The clock ticks loudly in Dr. Richard's office. I sit with my feet on the couch with my knees bent up and spread apart, my hands buried in the pockets of my hoodie as I wait for the time to run out. I'd rather be fucking, getting spanked, even studying if it meant I wouldn't have to be here, but this is what I do to keep Remy happy.

It kills me not to be able to talk to him about mom's condition, but he wouldn't understand. Whenever I bring her up, it reminds him of my sister, and he spirals into his dark, angry place. Having him think our parents are rotting away in a cage somewhere makes him feel better. So, I let him keep thinking that, and I talk to the stupid shrink.

Or, I don't talk to the stupid shrink. Same thing.

"Do you plan on staying silent for the whole hour?" she asks me.

I don't respond. That would mean I'd lose the quiet game.

"Well, if there is nothing you'd like to talk about today, I have a few things I'd be happy to discuss."

She shifts in her chair, and I attempt to maintain my focus on the even ticking of the clock. I lean my head onto the back of the couch, close my eyes, and listen to the sound.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Suck. Cock.

Tick. Tock.

"Have you been able to cry yet?" she asks. My eyes snap open. The answer is no, but she already knows that. "You said the last time you did was at you sister's funeral. Why do you think you haven't cried since then? Is it because the memory of your loss is the most painful? Or is it because you prefer using your body to cope with her loss?"

Bitch. I glare in her direction but say nothing.

"You cannot continue to blame yourself for her death," she tells me. I don't blame myself for shit. "You may have known about her abuse, about her demons, but there was nothing you could do to stop her that night. There was nothing anyone could do at that point. She had made up her mind."

I take a deep breath. Tick tock, tick tock.

"She is the only person you ever admit you love, the only one that elicits emotional descriptions when you talk about her; you feel angry she was stolen from you, sad that she's gone, fearful that you will never be as memorable as her," she explains. "The empathy you feel for her due to your closeness has tainted your ability to form relationships since." Keep yapping, bitch. "You have to let go of this guilt you have for surviving her, for not stopping her. You cannot keep blaming yourself for her death because you are not the reason she died."

"You think I don't fucking --" know that, I want to finish, but I've already lost my game. I look in her direction and see the pinned smile that graces her face. Goddamn bitch.

"You know the affect your father's actions had on your family. You were all his victims in some way," she says. "Yet, you still believe that hiding the fact you take care of your mother would ruin your relationship with Remy? As if he is not the person who would understand that decision the most?" She stares at me and assesses my angry expression. "That's because of your sister as well, isn't it?"

I glare at her, battling the confusing mix of emotions. "I really don't like you."

The bitch grins. "It seems misplaced that you try so hard to maintain control in your life through your success in school, your profession, and your goals of independence, yet you don't speak about your sister's death as your main influence."

She doesn't know shit. She's the worst therapist in the fucking world.

"Maggie," she starts as she uncrosses her legs to move into lecture position. "What I feel you are missing is that your goals cannot be accomplished without some sort of closure. Either you discuss with me the pain placed on you by your father and the loss of your sister, or this grandiose dream of independence in California will end up as nothing more than a dream."

Contrary to popular belief, Z and I didn't live the same life. We weren't the same person. I loved her, but I never wanted to be her. "Because I'm incapable of being my own person and will therefore end up just like her, right?"

"No," she says in a calm tone. "What I'm saying is that your actions are inherently similar to your sister's. You are coping."

"And what is wrong with that?"

"In a case like yours, coping in a self-destructive manner rather than healing can lead you down a very slippery slope," she says. "If you keep going like this, separating your emotional needs from everything you do ... you may find yourself in a dangerous position."

"A dangerous position? You mean I'll be dead." She sighs in response. "I'm fucking people for money, not shooting heroin. So what if I'm 'coping', I am not her!" I yell. "She was the one everyone loved, she was the one that got abused, she was the one who had to live with the weight of it all, which is why she is the one that died!" I remind her. "I'm just the one that's left!"

She sits quietly. My body quivers with the adrenaline coursing through me. It felt good to yell at the bitch, but not good enough. My skin aches, and my stomach twists with my discomfort. My mind quickly shifts to things that are unrelated,  things that could distract me from it all. I lean my head back onto the couch with a heavy sigh. Fuck, I wish I was fucking instead of dealing with this shit.

