Page 9 of Kane

Sometimes that’s all people really need—to know someone’s there. That their voice isn’t falling on deaf ears, that their pain is witnessed, and they aren’t suffering alone, even if it’s for an hour or so.

There’s not much I can do to rectify what my father did. I can’t bring back the dead; I can’t bring my mother back. I can’t even remember what happened, though I wish I could. It would make my life a lot easier, no doubt. Maybe even bring me some form of relief. But I can’t focus on the should haves, could haves, would haves.

What I can do is try my best to atone and make amends for the sins of my father. What I can do is put one foot in front of the other. Sit still for an hour or so, and not feel so isolated in this fucked up world because I’m not the only one who wishes it could have been me in her place.

Sometimes, I wonder if there will ever be a day when I won’t feel this way, when I won’t have to go to therapy twice a week and group once a week to sit and stew in the sparing truths I let out, drip by drip.

If one day I won’t soothe the ache with domination or drinking until I can’t see names or hear faces because it’s the only way I can let myself lose control. Blame it on the alcohol and bad decisions, not on me and my fucked up needs and trauma.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be free of these invisible chains.

I’m not sure that day will ever come though, to be honest. This is real life, not some Lucky Charms commercial. There are no pots of gold at the end of my rainbow, just pain, guilt. Loneliness.

So much fucking loneliness…

Another heavy shadow looms over the corner, painting a tall shape that looks far too familiar, even though I haven’t seen him in over twenty years, since that night. I see him in every shadow, every six-foot-tall man with dark hair. I feel his gaze on me even though I know he’s nowhere near me. I don’t even know if he’s alive, to tell the truth. No one knows.

Still, I can’t escape him. I dream of his wolfy growl, and his wicked tongue. I dream of his warm yet harsh palm, or the crisp sting of his belt against my skin as he reminds me that he brought me into this world, and he can take me right back out.

I believed him. Hell, I always believed my father was capable of scary things, I just didn’t know until that fateful day how horrifying he truly was.

Does Unknown know this terror, too? Did they know him at all? Or are they blissfully living their life unaware that they share the blood with a killer, or with me? I don’t know, and the thought makes me as remorseful and guilty as it does envious.

I haven’t been able to find much about Unknown, and I’m not exactly an expert hacker like my former acquaintance, Robbie. Who’s apparently serving time for kidnapping and attempted murder of his former boss, Sloane Pierce, owner of one of the biggest security software companies around.

Just my fucking luck.

I stare at my hands, trying to steady them as they shake. No matter how many times I do this, no matter how many times I come here, the anxiety never goes away. The paranoia that I’ll suddenly remember what happened.

Which is what I want, but…

But there’s also a sort of sombre contentness to not remembering, too.

I know soon enough the relief and self-loathing will rise, threatening to devour me when I can’t, and the guilt and remorse will stab me like a knife because I can’t.

Finally, my stop arrives, and I get off just as a dense crowd of people bottleneck into the car.

The air is putrid and thick; the stench of the sewers mingling and making my stomach roil. I shove my hands in my pockets and head up the stairs, out into the chilly, unforgiving air.

It doesn’t take long for me to get to Margaret’s building, mostly because I’m too anxious and too cold to take my time. The only good thing about coming here is that my therapist’s office isn’t too far from the building where group meets, which is why I try to schedule my appointments in the evening on Tuesdays. I’d rather not do therapy at all, but Jasper has insisted I go most of my life, so it’s more of a habit than anything else at this point.

Though I’m not a kid anymore; I’m thirty-seven. I don’t have to do anything for that asshole. But for some reason, I keep coming even though I know I could just stop doing so. Maybe one day I’ll figure out what that reason is, but today probably isn’t that day.

I find my seat in the corner, sprawling out in the squeaky leather chair. Her waiting room smells like lavender and sage, which isn’t terrible, but it doesn’t help my migraine. A moment later, the door opens, and Margaret glances at me over her big oval glasses, her silver Tiffany chain glinting in the low light as a young woman leaves her office, her eyes rimmed with tears and her cheeks flushed. She speeds out of here fast, and if that isn’t an ominous omen, I don’t know what is.

“Mr. Carson,” she says, her tone neutral as always. The woman never smiles. But I guess if I had to work with people like myself every day, I’d probably adopt a resting bitch face, too, out of necessity. Call it self-preservation.

“Margie,” I say, forcing a smile as I get up and make my way into her office, sliding my hands in my pockets. My voice doesn’t betray the annoyance I truly feel. When I serve my subs, there is no room for error. My tone, my body language, even the way I breathe are indicators of my mental, emotional, and physiological state. But I’ve learned that when it comes to therapy, that doesn’t exactly work. Because I’m not the one in charge here. I mean, I am to a point, but Margie says if I truly want to remember what happened, if I want to move past this block, I need to trust her. I need to let her do her thing. As long as I can appear docile enough, keep my extracurricular hobbies to myself, Margaret won’t have anything to complain about.

So, I head into her office and take a seat on the couch while she shuts the door. I wait for her to sit down at her desk, in that giant squeaky red leather chair, and address me like I’m the fucking queen of England.

Patience is a virtue, or so I am told. But sometimes I think it’s a crock of shit.

Still, I need to be on my best behavior if I ever have hopes of moving past this memory block that’s been plaguing me for most of my life, and unearthing the truth.

“How are you sleeping?” she asks nonchalantly.

I have to play nice, at least for now. The last thing I need to give her is a reason to call me a psychopath, like my father. Normally I don’t mind Margaret’s cut-to-the-chase, no fuss directness, but after the day I’ve had…