Page 11 of Inevitable Endings
My fingers tighten around the fabric of my sleeve, nails pressing into my palm. “What do you want to know?”
“We spoke briefly about your stepfather.”
I nod, jaw clenching. “Yeah.”
She waits for me to continue. I don’t.
After a moment, she speaks again, her tone light but insistent. “You mentioned he was… strict.”
Strict. That word doesn’t come close to what he was.
I force myself to meet her gaze. “He believed in discipline.”
“And your mother?”
“She let it happen.”
Dr. Monroe watches me carefully, reading between the lines, picking apart the things I don’t say. “You told me before that you don’t remember much.”
I shake my head. “I remember enough.”
She waits, giving me space. But I won’t fill it.
I was only four when it began, when the world started to feel heavy and wrong. I remember the cold concrete floor of the basement, the sharp smell of mildew in the air. My small hands gripping the edge of a broken chair, trembling as I tried to make myself smaller, to disappear into the shadows.
By the time I was eight, the dark had become familiar. The nights locked in the basement, cold and alone, my stomach gnawing at me, my body bruised and aching. I wasn’t just underfed, I was starved, starved for food, for affection, for anything that might tell me I was worth something. The beatings, the isolation, the darkness, it became my life. No one came. No one cared.
I wasn’t allowed to shower, to sleep, to feel clean or human. Days stretched into weeks, and in that time, I was stripped of everything: my dignity, my sense of self. I learned that I was nothing, that I didn’t deserve warmth, didn’t deserve care. The world outside was an unreachable dream, one I could neverhave. Instead, I was a prisoner, locked away in a small, cold space where I was nothing but a body to be used and broken.
The worst part wasn’t the physical pain, it was the emotional deprivation. The silence. The loneliness. The complete lack of love, of touch. I was a child, but I was made to feel like I had no right to feel anything but fear. No one ever told me I was loved. No one ever showed me that I was worth anything. And with each passing day, I faded more and more into the nothingness they created.
I learned early that survival meant submitting. It meant becoming small and weak, shrinking into the background, making myself invisible.
And then, there’s Aslanov. I can’t tell her what happened between us, the things we did, the choices we made. The man he is, orwas. The blood that stains my hands, the life we ended on my command, my stepfather. The time we spent together, the promises we made.
I remember his voice, low and unwavering:“Command me. I’ll do anything you tell me.”
It’s like a phantom touch, a memory that lingers longer than it should. I can still feel the weight of it, the power in his words, the intensity of his presence. His voice is etched in my mind, impossible to erase.
I wonder, sometimes, when it will fade. When the sound of it will stop reverberating in my ears, when I’ll forget the way he spoke, so unwavering, so certain.
I can’t tell her that a criminal like him has made me feel things no one else ever had. She’ll send me straight to a psych ward. How could I explain to her that the man who should have been the worst and most feared thing in my life, the one who was meant to ruin me, was the one who made me feel alive?
The Prozac keeps the panic at bay, keeps me from unraveling when these memories surface. But it doesn’t erase them.
Dr. Monroe leans forward slightly, voice steady. “You spent years in survival mode. Even now, you still operate that way, keeping yourself busy, staying detached. But eventually, Isabella, you have to let yourself feel.”
I look past her, toward the window. Outside, the city is alive, people moving through their lives, unaware of how easily the world can crack beneath their feet.
Let myself feel.
If I let myself feel everything, I might never stop.
The session drags on, but I say little. Dr. Monroe doesn’t push me. She never does. When the hour is up, she hands me my prescription refill and tells me to take care of myself.
I nod, but I don’t make promises I can’t keep.
Chapter 6
