The therapist asked her to write. Articulating her feelings was never something she could do with ease.
She used to love poetry. The emotions portrayed on the paper would come to life in her hands. The sorrow, joy, agony, anger, all made her feel connected. It made her feel alive.
For this week's session, she wrote two poems.
This first surprised her when she put her pen to paper and articulated what she felt. It scared her shitless. She was finally ready to get rid of the burden from keeping this secret.
"Copper sheen caresses his face,
Locks fall to his collar bone.
An inhale as he consumes my body.
I quiver in anticipation.
Lust, love.
Slowly devouring his touch.
I ache. I yearn.
I reach for his face.
A soft, smooth gesture.
My heart hiccups."
The other poem surprised her less, but she didn't know who the intended audience was.
"Maybe one day I'll tell you
About all the hurt
The pain
The night terrors
The choking
The gasping for air
The fear
Why I changed my mind
About the abandoned feeling
The tears
The loneliness that creeps over my skin like
Thousands of tiny bugs."
Lia would never describe herself as one in tune with her emotions. Even reading the words on the paper, she couldn't believe they were hers.
"So tell me about your motivation for the first poem. Who is the individual you think of when reading this poem?"
"Nick." She responds immediately.
She waits, patiently, knowing it'll take Lia time to articulate more.
"We are...not together. We use each other for sex." Although she knew the therapist wasn't judging her, she felt uncomfortable saying the words aloud.
The therapist scribbled something down on her notepad.
"This is the first time you've wrote about a lover." She says slowly, carefully, noting Lia's aversion to the word. "What made you decided to share this part of your life with me?"
She hadn't meant to. As a Merc you were required to see a therapist and the sessions usually revolve around your latest hit. A therapist could make or break you in the industry. Therapists got the final say when it came to sending you back in the field or forcing you into an early retirement.
"A tabloid." She admitted, looking down at her clenched fists.
"You seem angry and a little worried. Tell me about what you're feeling in this moment."
"Nick is someone famous." I say slowly. I know whatever I say in this room can't leave unless I pose a threat to myself or others. Well, besides doing my job. "Because of what I do, I don't want to be in the spotlight."
The therapist scribbled some more notes. "If Nick was not famous, would you feel differently?"
"No. I don't ever want to grow roots. Being tied to someone or something makes doing what I do difficult. If he found out what I really did, he would never forgive me." As soon as the words left her mouth she wished she could take them back. Her neck was on fire and her face must have colored from the confession.
While the therapist didn't write anything, you could see the shock she tried to hide behind her glasses. This was probably the most she'd ever said to the therapist about anything personal. She knew she'd regret it.