Author's Note- "Million Miles" by Fuel, used in a previous chapter, belongs to Fuel. Reuter Psychological Center does not exist, but is in fact based on Pike Creek Psychological Center in Delaware. Kinda graphic in the first few paragraphs. Sorry.
Chapter 8: Not Strong Enough
She was below him, screaming in pain as the knife ripped her, sending waves of indescribable pain throughout her bloody body. His heartbeat quickened as he watched the blood flow. In and out, in and out, the knife slid in and out of her. Fast, deep, piercing her stomach, her lungs, her thighs. It was hard for him to keep control, so hard. He wanted her throat dark with blood, her skin white and cold.
She squirmed under him, begging him to kill her. He couldn't wait any longer, he needed her death. He plunged the knife into her throat, screaming at the top of his lungs as pleasure overcame him. He threw his head back and waited until her gurgles died down and her body ceased moving. It was complete.
He dismounted her body, kissed her bloodstained lips, and pulled out a laminated piece of notebook paper.
"Here you go, sweetie," he said, deftly placing it inside her. He laughed, and walked out of the house into the dark night.
...
David Sinclair walked down the hospital's hallway, his step slow, and his heart heavy. It had been two days since Terry's murder, and it was still as hard as hell to believe that Terry was gone, and harder still to accept that she had been tortured, raped, and murdered.
And now he had to tell Don.
"David!" Don said when David walked in. "It's good to see a friendly face. Did you hear that Charlie's doing well? He might be out in a few days."
"How about you, Don?" David asked.
"A week or two. They patched me up nicely. Hey, where's Terry? I haven't heard from her all week."
"Don, Terry's gone," David said, his voice soft.
Don closed his eyes, pain ripping through his heart. He recalled his dream of her, smiling by his bedside, holding his hand as he slept. He remembered her voice, soft and sweet, so unlike her voice at work.
"When did it happen?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He could feel sorrow cresting in him like a wave, threatening to crash down upon his heart.
"The night you were shot."
"How?" Don asked, anger growing.
"Don-"
"How, David?" Don repeated, his voice low.
"She was shot." David hoped that would subdue Don. He didn't want to tell his fellow agent all that had happened to Terry before her death, partly for Don's sake, partly for his own.
"I want the report, David."
"Don, you need to-"
"Just give me the fucking report!" Don snapped. Pain, grief, and anger flooded his system as he read the coroner's report.
Oh, Terry.
Don closed his eyes. How could this be happening? First his mom, and now Terry.
"Any leads?"
"Not yet. We found semen and hair though, and our labs our processing those at the moment. Hopefully we'll find some DNA. I'm so sorry, Don." Don nodded quietly.
"Thanks, David."
Silence filled the room as David left. Don blinked repeatedly, and rubbed his eyes. He wouldn't let himself cry. He looked at the crime scene photos again, trying to numb himself to the pain. He could pretend it was just another body.
But then he saw a crime scene photo that stabbed at his heart. Next to the body (he did not dare to think of it as Terry's body), he saw a photo. It was of himself and Terry, from the film the Raymond Leary had left Keith Brown's crime scene.
...
Two days later…
"Well, it looks like you'll be able to go home tomorrow, Charlie," Alan said. He had just spoken with the doctor, who had informed him of the good news. "What do you have to say about that, Charlie?"
"Did you know that statistically, cutting your wrists is the best way to commit suicide?" Charlie said suddenly, startling Alan.
"Charlie-"
"See, with cutting, you just bleed out. If you shot yourself, you might just end up with brain damage. If you jump, you might just paralyze yourself. And pills, you would just throw them up."
"Charlie, stop talking about that," Alan said, fear rising in his gut. Charlie looked at him, his eyes glassy with tears.
"Why didn't Terry cut herself? She knows about suicide; she knows the statistics. Why did she shoot herself? It doesn't make any sense-"
"How did you know Terry was dead?"
"I heard you talking on the phone with David."
Charlie, just don't think about her. Terry was sick. You're not."
"No, Dad, I was just stabbed and sexually violated by maniac who also shot my brother. That's all," Charlie said bitterly.
"Charlie, listen to me," Alan said, cupping his son's face with his hands. "I love you. I almost lost both you and Don last week. Please don't put me through that again. Promise me you won't."
Suddenly, Charlie began to cry. He put his face in his hands, sobbing. He felt so strange even thinking about cutting and suicide. He had never really thought about them before. He felt as if he was a different person. He felt wronged, like someone had stolen a part of him that he would be able to recover. He used to feel strong, and proud, that somehow numbers were his powerful weapon that could protect him against all evil. When his mother died, he had used them. They had helped, but it had been Alan and Don who had truly protected him from the terrible grief they had experienced.
But neither numbers, nor Alan, nor Don had protected him against Raymond Leary.
Now he felt vulnerable and weak. And even though his father sat on his bed next to him, he still very much alone.
"I'm sorry, Dad," he said between sobs. Alan took him into his arms, holding him tight.
"It's alright, Charlie, everything's going to be alright." Charlie nodded, secretly doubting his father.
"In fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about, Charlie."
"What do you mean, Dad?" Alan cleared his throat.
"I, uh, set up an appointment for you on Saturday."
"A doctor's appointment?" Charlie asked, confused.
"Sort of," Alan said.
Oh, God. Charlie thought.
"You want me to talk to a psychiatrist, don't you?" Charlie said accusingly. Alan decided it was better to tell Charlie the whole truth.
"Not a psychiatrist. A counselor. I set up a session with you and Erin Worthing at Reuter Psychological Center. You remember Andrew Worthing?"
"He worked with you as a city planner, didn't he?" Alan nodded.
"His daughter works at the center as a counselor. I saw her after… after we lost your mother."
"You went into counseling, Dad?" Charlie asked in amazement. He never would have imagined his father the type to seek professional psychological help. He was so much stronger than that.
"It's not a sin to ask for help, Charlie, especially when something like this happens. You'll understand why when you talk to Erin."
The next Saturday...
Charlie sighed as he sat down in a brown leather armchair. In front of him sat a young woman with short blonde hair and warm brown eyes.
"Charlie, I'm Erin Worthing. Before we get started, I just want to let you know that we'll go at your pace. Do you have any questions?"
"I'm sorry, Erin. I don't think this is going to work out."
"Why is that, Charlie?" Erin asked, disappointment obvious in her eyes.
It's just that… I feel so dumb doing this whole stupid thing!" Charlie burst out angrily.
"Dumb, Charlie?" Erin asked. "You don't seem dumb to me. I've been told you're a math genius, so I highly doubt the proper word for you is 'dumb.'" Charlie flushed, feeling like a reprimanded child.
"Not dumb," Charlie said. "I guess… I feel weak doing this."
"That's strange, Charlie," Erin said.
"Why's that?"
"Because the whole point of this is to uncover your strength. It's trapped underneath your fears and your memories. We need to dig it up and let it live."
"I don't know how to do that," Charlie said.
"Let me teach you. Charlie, open up your heart. Give up those memories that drown your strength. Let them go, and I promise you'll feel so light, so free."