feel his erection against my hip, and I long to see it, or even just know what’s behind it. Is it merely my half-naked body that is turning him on? Is this always what happens when he kisses someone? What is behind it?

  “I can feel your cock,” I say after breaking the kiss for a second.

  “Yeah? Well, you’d have to be in the next room to miss it.”

  “Tell me what’s making you hard right now,” I urge.

  “Are you serious?” he asks as he completely breaks the kiss.

  “Yes, tell me,” I say, a little embarrassed to be wondering such a thing.

  “Ummm, my hand on your tits, the fact that you just came on my lap, the idea that within five seconds I could have your legs spread and be caressing your g-spot, the knowledge that at any moment, I could lay you down on the bed and fuck you right here—”

  “So, I am just a doll you like to play with,” it comes out not as a question but as a deflated statement.

  “Do you really think that?”

  “I’m starting to, yes.”

  “Then, let me show you something,” he says as he turns me away from him and hauls me back against his chest. He widens his knees so that my legs are spread scandalously open. Then he reaches between my thighs, past my body to his zipper. His bulging cock remains confined in his pants, but he still manages to lower his z
ipper.

  The whole thing takes a matter of seconds and leaves me stunned. He is absolutely demonstrating how easy it would be to take me if he were so inclined.

  “Did you see how easy that was? Can you sense the proximity of my cock to your willing body?... Do you know why I’m not fucking you right now?”

  “Why?” I pant. He’s right, if he were to free his dick right now, it would be nestled against my pussy. The whole thing is making me wetter by the second. I rock my body against his steel forged cock and groan with the sensation it sparks.

  “Because, you are not a doll to play with,” he grinds out against my ear. “Would I jeopardize my whole future to play with a fucking doll?” he sounds angry, so I stop rocking my hips and murmur,

  “I want to be your dollllll.”

  “Is that right, Mercy? You want to be my doll? Nothing but some perky tits to play with, and a warm body to sink my dick in? Is that all you want to mean to me?”

  “I want you to be a man, Sutton.”

  “Would a man throw away his medical license just to touch you here?” he asks as his fingertips find the neediest part of my body. The spread open part. The part that is begging for his touch. “Hmm? Would a man do that?”

  I don’t know how to answer him. His fingers have made contact, but they lack full commitment. I’m panting with the proximity of his touch, and the impugning breath against my ear. When I begin to writhe around on his lap, he drags his middle finger through my crease and then taps it against my clit three times. Each tap is like a brazen challenge—or a threat, I’m not sure which one.

  “Yes,” I finally answer.

  “Is that right? A man would give up his medical license? To, what, finger you? Get the fuck off my lap, Mercy, we have work to do.”

  Chapter 21

  I’m still sulking over last night as Sutton grumpily walks me to the other end of the hospital for a session with Dr. Gingham. I’m not even sure why he feels like he needs to hover over me, I’m perfectly capable of taking the elevator and locating suite 425. Actually, the pedestrian bridge to a different building annex threw me for a minute, but I still would have managed without a guided tour from my brooding doctor.

  My arms are clamped across my chest, his fists are dug into his pockets, and neither of us has said a word. It’s a step down even from where we were last night in his office. Then, I had my arms and legs crossed while my foot swung wildly up and down. He had simply pointed out that the motion was my body’s valve for anxiety. Then he had the gall to ask me if I wanted to talk about my anxiety. My eyes became poisonous little slits, and I had actually hoped for a bolt of lightning to come through the window and strike that pompous look right off his face.

  He is a sexy little fucker, but not so sexy that I don’t want to see if he comes harder with my hands around his throat. He is the fucking M.D, and look how much damage he is causing my fragile sexuality. While pushing the notion of subconscious childhood sexual abuse, he wants to ignore the damage he is currently causing and dredge up a bunch that doesn’t even bother me—what is the psychology behind that?! Fucking asshole.

  “If, at any point, you feel uncomfortable discussing anything with Dr. Gingham, I want you to feel completely free to pull the plug and end the session. Ok?”

  “Why? Because now you are worried I will say something about you? Out you in some egregious way? You are a real cocksucker, you know? You’re so worried about how my illness will blow back on you, that you can’t even see beyond your own selfishness. Why don’t you just go fuck yourself—”

  “Actually, Mercy,” he grinds out, “I was more concerned with the men in your past holding you down and raping you while you were a child.” Then he turns on his heel and storms back the way we came.

  “All the way down the hallway. It’s the second to last office on the left,” he shouts, without even turning around to say it.

  Now, why would he say that? Psychiatrists don’t just get to lash out and say whatever they want just so they can hurt you. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on.

  As if! Wait. Does he think the angry men in my hallucinations are holding me down so they can rape me?

  The fuck is that all about?

