TW: pedophilia
(Christian's thoughts might be difficult to read, but are not uncommon for abuse victims)
Chapter 1
Christian
May 2011
Thirty days down. Thirty to go.
Yeah, there's so much to look forward to. Parents who would rather send you away than try to look you in the eye anymore and a new school to get kicked out of.
I really don't know why I'm counting down. It's not like I'll be coming home to anything worth waiting for.
For as long as I can remember, the only touch I could tolerate was through fighting, and then, only when necessary. Namely, when someone decided it would be hilarious to touch me and watch the freak flip. Then, finally, someone showed me a new way, only to have it ripped away before it even really started. It tracks perfectly that the only thing I can ever remember making me feel fucking alive is the thing that makes my parents decide that I need to have my head examined for two months.
Only the fucking best here at Cascade Teen Treatment Center. An old estate converted to an underage nuthouse in the middle of the goddamn wilderness. Rumor has it, the founder was some rich guy whose daughter lost her marbles, so he converted one of his spare mansions to this place to help other wayward souls. We've got therapists that talk down to you, a common area where you can mingle with all the other family outcasts, group therapy so that everyone else in this place can brand you as the stuck-up guy who never talks because you don't want to gift them with the collective sigh of relief that at least they're not as fucked-up as you. Yep, we have it all here.
Is the sin I've committed so egregious that this had to be the outcome? Was it so evil to finally have some fucking relief?
Fucking relief. That's exactly what it was. A way to be touched. A way to feel some degree of normal.
I slump in the uncomfortable chair, and for probably the hundredth time, the moment that everything ended replays in my head.
"You're pathetic today. I said you couldn't come, and now look at the mess you've made." She slaps me across the chest with something. I can't see, but the pain is blistering, taking my breath, adding to the sting of my humiliation. But I deserve it.
"I-I'm sorry, ma'am," I pant.
"Quiet." She slaps me again. "I didn't say you could speak. You are nothing, Christian. That's why you need me. Look at you, unhinged, ungrateful, squandering away everything your parents hand you on a silver platter. You should wake up every day and thank the gods they found you cute enough to keep, but no, you start fights, you drink, you spit on their generosity. Thank goodness I came along when I did. I'm going to tear you apart piece by piece and make you into something great. What do you have to say to me?"
"T-Thank you, Mistress."
"I'm going to punish you now, Christian."
I hear the click of her stilettos against the floor, off in the direction of the punishing implements. I gulp and try to stop my arms from shaking, but I've been bound for over an hour. I start to hear something strange off in the distance. Upstairs. Something like… thudding? Footsteps? No, that's not possible. My Mistress wouldn't let that happen.
But my blood runs cold when I hear the creak of the basement door, followed by the distinct sound of descending footsteps. "Elena? Are you down here? Sorry to show up unannounced, the kids are all out for the night and I could use a…"
Tell me that isn't the voice I think it is. Where is Mistress? This can't be happening. It has to be something Mistress planned. It can't—
My faith is dashed with the sound of a bloodcurdling scream, one after the other. "Grace! This isn't what it looks like! I can explain, please, please, just stop screaming!" Mistress is pleading, her Domme voice gone. I can't see, I can't move. No, Mom, you don't understand. I need this. This is good.
But the screaming won't stop.
The sudden rush of air from an opening door brings me back to the present. "Christian. Come on in."
I get up and trudge into Dr. Webster's office, or as he wants me to call him, Tim. I don't actually call him anything, because I barely talk to him. Every weekday, we either have group or individual therapy. On the weekends, we're mostly free, as free as we ever are, but we're encouraged to indulge in "artistic therapy." And Mom told him that I play the piano, so he starts every session with…
"How's it going? Have you visited the music room yet?"
"No."
"I see." He looks at his notes. "Well, it looks like today marks the halfway point of your stay with us. How does that make you feel?"
Did he seriously just hit me with the first question they teach you in Shrink 101? "Whatever."
"You're not pleased? I thought you might be. You don't seem to particularly enjoy it here."
"What is there to enjoy here? You're just talking to me because you're punching a timecard, my parents only sent me here because they don't understand what they saw. And this place is worse than being in school, and I really didn't think that was possible."
"Well, Christian, it seems that you felt like marking the occasion, because that's the longest sentence you've ever said to me. How is this worse than school? You came at a good time, it's nearing summer vacation and at this time, we don't make you do schoolwork."
Because for a while, after school, I had my Mistress. "Why am I here? You and I both know this is doing nothing."
"Do you want what's on your chart?" I just stare at him, waiting for him say something that's not a dumbass question. "You're here because your haphephobia, PTSD, and low self-esteem is interfering with your ability to lead the life that you're entitled to lead."
