Love.

Terror.

It’s amazing how similar the two emotions feel as they dance around in my chest and my head, dueling with each other.

On one hand, I am in love. Mia’s simple declaration sealed it, and the trust she put in me later melted any doubts I could have ever had from my heart.

I’ll fight for her.

I’ll conquer for her.

I’ll win for her.

If she asks, I’ll even die for her.

But can I be a better man for her?

I want to be, and I know I need to be, but am I capable?

And that desperate thought is what has me returning to this wellspring of hell.

I’m back here at Dr. Perry’s office, sitting in her chair while she looks at me with eyes that judge me even before I’ve opened my mouth. Maybe it’s fair game since I did the same to her when I saw her, but she’s supposed to be the professional.

“So, Tom—”

“Excuse me, Dr. Perry, but if you don’t mind, can you call me Thomas? Tom is . . .” I start before searching for the right buzzword to use with her. It takes me a moment, but it comes to me from irony. “Triggering. Being called Tom triggers me.”

Dr. Perry lifts an eyebrow and scribbles a note on her clipboard. “Why is that?”

“My father calls me Tom,” I explain, clearing my throat and taking a sip of the herbal iced tea that’s at my side. At least that’s pretty good, I’ll give her that. “And since my mother killed herself, it’s been used more as a curse than as a name.”

“I didn’t know your mother committed suicide,” Dr. Perry replies. “Tell me about that.”

I’m not sure I can. Not sure it’ll do any good other than give her a reason to add a checkmark to her list. But this is for Mia. And maybe for myself a bit too. Even if Dr. Perry can’t help me, just saying this out loud is an accomplishment. And maybe she will have some insight. Or maybe she’ll tell me to switch my breakfast cereal to something less stimulating like bran.

It’s hard, and the words start slowly, in little fits and stops until momentum takes over. I hate reliving the memories, the voice in my head damning me the whole time, but I tell her about the day my mother died, trying to purge myself of the bad memories as she hums and says, “Tell me more,” at regular intervals.

“After he screamed, I went into the bedroom and my father was trying CPR. I didn’t know what it was at the time, and he kept yelling, ‘Breathe, you bitch!’ I didn’t know what to do, and suddenly, he looked up, throwing his phone at me and yelling at me, ‘Call 9-1-1!’ And I did, but they couldn’t save her. Since then . . . things have been bad.”

Because you fucked up.

It takes me a long time to go over what my father did to me growing up, the mental and sometimes physical abuse. For the first time, Dr. Perry looks at me sympathetically before clearing her throat.

“Thomas, you have a lot of anger, but part of me feels like you’re not being totally clear as to whom you’re angry with.”

“My father.”

She looks at me blankly. No checkmark to her clipboard.

Wrong answer, shithead.

“You mean, am I pissed at my mother?” I ask, my hand clenching and my voice raising. “You’re goddamn right, I am! I was just a boy and she left me. And ever since, my world has turned upside down!” Shame blasts through me. “I shouldn’t be mad at her. She couldn’t have known how Dad would react, the things he’d do. She was just a depressed, lonely woman, or at least that’s what I heard the ladies call her at the wake while they ate finger sandwiches like it was any regular luncheon.”

I’m out of the chair, pacing back and forth on the carpet, and Dr. Perry watches with a detached demeanor that infuriates me. As if I’m not enough already.

“You know it’s not your fault,” Dr. Perry says. “Rationally, you know that. Suicide is not about the survivors. Your mother likely couldn’t contemplate what her choice would do to you because all she could think was what it would do to her. Suicide isn’t about ending one’s life. It’s about ending one’s pain.”

It’s a little mental health brochure-ish but startlingly insightful.

But her life ended just the same. All while you watched cartoons and ate a snack.

I’m getting nowhere, just circling the same drain I always dance around, and I’m done. At least for today, maybe with Dr. Perry, maybe forever. But I need to go.

“That’s enough. I’m out of here,” I growl, grabbing my jacket. I storm out, ignoring everything and everyone as I jump into my car and fire up the engine. The angry growl of the powerful motor echoes my inner turmoil, but it somehow focuses me enough that I don’t crash as I drive back to the office and take the elevator upstairs.

It’s just before the end of the work day, and I’m surprised Kerry’s already gone, but I don’t care right now. I should do my usual fifteen-minute meditation, but that seems like a dangerous proposition with where my head’s at right now. Instead, what I want to do is check my email, and then head upstairs and—

“Dennis?”

He’s standing in my office, dressed as he always is in his suit, but with him is Mia, who looks up and smiles. They’ve been talking, obviously, and I blink, stunned. How could she . . . how could she let that man into my office?

“Thomas, I’m glad you’re back. I’m sorry. I thought your schedule was clear, and—”

“He was probably wasting time,” Dennis says in that voice he has. “I’ve been sitting on my ass for a half hour waiting on you, Tom.”

“Don’t call me . . .” I rasp, my anger flaring at the name I hate. “You know what, never mind. Just what in the hell are you doing here?” I go around to my chair, needing to put the desk between us. I’m not sure if it’s for his protection or mine.

