Page 130 of Doesn't Count

“I just see red.” I tell him honestly.

“The color red? That’s it?” He coaxes, his voice soft and smooth as if he’s swaying a deer to feed from his hand.

I rub my chin, now coated in scruff from months of not shaving. “Blood. Mine, the girl from ten years ago, Bordeaux’s, Ash’s. There’s just so much blood on my hands and I can’t stop thinking about the suffering Ash has endured. What if I had done it? What If I had killed her like I did the girl all those years ago? I could have. I did it before and I could have done it again.”

“Oliver,” I flinch, the name still triggering even after months of hearing it, “You need to remind yourself that you didn’t do it. You didn’t kill Ash. Her suffering wasn’t your fault. You held strong and made a decision that ultimately saved her life.”

I scoff, “No, I didn’t kill Ash, but I did kill two others. Regardless, my hands will always be bloody. Always stained red.”

He sighs, the slow progress becoming even slower. At least it’s honest.

“Let’s practice an exercise. I want you to hold your palms up toward the ceiling and rest the back of your hands on your knees.”

Begrudgingly, I follow his instructions. It’s not that I don’t believe in these mild coping skills therapists try to teach in lieu of executing something a little more drastic, something to appease the suffocating feeling of drowning in your own misery. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to pull yourself out from under the surface to even give it a try.

“Now, I want you to look at your hands. Tell me what you see.”

“Red, they’re covered in blood.”Every. Damn. Day.

“Okay. Now close your eyes and count to ten. When you open them, I want you to look around the room and point out five items – any items – and say them out loud.”

My eyes shut, I breathe deeply for ten seconds and when I open them again, I give him those five items.

“Great. Now, look down, what do you see?”

I find my palms and flip them over. Although shaking, they’re not coated in crimson.

Smirking, I shake my head. “Nothing. Just my hands.”

It feels stupid, childish, too good to be true, but it also feels... relieving. Not only these last months, but for years, I’ve always hated the sight of my own hands, the sound of my own name. I hated who I was. Now? After a simple coping technique that took a total of fifteen seconds, I can look at myself without dread. I don’t have to live with a constant reminder of the sins I’ve committed, the lives I’ve taken. A proud smile finds me when I finally look up.

Dr. Gillispie nods, “Very well! Now, I want you to continue practicing that until eventually, you don’t find your guilt painted all over your hands.”

My excitement fades as another feeling swallows it whole. As if happiness and contentment are merely food for the more depraved feelings inside of me that have infested my being.

“Nothing should be kept bottled up, Oliver. Let it out. What are you thinking?”

“I feel guilty. I don’t feel like I deserve reprieve for what I’ve done.”

“That is something we’ll have to continue to work on then because you do not deserve to feel guilty at overcoming trauma.” He pinches his lips and I begin to wonder if I’m too far gone to be saved. “Think of it this way, do you think if it were your mother or your father, or even Ash in your position, wouldyou feel the same way about them that you do yourself? Do you think they should be set free of the guilt they would feel if they took a life to save themselves or someone else?”

“That’s easy, Doc.” I groan. “Of course, I wouldn’t want that to weigh on them. I would hate that, but it’s so much easier to want peace for someone else because it’s not you. I can easily get over someone else’s choices to take a life to save themselves, I wouldn’t have been in that position to make that decision, I wouldn’t have to live with it. Except, it wasn’t anyone else’s choice, it was mine. I took what I had no right taking. For what? So I can save myself? I’m miserable. I’m broken, wrecked, filthy, and sinful. I don’t deserve to live with a happiness that my victims will never know again.”

“Victims.” He stops my rant “What a strong word, Oliver. Isn’t that what you are in all of this, too? You were thirteen, you didn’t go looking for any of this, you didn’t ask to be in that position to take a life. You were given two options, and you chose self-preservation because that’s what humans do.”

“Fuck off!”

Shock colors Dr. Gillispie’s face for a brief second before he schools it, “I’m sorry, did I say something that upset you?”

“You sound just like him.”

“Who?”

“Father.” I growl through clenched teeth, the name like pure acid burning my mouth.

“Ah, and what did I say that reminded you of him?”

I drag those now glistening red palms down the center of my face.

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