Page 95 of Hunt for You

“Bridget—”

“I’ve had over twenty years and a dozen therapists to try and fix this, but… it turns out that when you’re seven years old and your dad drives you around for a month on a killing spree, holding a gun to your head, and threatening to kill you in your sleep—and you’ve had the evidence in front of youseven timesthat he’s capable of it—it does something weird to your developing brain. I don’t remember the medical term. But… the short story is, my blood got toxic and my brain rewired and ever since, Ican’tfeel safe. Not really. If I evenkind offeel safe, my body just… dies inside. But then the moment there’s a threat—real or imagined—I come alive. Except…”

“Except what?” Sam asked hoarsely.

“Except that it turns out fear is a bitch. And a few years ago I figured out that whether I was safe and dead, or afraid and alive, I was miserable. Period. Merry Christmas to me, huh?” ” I made myself meet his eyes then. Sam opened his mouth but I kept going. “Look, I don’t want to do this life anymore. But I also don’t want to just sit in my house and swallow a bullet. I want to go outfighting.”

Sam raked both hands through his hair, but he didn’t do that thing a lot of people do, which is try to find a positive thing to observe about me like,Oh, but it’s made you such a strong person!Or,What an incredible story you have to tell—you should write a book!Or, my personal favorite,What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…

No irony there. No sir.

Bitterness and rage bubbled up in my throat because all I’d ever wanted was to be normal. To be worried about things like boys or clothes or whatever. But since I was seven years old, I’d had to worry about dying—or about people I loved dying. Or being killed. Because it happened. And once that happens toyou, your body remembers that it’s possible. And no one warned you it was coming, so you better always be ready…

“Fuck,” I muttered and pushed out of my seat. I needed to move. I stormed into the little living room off to the right and started pacing, back and forth on the old carpet.

“Bridget—”

“Trust me. You can’t fix this. And I don’t want you to try. I’m only telling you so you understand that my whole life is fucked up and I’m so tired! I just want it to be over—and don’t start telling me you’ll pray for me either. Trust me, been there, done that, got the bloodspattered t-shirts to show for it. Monsters exist in this world and once you know that, you can’t unknow it, no matter how much therapy you get.”

“I know,” Sam said wearily.

“Good. Then let’s not do that thing where you start counseling me—”

“I wasn’t going to. At least, not about that.”

“Good. So—wait, what do you mean, not aboutthat?”

“I mean… well, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I absolutely see divine intervention in you being brought to my door—the fact that I’m here is a miracle by itself. But that it happened right when you showed up too… I see God’s hand in that.”

“Oh really? Then where was God’s hand when my father was murdering my mother, then driving me around for a month killing everyone he hated, and threatening to kill me as well?”

My raised voice echoed briefly in the little cottage, and I swallowed hard.

Sam blew out a breath. “All I’m saying is… I haven’t lived what you’ve lived—my darkness was more self-inflicted—but I know that look people get when you tell them stuff, right? That understanding you had of the judgment people bring? Yeah, I get it. And here I am, in a place I shouldn’t be, but I knowhow that feels, and I’m used to living with and talking to and ministering to men just like your father. I don’t think that happened by accident.”

I rolled my eyes and kept pacing. “So you’re saying God cares enough now to want to give me therapy, when he could have just stopped my dad from killing anyone?”

“I’m saying… I’m so sorry that happened and you’ve been carrying it your whole life. I can’t even imagine the kind of fear that would give a child. It scares the shit out of me, and I’m a grown man.”

I stopped pacing and gaped at him. “You swore!”

Sam grimaced. “It seemed appropriate.”

“Better not do that in front of the blue-hair ladies. They’ll wet themselves—one way or another.”

Sam coughed and scratched the back of his neck, but the moment passed and I started pacing again. I didn’t know what to say. It was always like this. On the rare occasions I’d ever chosen to tell anyone this story, I got so agitated that in the end I just bailed on the conversation—and usually on that person too. Funnily enough, they never hunted me down later, so it must have been the right choice.

“I should go,” I muttered and turned towards the dining room.

Sam immediately raised his hands like he was surrendering. “No, Bridget. Please. I’m so sure I’m the right person for you to talk to about this. You won’t shock me. You won’t freak me out.”

“I thought you were scared shitless?”

“I was—at the idea of what you must have witnessed and how that would affect you. But trust me, if there’s one thing I can confidently say Iamgood at, it’s dealing with the people who’ve lived with violence—or been the violence. That’s me, remember?”

I stopped walking just a couple steps from him. He licked his lips like he was nervous, but then he spoke.

“There’s also something I know about stuff like this that a lot of other people probably don’t think about.”

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