Page 4 of The Forbidden Villain
Or at least I thought it did for a long time. It turns out the world prefers to follow the strict regime rather than accept that, in certain circumstances, evil is necessary to protect those who deserve it the most.
True justice is a privilege of those who never burned in hell as their flesh got peeled layer by layer, making them scream in agony while their soul slowly got eaten alive until only emptiness remained.
Her lips twitch. “Actually, it doesn’t. Justice implies that everyone who breaks the law should be punished the same. Now, what the judge might decide, or the jury…that has a lot of gray in it, and it depends on their perception. Laws do not have colors in them.”
I’m not sure why she’s so hell-bent on defending the judicial system, anyhow. It failed her spectacularly back in the day and sent her to prison for a crime she didn’t commit. “Either way, that documentary once again proved that no one cares about the truth if it’s ugly.” Another annoying scratch, and I glance at the clock, sighing inwardly because we have around ten minutes left.
I’ve agreed to come to these sessions twice a week and can’t even run off. Otherwise, all the recent privileges would be taken away from me, and isn’t that just sad?
I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Beasts do not get trust given to them because their hideousness scares the innocent folks away. And the mirrors in my apartment show me every day how true that statement is.
When one looks in the mirror, they can’t ignore the reality, and that’s what always grounds me to the present.
One of the reasons I keep the damn things around. Otherwise, I would have smashed them all a long time ago.
“Sometimes it’s too painful. The families of these rapists couldn’t accept who they truly were because then they’d have to question their own lives. And that’s something we as humans tend to avoid.”
“Funny you say that. I have to question my entire existence every single time I come here.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, quickly backtracking because the last thing I need is for my psychiatrist to find out our sessions don’t help me much. “It’s for the best because I’m a high risk who needs to be watched.”
One of the perks of having free time is that I get to read lots of books, and, apparently, admitting that you have a problem makes people believe you can be trusted.
If they only knew how effortless it is to manipulate any truth into one’s favor, I doubt they would have trusted the lie so easily.
The truth doesn’t always set us free. Sometimes it pushes us down the abyss, from which there is no escape, for it might be bait rather than a solution.
“Is this why you sympathize with the serial killer so much?” My nails cut even deeper into the cushion. Any more pressure and I’m going to rip it. “Because you wished for someone like him to come and save you back when you were a little girl?”
I freeze at this, and swallow past the bile forming in my throat, shaking my head. “I was never raped,” I remind her, mentally starting to count to ten as the ringing in my earsbecomes louder and louder with each passing second. “My story is different.”
Maybe she has so many patients a day that she’s starting to mix us all up. Even the best of the best can make mistakes.
One, two, three…
“Your parents died when you were less than two years old, and you were forced to live with your paternal uncle. An uncle who took an odd interest in you from an early age until he almost raped you at eighteen and caused a fire that scarred you for life.”
The phantom scent of the burned flesh twitches my nose, my breathing speeding up while vivid and horrific images pop in my head one after another, and my skin aches as if being subjected to the unbreakable pain once again.
Four, five, six…
“I had my brothers.” I lick my dry lips and gulp for breath. The air seems almost unreachable at this point. I force a strained laugh that sounds fake even to my own ears. “You’ve seen them. Who’d need protection with them around?”
Her gaze softens as she puts the pen away, and I tense even more because her compassion and empathy are somewhat worse than anything else.
Compassion contains affection, and what can one do with affection if they lived in solitude their whole life?
“Your brothers were nine when the tragedy happened with your parents. Rush got lost, and you all considered him dead, and while Rafael stayed with you and protected you as long as he could…he got kicked out by your uncle at fourteen. Both of your brothers fought for you, but there was so little they could do. By the time they got to see you again…the damage had been done.”
I breathe through the panic slowly wrapping its fingers around my neck and threatening to cut off my oxygen supply.“My uncle was a sadistic pervert, and to protect myself from him, I had to pretend to not be okay after the fire. They assumed I hit my head. It worked. He wanted me because I reminded him of my mom.” I really should have invested in some acting classes. Maybe this shit would have been easier then. “So I’m not sure how my liking the serial killer documentary has anything to do with my past.”
She looks at me for what seems like forever, and everything in me shatters when she finally speaks up, proving to me once again why she’s considered one of the best in her field. “You pretended to have age regression along with furious outbursts that some psychiatrists considered psychotic episodes. Even when your brothers finally got you back, you never stopped playing the part, no matter how many doctors they hired to help you. You avoided people, stayed alone in your room, and whenever you erupted into hysterics when your uncle was around, you’d accept sedatives. You lost eleven years of your life by living in isolation to protect yourself from your mother’s rapist and father’s murderer.” I should count. Dammit, why is it so hard to count now? “Maybe while watching the documentary, you wondered what would have happened if a serial killer like that came and saved you from your uncle. That maybe you’d have a normal life. He’d been an avenging angel of sorts.”
Wrapping my hands around my knees, I rock back and forth on the bed as white walls surround me.
Despite hating them, I’ve discovered over the years that white has many shades too.
For example, white walls in the psychiatric ward are way worse with endless amounts of screams surrounding me, so I prefer the ones in my family home.
I hum something under my breath while my brothers stand around me.
