The walk back home that night felt unusually heavy. The cool night air pressed against my skin, and the distant sounds of the city seemed muffled, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Mara's words echoed in my mind, intertwining with my own doubts and fears. Therapy. The idea felt like a double-edged sword. On one hand, it represented hope—a chance to untangle the mess within me. On the other hand, it was a risk. What if they saw through me? What if I lost control in a way I couldn't recover from?
I unlocked the door to my apartment, the familiar creak of the hinges grounding me momentarily. My mother was already asleep, her soft snores echoing faintly from her room. I tiptoed past her door, heading straight to my own space, the one place where I could let my guard down—if only slightly.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I glanced at the notebook I had used to jot down my observations about the serial killers. It had been months since I last opened it, though it still carried the weight of my earlier obsessions. I reached for it hesitantly, flipping through the pages filled with meticulous notes, sketches, and diagrams. Each entry felt like a snapshot of a darker version of myself—a version I had tried to suppress but never truly escaped.
I stopped on one page, the details of a notorious killer I had once admired staring back at me. The notes detailed his psychological profile, the patterns in his behavior, and the ultimate unraveling that led to his capture. At the bottom of the page, in my own handwriting, was a single sentence I had written in a moment of clarity: "Control is the only way to survive."
I closed the notebook abruptly, the sound reverberating in the quiet room. Control. It was a word that had defined my existence for as long as I could remember. I controlled my emotions, my interactions, the way people perceived me. But deep down, I knew the truth: the control was an illusion. The darkness was always there, waiting for a moment of weakness to take over.
As I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts drifted to Mara. She had seen through the cracks in my facade, had pushed me to consider the possibility of change. But could I really do it? Could I face the parts of myself I had spent years burying?
Sleep came slowly that night, and when it did, it was restless. My dreams were vivid and unsettling, a chaotic blend of memories and fears. I saw flashes of the forest, the stray animals, the blood on my hands. I heard the echoes of laughter that didn't belong to me, the distant sound of sirens. And then, Mara's voice cut through the chaos, calm and steady: "You deserve help."
I woke up drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around me. The first rays of dawn were peeking through the curtains, casting the room in a soft, golden light. I sat up, rubbing my eyes as the remnants of the dream lingered. It was then that I made a decision—not a commitment, but a step.
Reaching for my phone, I opened the browser and typed in a search: Therapists near me. The results populated quickly, a mix of faces and names that all felt foreign and unapproachable. My finger hovered over the screen, hesitating. But then I thought of Mara, of her unwavering belief that I could be better, and I forced myself to scroll through the list.
One name caught my eye: Dr. Eleanor Price, a psychologist specializing in trauma and behavioral patterns. Her profile picture showed a woman in her late forties with kind eyes and a warm smile. I read her bio quickly, my chest tightening as I reached the end: "I believe that even the most complex cases deserve compassion and understanding. Everyone has the capacity for change."
I bookmarked her profile and set my phone down, the weight of the decision settling over me. I wasn't ready to call—not yet. But for the first time, I had taken a step toward something different. Whether it would lead to salvation or destruction, I couldn't say. But at least it was a step.
And for now, that was enough.
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