Page 161 of Scoring the Player

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I sink lower until I’m on my butt with my knees bent in front of me.

“I’m good here.”

“That’s fine. Let’s have you stay there, then. Do you feel like yourself? Younger? Older?”

I study my hands. “I feel like me.”

“Okay. Anyone else there now?”

I shake my head.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling now?”

I hate that question.

Ihateit.

“My throat was just starting to open.”

“Do you know what’s making it close?”

“I hate that question.”

“It’s closing because I asked what you’re feeling?”

Her voice is never cold or rushed. Always even, with a warm lilt, even when I know she can tell she’s annoying the shit outta me.

“Yeah. There’s a door.”

“Can you describe the door?”

The fuck?It’s a door.

“The hallway is dark.”

“The hallway that’s in front of the door?”

“Yes.”

“What or who do you think is behind the door?”

I feel…it…cowering, and my eyes prick with rage.

“I don’t know.”

I hate him. He’s so fucking useless. Always hiding in there, stinking of fear.

“It’s okay that you don’t?—”

I dip my chin inside the neckline of my shirt. “I hate him.”

“Could you tell me who you see there? Is it the same six- or seven-year-old as last time?”

“He’s so useless. Afraid all the time.”

“How does it feel to hate him?”

I swipe my cheek against my shoulder.

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