Page 63 of Mafie Trials

“Uh um,” a cough breaks us apart, and I start to laugh.

We apologize as we separate and focus our attention back to Dr. K, whose cheeks look as red as her hair. “It’s alright, I’m honestly proud that the two of you have such effective communication.”

“Thank you,” Alexi says with a faint blush.

“Alexi, would you like to talk some more about your mother?”

The second Dr. K changes the subject back to his mother, Alexi tenses. I squeeze his hand, unsure if my presence helps him at all in this moment or not but wanting to give him something to anchor to.

“Being home has made me think of her more than usual. She always had this way of making this giant house feel like a home. I didn’t think it would feel like that ever again, but it’s beginning to,” he says before coughing. “When she was killed, I remember my father shutting down so quickly. I never understood it. Now that he’s trying to be closer to me, and I almost lost Evie, I think I get it more now.”

Why does therapy always hurt? I hate that these bad memories are brought up for him to live through again and again. It’s no different than my night terrors, the trauma being thrown in my face time and time again. When does it fucking stop?

“Evie was attacked on the island and part of it was our fault. She was alone and vulnerable because of us, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for that. When I saw her in that hospital bed so pale, the relief was tarnished with the knowledge that I had a part in her ending up there. I imagine that’s how my father felt when he saw my mothers lifeless body on that table. I know the only reason I was able to keep going was because I knew Evie was breathing, but he didn’t have that. And while I know that doesn’t make it okay, I think the only reason I’m able to forgive him for shutting me out is because I get it now.”

The more Alexi talks, the more I understand it. He relaxes with each story he tells. Eventually, we’re laughing and reflecting on the happy memories of Alexi as a boy, cooking with his mother and getting chocolate all over. I can see that maybe this is the point. Maybe, just maybe, talking about the bad helps us to lift the veil and see through to the good.

“Evie,” Dr. K breaks me from my thoughts. “How are you feeling? Would you like to open up more about your parents?”

Her eyes stay on me, and I find myself wanting to trust her like Alexi and Damien seem to.

“They um,” I search for the right words. “I think they were always afraid for me. Looking back, I remember my father teaching me so many things I never thought twice about until he was gone. He started teaching me to use a blade at nine and throw it at ten. He taught me to ride a dirt bike when I was seven, but it wasn’t in a fun way. It was in case I ever needed to escape. We would wrestle sometimes too. I remember times where he would get worked up when I didn’t grasp a concept.” I look down and pick at the hem of my shirt. Talking about my parents has never been easy for me. But I want to keep trying and give myself a chance.

“My mother always wanted me close, even if we were in the house together. She would set up my school work on the island while she cooked dinner. Any time I ventured too far, she would always find me.”

More things start to come together in my mind as I process it all. It’s rare that I talk about them and even rarer for me to think back on the time we spent together.

“I think that’s what hurt most about them dying, I never got to hear it from them why they wanted me to learn these things so badly.”

“That’s valid,” Dr. K says. “It’s okay to be frustrated with them even though they are gone. You don’t have to excuse their actions or put them on a pedestal because they died. You deserve to feel how you feel and process that. Then, find a way to forgive them that isn’t just forgetting.”

I let that sink in for a moment, realizing she’s right. One of the reasons I didn’t want to think of the good times is because, in a way, I’m still angry with them. I’m angry my mother left that safe room. I’m angry they never told me about anything they did. I’m angry they made the deal with Boris in the first place.

“What happened after they died?”

While the question is definitely a logical progression, it hits me like a ton of bricks landing on my chest. I think about Havoc pulling me out of that safe room and tying me up. I think about my uncle pretending to be the savior. All the lies and promises he whispered in my ear to get me to do his bidding.

Then the time he sent me away, the knowledge that he tagged me like I was his cattle after he found me and buried the tracker deep into a scar I can hardly look at today. My breaths are short and I feel heavy, like I’m strapped to the mattress below me. I’m stuck there just like I was on that torture table.

The ache between my legs starts to feel more like pain as I remember them taking and taking until I was sure there was nothing left of me. I was an empty vessel for them to toy with and…

“Evie!” Dr. K shouts, pulling me from the dark tunnel.

Alexi is holding a hand out, but it’s just shy of touching me and I’m so fucking thankful he didn’t. I cover my mouth as a choked sob comes from me. When Alexi pulls me to him, I let his warmth ground me and keep my eyes wide open, refusing to fall into the embrace of those memories again.

“Just let her lay there, Alexi. Soft, consistent touches. Keep your hands moving.”

I think about how Damien always does that, his thumb circling the back of my hand or my thigh anytime I start to panic. She must have taught him that. I’m so grateful to her right now. All I can do is stare at the screen as a look of understanding passes between us. She’s not judgemental; she doesn’t yell or tell me to get over it. She sits in the silence with me as I come back to reality and shake off the memories.

“You’re doing great, Evie. I’m so proud of you for how much you opened up.”

“I ruined it,” I say in a low, defeated voice. My meltdown messed with all the progress we had been making.

“You didn’t ruin anything, Evie. You talked about something hard and it overwhelmed you. There’s nothing wrong with that. Talking about our feelings isn’t easy, and the things that have been done to your mind aren’t something that should be expected to be fixed in a single one hour session.” She smiles at me and I nod, trying to understand.

“We all need time to process change, to process grief. We have to teach our minds that we control it, not the other way around, and that takes time. It’s not easy, and this isn’t a place where you will ever be judged for the way you need to work through it.”

The stern tone in her voice makes me believe her. I want so desperately to believe her—that I might not be broken forever. But I hate this feeling, and if this is what I have to face during my time with her, I don’t see myself ever willingly doing it again.

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