Dennis reads my tone of voice and sniffs, offended. “Well, if you’re going to act like that . . . I came because Miss Karakova convinced me that I’ve been missing out on something by not having a friendly relationship with you. So I came bearing gifts to bury the hatchet.” He tosses a box on the desk in front of me.

I glance at it and then back at him, unbelieving. “So that’s supposed to be it? A present and that’s supposed to wash away the years of abuse?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Oh, come on, ‘abuse’? Don’t be melodramatic. I kept a roof over your head, put you through school, even got this ivory tower you like to sit in started for you.”

I stand, indignant fury coursing in my blood. “Melodramatic? Are you fucking serious? That roof over my head just gave you a place to slap me around. And the school you ‘paid’ for? You didn’t pay one red cent. I earned that admission and that scholarship in spite of your telling me how stupid I was every fucking day. And the only reason you keep holding the startup money over my head is because you know I’m better than you. I did all this,” I say, gesturing at my office, “and all you’ve amounted to is a wife who killed herself to get away from you and a son who wishes you were dead.”

I’ve never been able to wipe that smug look off Dennis’s face before, but those words sure did it. Maybe a little too evil, perhaps, but it does surprise him.

He stares at me, absolutely shocked before speaking up. “You should have died with her.”

“Get out!” I bellow, crossing my office and grabbing him by the jacket before shoving him toward the door. Dennis stumbles out, and I have just enough time to close the door to my office before I turn to Mia, who looks aghast.

“Why? I told you those things in confidence. Why did you stick your nose in the one place I didn’t want you to pry?” I beseech her. But then the fury reignites, aiming directly where I know it’ll hurt her most. “I trusted you!”

“Tommy, I’m sorry,” Mia whimpers, cowering away as I cross my office and pick up the package. It’s a box wrapped in shiny plastic wrapping paper, the kind that looks like sparkling foil if you tilt it this way and that way in the light. “I went to see him about the sabotage stuff, and—”

“And what? You ended up having tea and fucking crumpets with the man who tried every day of my life to destroy me? And you thought, ‘Hey, you know what’d be great? If I just blind-side Thomas with his asshole of a dad, and then ta-da, it’ll be happily ever after.’ How’d that work?” My words are caustic, sharp and jagged as I stab her with her every sarcastic syllable. But I hurt, so badly. And I can’t stop the lashing out.

“You pried into my family relations!” I scream accusingly. “You brought that man into my office, knowing what he’s done to me. You know better than anyone—anyone—why I can’t be around him. But still, you thought you knew better.”

“I . . . I know,” she says, sobbing. Dimly, I realize I’m going too far, but the animal’s loose, the rage overwhelming, and I can’t stop it with so much emotion boiling over. “He told me about your mother, and then he called me and seemed to want to reconcile. I really thought—”

“No, you didn’t think!” I yell, slamming the gift down on the desk.

I slam the gift down again and I hear something inside snap. Maybe it’s in me, maybe it’s the gift, I don’t know. The sound triggers something primal and enraged deep within my soul, and I pick up the misshapen box, using the last of my self-control to turn away from Mia before hurling it against my office window. The thick security glass cracks from top to bottom, making a Y shape that echoes the question inside me.

Why? Why did she do this?

Why did he have to come here?

Why did she have to die?

Why do I hate everything about myself?

Mia gasps, and I hear a loud thump before the door opens, leaving me in my memories.

Dad is yelling as I hold my hand over my bleeding forehead, praying I don’t spill any blood on the carpet. “I just bought that bike!”

“Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t—” I try to explain. I don’t care what they say about wearing helmets. Smacking your head into a tree branch when a snake pops out of nowhere, sending you tumbling down a dirt hillside, sucks the big hairy one.

But it’s going to suck even more if I bleed on the carpet.

“You were careless and clumsy! Don’t think you’re getting another bike. You ruined that one so you can walk to school, for all I care!” Dad yells. He picks up the remote control to the TV and throws it, where it goes crashing into the fish tank, cracking the glass. Water spills out, and I can see Goldie and Mr. Colors, the two fish my best friend Andy across the street gave me for my birthday, start panicking as their home drains onto the living room rug. “Goddammit!”

“No!” I scream, ignoring my head to run to the kitchen. I know where the big spaghetti pot is. Maybe if I fill it with water in time, I can save them.

I turn, running for the living room, but the water strikes again, or maybe it’s that I’m still dizzy from my bike crash. I slip on the wet carpet, my head spinning as I crack my head on the edge of the fish tank, but somehow, I still get water into the pot. Scooping it in deep, I get Goldie and Mr. Colors out, sobbing as I watch them swim in their new home. It’s gray, metallic . . . they’re trapped. But they’re safe.

“When you’re done being a baby, clean that shit up,” Dad says, his voice still raw and ragged from screaming at me.

He leaves, and I sob, watching Goldie circle around Mr. Colors, his mouth opening and closing. The water ripples, and I realize it’s my tears.

I gasp, jerked back to the present as I look at the crack on my window . . . just like the one on the fish tank.

My God. I’ve become just like him.

No. I’ve become him.