Page 37 of Penalty to the Heart

“So, how is this supposed to go?” I ask impatiently after a full minute has gone by. “Do you ask me a bunch of questions, or do I just start vomiting out all my woes to you on my own?”

“How about we get to know each other a bit before you start sharing all your sins,” she says, concentrating on whatever she’s writing on her notepad.

“Sins?” My brow arches up high. “Do I look like a sinner to you?”

“Choirboy you are not,” she muses to herself.

I laugh. Because fuck… that was actually funny.

“Got me pegged so soon, Doc? This will get boring fast if you can read me so well.”

“Does monotony scare you?” she questions.

The fuck did that come from?

“No.”

She thins her lips as if not believing me.

I sit up straighter and look her in the eye.

“Nothing scares me. So quit fishing for things that aren’t there,” I explain, my usual cocky tone morphing into a warning.

“I only asked you a question, Mr. Donovan. Would you care to explain why a simple question got you so defensive?”

“Look, Doc. I’m only here because I was forced to be here. So let’s stop pretending that any of this shit is for my benefit and just tell me what I have to say to get the all-clear from you. The quicker we get this over with, the quicker we can go our separate ways and forget we ever met each other.”

Like you apparently have forgotten all about bumping into me.

“That’s not how therapy works.”

“That’s just it, Doc. I don’t care how it works. I just need to get this over with so I can get off the bench and back onto the rink. You feel me?”

She stares at me for a minute, the weight of her golden gaze making me feel all sorts of uncomfortable.

“Very well,” she finally relents. “How about we start there. Tell me why you got benched. What did you do to deserve such a punishment?”

“Easy. I started a fight.” I groan, falling back on the couch.

“And is that something you are prone to do? Fighting?”

“Actually, I’m more of a lover than a fighter, if you get my drift.” I flirtatiously wink at her, only to frown when she doesn’t look one bit flustered by it.

“So this fight that you started,” she proceeds with a professional tone, “was it a spur-of-the-moment thing? Did someone say something you didn’t like? Or was it your way of gaining attention?”

Fuck me and her questions.

“I get plenty of attention on my own without needing to punch someone’s lights out.”

“So why do it then?” she asks, sounding genuinely interested in my reasoning.

Because I wanted to feel something.

Because I wanted to feel physical pain instead of the one I’m dying from.

Because I wanted to see the world burn around me.

“Mr. Donovan… why did you start the fight?” she insists.

---