"And I was dealing with all of that until I came here," I mutter.
"You're referring to the precipitating event that led your parents to send you here."
No one here has ever mentioned that, so I'm a little surprised, but I play it off. "Obviously."
"How long were you with her?"
Usually when I'm with him, I stare at the wall, but this question makes me look up. He's never mentioned her, let alone asked me a question about her. Normally, he just pumps me for information about my feelings until the hour is up or lets us sit here in silence. "About eight months."
"How did it start?"
There's no judgement in his tone. It's like we're discussing the weather. "My parents sent me to her house to do odd jobs as punishment after my latest suspension. After I made some smartass comment, she grabbed my face and kissed me."
"Was it your first kiss?"
"Yes," I mumble.
"Was it what you imagined?"
"It was better."
"How did things go from point A to point BDSM?" He says BDSM in air quotes.
I snort a laugh at his terminology. "The next time I went, she showed me the dungeon in her basement and told me she could help me… control myself, blow off steam."
"Is that how you felt those eight months? In control?"
"Mostly. More than I ever did before, anyway."
"Is that what you say your parents aren't seeing?"
"Yes. I was better. They were happier with me. They just don't like the reason why."
"You felt in control. You had an outlet. Did you feel loved?"
"Loved?" I scoff. "No one can love me. Mistress made that clear, not that I didn't already know."
"Maybe love is the wrong word, then. Cared for? Appreciated? Respected?"
"That wasn't the point. If I deserved those things, I wouldn't have needed her."
"What was the point, then?"
"To make me into something new."
He nods slowly. "I see. She gave you something to look forward to."
"Yes." She was something to look forward to.
"And now?"
"There's nothing to look forward to." Ever. Like before.
"Had you ever felt that way for someone? That sort of attachment?"
"No."
"What kind of attachment was it?"
"I needed her."
"Do you still feel that way?"
I shrug. "It doesn't matter. I can't have her."
"What do you think is the issue your parents have with this?"
"She was married. And their friend."
"So… I'm hearing that she met needs that you hadn't had met before. She gave you a sense of direction and of course, physical relief."
"Yes."
"Can you think of any way that you can have those needs met in the future?"
"I'm guessing the same way." That should give him something to chew on.
He cocks his head slightly. "You mean through BDSM?"
"Yeah."
"Well, you might be in for a rude awakening, because what you experienced is not BDSM. For one, the most basic rule of BDSM is safe, sane, and consensual. Let's put the first two aside for now, but what she did was certainly not consensual, because you are under the age of consent."
And I'm pissed off again. "I never objected."
"I know. That's just not how the law sees it."
"Just because something is a law doesn't mean it's a good one."
"Why is it a law in this case, then?"
"For other cases. Mine is different. My age doesn't mean I don't know what I want."
"Generally, the issue with age gap relationships is an imbalance of power… which can too easily lead to an abuse of power. It sounds to me like she had a monumental amount of power over you. Do you think that was sustainable?"
This line of questioning finally pushes me a step too far. "Who fucking cares? It's over. You got me to talk to you, congratulations, you can write in your little fucking notebook what a great shrink you are."
He closes the notebook and tosses it onto the coffee table. "This may have been the first real conversation we've had, Christian, but you've been communicating since day one. Your expression, posture, breathing rate, body language… they all give clues into the unconscious mind."
"Okay, if I've been projecting all that shit at you since day one, then what's your diagnosis?"
"You think there's no point in talking to me or anyone because we're all committed to misunderstanding you. You're insecure about where you fit into the world, on more than one level. And most of all, you crave intimacy, but it's intolerable."
"I had intimacy in the only way I could stand and everyone else thinks it's wrong."
"When I say intimacy, I don't mean it just in reference to sexuality. I see a lot of self-soothing behaviors from you. You touch your hair, you rub your own arm, you clasp your hands. That's telling me that touch is something you desire, maybe as much as you fear it."
No. The first part he got right, no one will understand. But skin-on-skin brings me back to being touched, burned, beaten against my will. I'll never desire that. "Are we finished?"
"You can leave anytime you like. But you should know, I won't consider myself a great shrink unless you can get some relief by being here."
I get up without another word and leave his office.
I remember watching a documentary during Shark Week some years ago. It turns out that great white sharks can go up to three months without eating. How goddamn convenient that would be right now. I could stay in my bedroom that I haven't bothered to decorate, away from the tittering girls and the sullen boys who stare at them, for my entire stay here. But no, I have to leave for the call of basic sustenance. What an evolutionary joke it is that humans have to eat every few hours. And what a joke of a rule it is that we're not allowed to have food in our bedrooms.
