She stares at me again and then closes her mouth and quietly says, "Okay."
I grin at her. That’s my girl. "Good answer."
As I’m walking around my car to let her out, I make a decision. She’s mine. I need to start making that very, very clear. This type of stupid misunderstanding will not happen again. "I'm picking you up at six thirty tonight and I'm making you dinner. Do you eat steak?"
"Yes," she whispers.
Her eyes warm and she sways toward me, igniting a fierce possessiveness. "Do you work tomorrow?"
"No, day off."
I walk her to her door and she stands staring at me, and so I take her keys from her, open her outside door, and give her a little push inside. "See you tonight. And, Evie, pack an overnight bag." Very, very, very clear.
"What!–" she sputters, but I let the door close behind me, not allowing her to argue.
CHAPTER 14
Dr. Fox is sitting beside my bed in his usual spot, leaned back, one foot on his opposite knee, notepad in hand. He repeats the question he asked me minutes ago, that I still haven’t answered. I’m staring out the window, anger simmering in my brain.
"Can we talk about Lauren?"
His voice snaps me back to myself and I realize I’m clenching my jaw against my will.
"There’s nothing to talk about."
"I think we both know that’s not true."
"Alright, then, that subject is off limits."
"You need to talk about this, son."
"I don’t talk about her. Ever. She doesn’t exist to me."
"Saying it doesn’t make it true. I think you already know that."
A cloud of rage has settled in my head now, and I’m fighting against the images that assault me, one by one by f**king one. I feel like I’m about to combust, my hands fisting in my lap, my entire body tense.
"Why is it that you won’t talk about her?"
That’s when I feel it happen. I snap. I think I even hear the sound effect of each thought in my head bending and finally breaking as the cloud overtakes every cognitive function. Suddenly I am nothing more than pure anger, my brain filled with, and controlled by, a roiling tumor of fury. And it’s metastasizing by the minute, cells multiplying, spreading, and overtaking.
"Because I hate her!" I yell, picking my food tray up off the table next to my bed, and flinging it violently at the wall. Uneaten food splatters and the tray hits the floor with a clang.
"Who do you hate, son?"
"Lauren! I f**king hate her! I hate her!"
I sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum. I’m vaguely aware of this and yet my rage is so all-consuming, I don’t care. Fury rules and I am just along for the ride.
I swing my legs off the side of my bed and start sweeping things off every surface in my room, grinding out, "I hate her. I hate her. I hate her," with every crash. My breath is coming fast now and I feel the words starting to hitch in my throat. I feel crazed with rage as I hobble from one side of the room to the next, yelling and destroying, a pain-cyclone of anger and bitterness. Hurricane Leo. Category five.
"Who do you hate, Jake?" Dr. Fox's voice comes to me through the red noise pulsing through my brain.
"I told you! I f**king told you! Lauren! I hate her! I hate her! I hate her!" I continue to half grind out, half yell, and half pant. My voice is coming to me from what seems to be very far away. I can't feel my body any longer. I feel like one big whirling ball of emotion, completely out of control.
In my peripheral vision, I briefly make note that a nurse with a stricken look opens the door halfway to see what is causing what must sound like a barroom brawl in my hospital room.
Dr. Fox holds his hand up to her in a stop gesture and nods to her, and she backs out of the room quickly, her eyes wide.
"I hate her! I hate her! I hate her!" I grind out, overturning the table next to my bed.
"Who do you hate, son?" Dr. Fox asks again, quietly.
I whirl around to him and my father's voice, that bastard who called himself my father, comes to me suddenly. I see his face in front of me, filled with disgust, swimming in my cloudy, fury-riddled vision. I feel the rage bloom larger in my chest and I pick up a chair and hurl it across the room. It bounces off the tall, plastic garbage can in the corner and clatters to the floor, one leg snapping off. "My father!" I bellow. "I hate him! I f**king hate that rat-fucking bastard! I hate every bone in his disgusting body! I want to f**king kill him! I want to bash his f**king head in!"
I continue chanting my mantra of hate, turning to my bed and punching the high, completely upraised end of my mattress again and again and again. I grunt with every blow, an inhuman growl coming from deep in my chest.
"Who do you hate?" Dr. Fox's voice comes from directly behind me, still gentle and controlled.
"Stop asking me that! I told you! Aren’t you f**king listening to me? My father! My mother! Lauren! I hate them all! I f**king hate them! Fuck! Fuck them all! Fuck them! I hate them!" My voice cracks at the end and I’m breathing so hard that I feel like I might hyperventilate. A lifetime of built up rage over selfishness that steals dignity and cruelty that preys on the weak is coursing through my veins, a fire looking to consume me from the inside out.
"Who do you hate, son?"
My blows become softer, my defenseless mattress getting a momentary reprieve from my rage-filled beating. My breath hitches in my throat again, and now I can feel the tears burning behind my eyes, wanting to fall. This spurs my anger again and so my blows become harder and I am almost choking now. The rage begins to abate, and just beyond it is the grief and I feel it coming at me like a wave. I'm powerless to fight it. All I can do is wait as it washes over me, drenching the fiery ball of anger, putting out that flame, but dragging me under, tossing me, flailing and defenseless against its unrelenting power. It is bigger than the rage, bigger than the bitterness, bigger than the guilt, and I can do nothing but submit to it. I choke out, "Me! I hate me! I hate myself! I hate myself! I f**king hate myself!" And now the tears are coming, and I'm choking on my words and sputtering and punching and yelling. "I f**king hate myself! I hate myself! Fuck! Fuck! "I hear myself sobbing and muttering, and somewhere, from a distance, I think the words I hear are, "Why? Why? Why wasn't I enough? I'm worthless. Why did I do that? Why did I let her do that? Why did I do that? Why? Why? I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I'm worthless. I hate myself."