Page 71 of Vandal Unbound

This doctor’s office doesn’t look like the kind of place an outlaw biker should be caught dead in. There’s a stupid little fountain bubbling in the corner like it’s trying to convince me to relax. And there are more plants in here than a greenhouse. On the shelves are little stone ornaments and words carved into them likebreatheandhealingand some other bullshit.

And yet, I’m sitting here, so grateful for what Doc has been able to do for me. Doc. No last name. No first name. She doesn’t know my legal name either. Just my road name. She keeps no notes, so there’s nothing to subpoena. There’s barely a trace I was ever here.

She leans back in her chair, crosses one leg over the other, and smoothes a hand over her hair. She’s older, not gonna guess how old, but there’s no bullshit in her eyes, and that’s probably why Switch and Spark, the medic and sergeant at arms of the New Jersey chapter, trust her.

Switch had his skull bashed in by an enemy to the club. It left him with temporary amnesia and some lasting challenges, so he’s probably the first person I’ve met who properly understandswhat I’ve been going through. Havoc and I met him and his wife, Sophia, who is seven months pregnant. She permanently lost her memory and eye in an accident, but not her sense of humor.

Hearing their perspective on trauma and loss and injury and recovery made it sound possible. As Sophia pointed out, it’s easier for those who have never experienced lasting injuries to think trauma is a stage, something to get over, rather than a permanent change to who you are. She told me she still has days where she’s furious she lost her eye. But now she has tools to catch and contain her emotional reaction to it. Switch still has problems with his grip strength, making long runs out of reach.

I feel that frustration right now.

“I’m serious,” Doc says, bringing me back to the moment. “You keep talking about the attack like it revealed some fundamental weakness in you.”

I stare at the floor, and the scar tissue around my ribs aches from the deep breaths I’m taking.

“You were ambushed,” she continues. “Tortured and isolated. The shame belongs to the people who did this to you. Not you.”

Spark assured me before I went to meet her that she had a flexible moral code and a deep interest in helping men like us. He assured me that King gave his permission to speak freely with her. Spark was seeing someone else before Switch met her. I’ve got to be honest, I don’t think the New Jersey way of doing things would fly in Florida. They’re too progressive, too open, and everyone seems to be sharing their feelings and pronouns. But I’m also starting to see why it might be good for the club.

“Those things are easy to say when nobody held a cattle prod to your ribs while they tried to break you apart.” I rub my hand over my jaw.

“Shame is how abusers keep power,” she says quietly. “They make victims carry the humiliation because if you’re ashamed,they still own part of you the next time you meet. And if this becomes about your humiliation, they never have to carry the guilt themselves.”

I roll my eyes at that.

“Can you explain that reaction to me?”

I roll my eyes again. “Victim. I fucking hate that word.”

“Survivor then,” she says. “You survived something horrific, Vandal. Your brain adapted to keep you alive. Hypervigilance. Flashbacks. Disassociation. Anger. None of those are signs you’re weak. They’re signs your nervous system is trying to do its job and keep you alive.”

“But it all feels like the same thing. I still feel broken.”

Doc leans forward. “That’s because you keep measuring yourself against the version of you that existed before. You’re allowed to become someone new.”

That last sentence hits something in my chest hard, because I don’t know who the fuck that is yet. But for weeks, it’s felt like everybody else has been waiting for me to become the old Vandal again. Violent. Unshakeable.

“Why does that scare you?” she asks.

I owe it to her to think about the answer, but even as I give myself time, I realize I already know what I need to say. “What if the club doesn’t like or need what I am now?”

Doc tilts her head slightly. “And whatareyou now?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out because I don’t fucking know.

“That uncertainty you’re feeling,” she says gently, “that’s not weakness. That’s transition. People panic in transition because identity feels safer when it’s anchored.” She leans back slightly in her chair. “But I assure you that every single man in your club has been changed because of something. Violence. Prison. Loss. Parenthood. Addiction. Injury. Nobody stays the same forever, Vandal. And it’s unfair of you to put that pressure onto yourself.Yes, you built your identity around being useful through violence. The strongest or most dangerous man in the room. But that isn’t the only value people have. And honestly, if the price of membership to your precious Outlaws is destroying yourself to stay recognizable to other people until there’s nothing of you left to save, why would you even want to be a part of that club?”

A shift starts to happen at her words. She makes it sound so simple in the way she says it. Everyone changes. I’m more than my physical strength. I can almost see a future where I get comfortable with the idea.

Doc stands and comes around the desk, stopping just close enough to offer a hug instead of forcing one on me. It’s funny how much that choice matters after somebody takes enough of it away from you. So I stand slowly and return the hug she’s offering.

“You’re doing better than you think you are, Vandal. You’ve already taken huge steps getting sober.”

“I’m still a work in progress.”

“Aren’t we all?” She steps back from me. “When I first started in addiction work, I thought abstinence was the only answer. Black-and-white thinking, joining groups that would give you tokens to show just how far you’d come. Never drink again or you failed.” She shrugs lightly. “Life in a motorcycle club is more complicated than that. Beer is practically currency, and so you’re going to need to use some of the strategies we’ve shared to avoid the shame when you choose to not pick up a glass. Remember to set limits before you start drinking. Then keep a tally on your phone of how much you’ve had. Delay the impulse when it hits.”

I frown. “I can’t remember the last one. Remind me…delaying it?”