This place has scheduled meals, but the kitchen is always open, and we're encouraged to leave our rooms and mingle outside of therapy. Something about fostering camaraderie between patients and creating a familiar, homelike environment. It seems to do that for the constant congregation of kids that hang out in there, but for me, it just makes the already frustrating feeling of hunger doubly irritating, because I have to deal with them, too.
Thankfully, this area isn't very crowded right now. With one exasperating exception. "Hi, Christian," Kelsey, eye-batting blonde sixteen-year-old in here for bipolar disorder, according to the grapevine I've been subjected to, greets me as she always does. I swear, her ass is surgically attached to that stool at the island.
"Kelsey." I brush past her and open the fridge, in search of an apple and some string cheese.
She turns back to the other three girls she's sitting at the island with. I don't bother to check who. I'm not trying to encourage them to talk to me by glancing at them. "I guess she's new. I haven't seen her before."
"She looks… weird," one of them mutters.
"Yeah. I wonder what her deal is. Guess we'll crack her open in group. I mean, welcome her," another adds with a hint of laughter in her voice.
You would think that everyone being here because their parents don't know what to do with them, they had a breakdown, or are otherwise unable to cope with life to the point that someone decided this was necessary would make for a kind, welcoming environment. In reality, it's the same clique-y high school bullshit you'd see anywhere. And like I would anywhere, I'm not participating.
I glance up at them from behind the fridge door and follow their eyes across the room. This common area is open concept, a kitchen at one end and a sitting area at the other. There's only one person outside the kitchen, so it's easy to tell who they're talking about.
The first thing I notice is how young she looks.
The youngest this place will accept is thirteen, but this girl looks like she could be about ten. She's small, wearing shapeless, baggy clothes that are basically swallowing her whole, and her apparent frailty is only accentuated by the thick book open on her lap.
The second thing I notice is how… gaunt she is. Even from here, she's almost unnaturally pale, her brown hair is limp, and the way she's hunched over the book, she just looks tired.
To my own surprise, part of me feels a shred of compassion for Gaunt Girl. She clearly hasn't been here long, and the Kelsey Squad has already turned on her. This place is meant to fix her, but it could just end up tearing her apart, and she looks totally unequipped for it. I almost wish she had a protector.
She looks up, perhaps feeling my eyes on her, and the third thing I notice is her startlingly blue eyes. Where everything else about her seems small, they're the largest thing about her, and they freeze me in place even from this far away. Something about her unwavering gaze makes me feel… exposed. Like she's seeing right through me. I look down and finally close the door to the fridge, my clothes noticeably cooler from how long I was standing there.
I stalk towards the hallway leading back to my bedroom without another glance at Kelsey and Co. or Gaunt Girl. In need of protection or not, she's not my problem. I have enough of my own. I'm not meant to be anyone's savior. Feeling shitty is the name of the game around here, so I'm sure she has that in store no matter what. She'll have to deal with it like we all do.
I close the door to my room and quickly devour my snack, trying to fill the void of hunger and dispel my lingering discomfort. I feel like I gave something up today, and it's left me disquieted.
Before that day, Mistress was mine. Not in the sense of fidelity or ownership… no, that was entirely vice versa… but she was my secret, and that was thrilling. I wasn't just the kid that everyone had pinned down as the brawler who constantly changes schools and weaves through the hallways like a snake to avoid being touched. I was more than that for the first time in my life. I had something they'd never have.
When I came here, the only silver lining was that I had that again. It was a pleasant surprise when no one forced me to speak about her, no one directly mentioned why I was here. Now in one moment of weakness, letting my guard down for one conversation, it's gone.
I lay back on my bed. It's still light out, but the curtains are drawn, and I appreciate the shadow. It feels appropriate. My life used to have a bright spot, some light at the end of the tunnel, something to look forward to. Maybe I'm just not meant to have that. Maybe I'll never deserve that. The one thing that's ever felt right to me, everyone else thinks is wrong.
A deep, familiar ache fills my chest.
I miss her.
A/N: Reminder: I'm not Christian. I think Elena is fucking garbage, but he's not there yet. The first ten or so chapters will be from Christian's perspective in the past, then we'll return to present day and switch POV between Christian and Ana.
Treatment centers like this do exist and I'm basing this one on one I read about in the Seattle area, but reminder that I'm not a psychologist and this is a story, so it's probably not a perfectly accurate representation. Also, this won't have as much therapy in it as CTE, promise!
Reviews always appreciated. xo