Tick-motherfucking-tock.

"Now that we have discussed many of your triggers," she starts to say, a nearly wicked smile gracing her face. "Can you tell me how you feel?"

For some reason, I think about it. Angry, frustrated, probably, but all I really want is to run out of here, drive back to Vegas, and let Daniel fuck me into oblivion. Fuck, that sounds nice. "Horny."

"And that, Maggie, is the problem," she states as if she made a point. "Sex is how you mask the other feelings that you don't yet understand how to cope with. For you, it is a bandage when you need a tourniquet. If you keep ignoring all of this pain inside you that is threatening to come out, it will end up killing you," she says. "Your hypersexuality isn't a matter of control for you, it's an extenuation of your pain. This is what I will continue to help you with."

I stare at her, the hatred masking my desire for release.

"So, Maggie. What will we continue to work on?"

I sneer, not wanting to admit she might know a thing or two. "Assessing my emotional connections to my fuck buddies. Allowing myself to feel emotions or whatever."

She smiles. "Close enough. See you next month?"

♡♡♡

The wind brushes through my hair at the same slow pace of Ms. Lauryn Hill crooning through the speakers of the Z4. Remy nudges my bent knee with a finger and teases, "Do you always have to put your feet on my seats?"

"Fuck off, Remy."

He chuckles. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing," I grumble.

"Okay ..." he says. "I know therapy is Fight Club. If you don't want to talk about it, we can --"

"I just think it's funny that," I interrupt, "she always brings up that something is wrong with me for not crying about shit and getting emotional all the time. And, oh! I really love it how I don't do a damn thing different than you, yet I'm the one in trouble for using sex as a coping mechanism."

"I don't use sex as a coping mechanism," he says.

"Yes, you do!"

"No. I fuck because it feels good, not because I need it to feel better," he corrects me. "There's a difference."

I roll my eyes and return my glare to my phone. "Whatever." In my anger, my nerves are nonexistent when I text Daniel for the first time.

Me: I can't wait

to see you again

I spelled "fuck" wrong, but he'll get the point. I slam my phone down into the center console and stare ahead at the stupid road.

"Good lord you're in rare form today," Remy says. "Is this the birth control, or ...?"

"Oh, fuck you. I can be pissed off and it have nothing to do with my fucking uterus," I hiss, but then it clicks. "But ... maybe it is ... a little," I admit. "Yesterday at my appointment, the doctor had me just stick another patch on rather than taking a week off. Then she said I can keep doing that from now on, too. I don't get it."

"What do you not get? It's better than Plan B," he reminds me. "You can't get pregnant if you never have a window where it can happen. If you take it continuously, the window stays closed."

"But then I won't get a period. Why the fuck have I been having one every month if they were optional?" I ask. "And how the hell am I supposed to know up from down if I'm PMSing randomly?"

"Well, this is the price you pay if you're going to keep letting Sugar Daddy turn you into a Twinkie." I glare over at him and his stupid metaphor. His smile drops as he sighs. "Look, I'm sorry you're mad, but you have to be honest with yourself. Relationships are a mandatory part of being human. You have to learn to trust people at some point." He smirks. "... Past getting cream-filled."

"Remy," I seethe. "Just shut up." He raises his hand to placate me.

Glancing my phone again, there is still nothing. Daniel gets to set our schedule, not me, but patience is really not one of my virtues. Do I have any virtues? Fuck, I hope it isn't one of the night's he's on call. This waiting game is going to kill me, not whatever the shrink thinks.

A few minutes later, Remy pulls under the porte-cochere of my apartment. When he stops, I immediately open the door to get out.

"I will have a great rest of my day. Thank you," Remy mutters to himself as I shut the door, but I've had enough of his shit. I storm through the lobby with every intention of having a much-needed date with my vibrator, when a thought comes to me.

I pause in front of the mailboxes and pull out my phone.

Me: Hi Deven

it's Maggie.

Want to study?

There is barely enough time for me to reach into my pocket for my mail key when he texts me back. I look at my phone and feel an evil grin spread across my face.

Dev: Yes! Want

2 cum ovr now?

What a perfect abbreviation.

_____

A/N: Thank you for reading! Don't forget to vote, comment, and add to your library if you want more!