  ***

  After my session with Dr. Gingham, I feel like I just did hot yoga for three hours. I feel utterly relaxed and wrung out, but I also feel rejuvenated and like skipping back to the unit. That is, until I see my pouty doctor with his shoulder propped against the wall, waiting outside my hypnotherapist's office.

  “Is this the Sulky-Express back to the psych ward? Because I think I’ll wait for the next one,” I say, and I’m mostly unmoved by the slow, unintentional smile that he seems hell-bent on concealing from my view.

  “Oh, it’s the Express, alright. Straight to the medical board for sexual misconduct,” he mumbles under his breath.

  “What was that? Hmmm? You got something to say, Sutton?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got something to say, Does Dr. Gingham want to speak with me before we head back?”

  “Nope. Actually, I believe he said that you should go pound sand.”

  “Pound sand?”

  “Maybe he didn’t exactly say, pound sand. But he definitely didn’t say he needed to talk to you,” I say as I breeze past him. I love that he is so put-off that Gingham may have disparaged him in any way, his mouth is still frozen open in shock.

  “Mercy, wait,” he calls after me as he pushes off the wall and catches up to me in three strides. “We need to talk about some stuff.”

  “You sure this is the best place for that kind of talk, Sutton?” I ask, indicating the hospital corridor we are currently in.

  “I’m talking about your patient care,” he says, and I can’t help but snarkily laugh out loud.

  “Oh, is that what we’re calling it? Patient care?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what we’re calling it. That is the most important thing right now, and I intend to follow through. Mercy, stop,” he says as he grabs my arm and stops me in my tracks, forcing me to face him. “I’m sorry, I said that to you before your session. I was angry and lashing out, but it would have been more appropriate for me to bite my tongue off than to say something like that. I’m sorry. I promise you; I will never speak out in that manner again.”

  “Humph,” is all I can get out before I resume walking. The truth is, I forgot all about what he said. I’m still marinating in his indecision between being a man and a doctor.

  “I have about twenty-five minutes before I see my next patient, do you want to go to the cafeteria and get some coffee? Or we could speak in my office, of course.”

  “Fine. Coffee.”

  Neither one of us talks again until we sit down at a table that still needs to be wiped off. Evidently, Sutton prefers the privacy of the table to actually having a clean one.

  “We haven’t talked about Sig in a while,” he says cautiously, and I almost spit out my first sip.

  “Sutton, do you have any idea where I’d be if I didn’t bury all my little abandonments? I don’t want to talk about Sig. I prefer to just move on with life. Why do you insist on circling back to this every couple of weeks?”

  “Because abandonment is a major crux in all this. It’s one of the contributors to your anxiety. You’ve never learned to properly deal with it…or any loss, for that matter. It’s time to address some of that.”

  “I don’t want to call him. I don’t want to write to him—”

  “What would you do if you could? Regarding, Sig?”

  “I don’t know—throw fine china at his head? Does that count?”

  “So, you’re angry?”

  “Yeah, genius. I’m angry.”

  “Because you believe he abandoned you, correct?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, exasperated.

  “It seems to me that he loved you quite a bit—in a fatherly way,” he delivers this statement casually, but it lands like a poison dart. I don’t respond to him. I can’t.

  “Me
rcy, I’ve shared with you that he was asked to step down. He didn’t leave by choice, nor was he given an option to do it gently. He did his best to do right by you. I’d like you to step away from the anger briefly, and acknowledge how devastating the loss of another parental figure was for you.”

  My mouth is moving, but all it’s doing is gulping for air like a dying trout on the riverbank. Sutton is about to flick a match onto the kerosene-soaked rubble of my life, and it will burn for months.

  “I want you to start looking at different perspectives when it comes to interpersonal relationships. It’s important to dignify them instead of automatically jumping to the one that feels safe. To you, anger is safe, right? Anger can’t hurt you. Anger puts you on the offensive, and you’re able to beat back all those other pesky emotions that you think make you weak and vulnerable, right?”

  I’m still dumbstruck that Sutton has dragged this out in the open in such a blisteringly raw way—over coffee, no less.

  “Sutton, if I were to step away from my anger like you suggest, I would never stop crying. The well of sorrow inside me is bottomless, don’t you see that?”

  “Mercy, you never completely grieved for your brother. You haven’t mourned your parents. You’ve been in a constant state of flux, refusing to deal with the pain—and you don’t think all that affects you? You’re afraid to open your heart, for fear it will be crushed and handed back to you. That is evidenced by the fact that Matty, Lyla, and V are your first real friends. You’ve been keeping all these incredibly valid feelings of sorrow and loss masked, and by doing that, you are inadvertently hanging on to them. Don’t you see? Now, and arguably since childhood, you’ve been manifesting these repressed emotions in some vivid, highly destructive ways.”

  “I don’t know how to change. A leopard can’t change their spots.”

  “No, she can’t change her spots, but she can adapt to her environment. She can either go through life angry that the Hyenas always try to steal her prey, or she can drag the fucking Gazelle up a tree.”