Page 5 of Dream Girl

It was the day that I met Amelia.

I had talked about her, practically worshipping her with my voice before I knew what I had been doing for the past hour when the session ended. I didn’t understand why I spilled my guts to the therapist, but I couldn’t stop my mouth from running when I thought of Amelia and her sunshine smile.

She is the prettiest thing I have seen but granted, I have only seen hideous things in my life.

Ever since then, I have made slow progress. I have learned from that day that I was a jealous and possessive man, a terrible trait that I never knew I had in me. I didn’t want anyone to know about Amelia, not even that therapist woman who had encouraged me to talk more about Amelia.

I replaced Amelia’s topic with the things that have happened on a daily basis no matter how much the anger in me demanded that I stop telling a stranger what my routine was. It was not safe for me to dive into my day without risking myself in the process, and a part of me believed for a long time that the therapist was a spy given to me by the government to see if I would spill classified information after my retirement.

I was forced out of the Navy SEALs because I was unstable. I never retired; they had stamped on my files that I was retired but still a threat to the United States if I were to be in the hands of enemies.

I had actually scoffed at the idea. I had been tortured and interrogated by the hands of my enemies, and I know what I can take in terms of pain. My voice was locked securely, and there was no way anyone was going to pry any classified data from my dead, cold lips.

“Milo?” Doctor Pamela Fulton’s voice drags me out of my thoughts.

I lean back further into the chair, creating the maximum distance between us. I don’t care why we have been having this therapy session for almost four years, and I don’t care that it’s the government paying for it, but I would rather be home with Amelia than in this place.

It’s confining and restrictive. Sometimes I feel that I’m locked in a cage and the need to pace hits me in the guts.

“Would you like to tell me about your nightmares?”

It’s a fact that she knows as I have told her that I have trouble sleeping. It takes a toll on my body, and she is a professional that caught onto the lies that I would spill out to get her attention away from the locked door that I keep on my past.

“No.” That continues to be the only answer I give her as my face remains cool and uncaring.

She nods, jotting down notes as the surface of her glasses reflects on the white paper on her lap. I narrow my eyes in instinct to try and read what she is writing, but it’s a futile effort since she’s too far, and the words are too small to make out.

All I see is just scribbles on the white paper reflecting from her glasses.

Doctor Fulton is paid to help me, but I don’t trust her at all despite these sessions running for four years.

“Do you still have them?” she asks.

I assumed that it’s the patients that do most of the talking, but it seemed that after weeks of uncooperativeness from me, she switched tactics to ask me questions.

“Sometimes,” I reply, tone dull and posture taut.

Nightmares aren’t a rare thing in my life; they are a constant reminder of what I have done, and it will continue to haunt me for the rest of my life.

If I want to get better for myself and for the sake of Amelia, I have to learn to push past that boundary that I have set up myself to fail against.

“It’s better now.” I clench my fists in my lap. “They are less violent—”

My throat closes at the next confession that I want to make. It feels natural to come out, and I don’t want to because it scares me; it utterly terrifies me to know that I’m capable of being more of a monster than I already am.

It’s more vivid.

Doctor Fulton picks up on my hesitation and nods understandingly. “Tell me about your meeting with your girlfriend.”

This has to be another tactic to get me to spill my guts but talking about Amelia comes as a natural thing. I like talking about her and thinking of her in a light that lifts up the burden I have been carrying as if it had never been there.

It will be the most refreshing when I think about her, almost better than holding her in our bed. Nothing beats the satisfaction of knowing that she’s safely tucked into my arms, away from the evils in this rotten world.

She sees everything good in the world and in me, but I don’t share the same views as her. As long as she is happy putting up with me, I will be someone she wants to spend the rest of her life with.

Even if I have to continue this fabrication of the kind, gentle, and loving boyfriend façade.

“She’s…” I don’t know how to start. There are so many things good about Amelia that my thoughts are fighting with my voice to give the first compliment about the love of my life.

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