"Why don’t we start with your parents, Emlyn?" Dr. McDougal's aged, feminine voice urged pushed through the dimly lit room. She wore a tailored blazer in dark gray, and beneath it, a pastel blue knit sweater featuring an intricately star-pattern design, a bulky handcrafted brooch, with delicate filigree work and a sparkling amethyst at the center, hung heavy on the lapel. Her lower half boasted a knee-length skirt with a diamond pattern, in muted earthy tones that further enhanced the vintage appeal. Her feet were cushioned in subtly refined low-heeled pumps.
The focus of Dr. McDougal's attention was a young, dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties, who slouched on an overstuffed leather couch, her hands absently pulling at the tassels of a pillow she held closer to her. The woman wore a meticulously tailored, long-sleeved shirt in a subdued shade of deep gray, casually draped with a lightweight dark green jacket that artfully balanced professionalism and comfort. Her loose-fitting multipocketed trousers, allowed her to move easily, and with noticeable grace, stylish but practical sleek black ankle boots peeked out from the bottom of the pants.
“Parents, huh? Would you like to analyze my father disappearing when I was almost five, my mom being a soft-hearted, scared pushover, or my crazy-ass stepfather?” Emlyn inquired disdainfully.
“Well, I find that all relevant, but how about you tell me about your father first. Were you angry when he left?”
“I was only five, too young really. I missed him, sure, but it affected my mother and my brother more deeply. I was upset, my brother was furious, and my mom, well, she cried for months. I was stupid and kept thinking the police would find him, or that he would just come home. They were shattered, as if the world broke apart, which yes, upset me.” The younger woman shifted in her seat, leaning back more, relaxing into the overstuffed couch pillows; her eyes fixed on the petite, elderly psychiatrist, whose countenance radiated a grandmotherly warmth, marked by the delicate creases of time etched into her face.
“Do you remember much about your father?” Dr. McDougal inquired gently, her liquid brown eyes filled with compassionate curiosity as she jotted down short handwritten notes in pencil on a clipboard.
“He sang funny songs to me; I remember him holding me and calling me, ‘Titta Estel’.” She replied and laughed softly at the other woman’s confused expression.
“It’s not Swedish, and he didn’t think my name was Este. People think that sometimes when it’s brought up; my father had his own language he used with just us kids. My brother and I never found a real language that it compared to, it was just something unique to him. ‘Titta Estel’ means ‘Little Hope’ in his language.” Elyn replied, her voice carrying the weight of numerous conversations and theories about this particular detail. She personally noted it because it was one of the clearest facts she could remember about the man who had disappeared so long ago.
"That's intriguing. You possess an exceptional memory, especially considering you were just five at the time. Why do you think he created this special language?" The older woman's tone remained gentle and inquisitive.
“Thank you, my memory has always been pretty solid, and why do some parents have handshakes or special blankets for their kids? It’s just something fun we shared, just us.” She paused for a moment, her sharp eyes looking down before continuing.
“I never believed he just left us; I am sure he loved us,” Emlyn said, emphasizing the last few words with a clipped harshness.
“Is that because you would have to face your brother running away and leaving years later? Did you need to superimpose that emotion on the memory to cope?” The woman’s voice was kind but her words boiled Emlyn’s blood. Emlyn gripped the pillow, her gaze going hard as she looked up at the salt and pepper haired prune of a woman.
“No, lady, it's not, and if you are going to keep misinterpreting what I have to say because you read some contrived police reports with a crap-tastic analysis centered around my insane stepfather’s perception of the events of my brother’s disappearance, I will leave and gladly spend the three months in jail for my anger issues. It will so beat listening to you ask questions based on a shit representation of truth.” Emlyn’s voice was cold as she spoke to her, no louder than a deep whisper. The small woman shivered slightly.
“I’m sorry if I upset you, dear. Why don’t you tell me how you saw things and I will base my questions on that?” Her voice quivered, as though she harbored a genuine fear that the younger woman might actually hurt Mrs. Butterworth's homely cousin. Emlyn sighed and stood, causing the small woman to flinch slightly.
Emlyn ran a hand through the silken hair that fell to the middle of her back, its color more purple than true auburn. She tucked it behind one of her slightly pointed ears, resigning to just moving past this moment. Stepping to the other side of the office, she paused in front of an oil painting of a trio of horses running through a field of tall grass in some distant place, frozen in time.
“You asked about parents. Turner Borton, my stepfather, was the most prominent figure in mine and my brother’s life growing up. He started dating my mother when I was almost six, and my brother was about ten. Turner - he seemed so great. He was always buying us presents and taking us on fun camping adventures. The best part? Mom wore a smile we hadn't seen in ages. It was a welcome change, and for once, we felt genuinely happy," Emlyn reminisced, her voice trailing off as she got lost in the fleeting memories of that short-lived joy.
“I sense a ‘but’ coming?” Dr. McDougal gently probed, leaning forward with a growing sense of genuine interest.
“They only dated for six months before he married my mother. He moved into our ancestral home, and two months later he started building things on the estate using the money left to our mother by her family. The combat center was first so that he could work from home. He taught combat and had the unique hobby of blacksmithing, mostly older-style weapons. The smithy was next to be built a year later.” Emlyn was about to mention the largest and most insane addition when she was interrupted.
“Sorry dear, but what do you mean he ‘taught combat’?” The woman interrupted settling in her chair again. Emlyn did not turn around as she answered.
“You name it. In that regard, he was pretty amazing. He knew several hand-to-hand styles of fighting, as well as a variety of weapons techniques: bow, staff, spear, sword, and quite a few more. If you had an interest in learning how to use a European double-edged sword or the unique Chinese hook sword, he could instruct you in their fundamentals, then move on to best practices in the use of the recurve bow all in one long-winded lecture followed by a series of grueling demonstrations.” Emlyn recounted, glancing over her shoulder. The psychiatrist's face wore an expression of perplexed confusion, unsure of how to proceed with this newfound knowledge. Emlyn decided to press on.
“Literature I had to study at home consisted of such great cliffhangers as: The Survivor's Primer & Up-dated Retreater's Bibliography by Don and Barbie Stephens, Famine and Survival in America by Howard Ruff, as well as a slew of other thrilling survival preparation writings that began to get scarier and scarier over the years. Turner was what people today call a ‘survivalist’.” Emlyn chuckled darkly, finding something too mild in the term, before continuing.“In his post-apocalyptic vision, bullets were a rare and coveted commodity due to the absence of organized society and the difficulty of scavenging for sulfur and saltpeter. However, he believed that a sturdy blade, a reliable bow, and true arrows were easy to maintain and resupply with the right skills."
She paused, considering how to broach her own personal apocalypse, recognizing that it needed to be addressed to continue the facade of her 'therapy.' She felt it might be better to rip the metaphorical duct tape off first.
“I was eight when my little girl world was shattered and all of it came crashing in. My step-father had bought me a new dress for my birthday party. All I wanted to do was show him how pretty I was. He was in the training building with my brother; they didn’t hear me sneak in because Turner was screaming. I was terrified, I had never heard him raise his voice. I started walking slower, peeking into the training room. That's when I found Turner striking Evan with a broken practice sword. My brother was just lying on the ground, curled into a ball. He sounded like a wounded puppy..." Emlyn's voice trailed off, and she paused again, grappling with the painful memories that welled up in her throat like a physical blockage.
“Why would he do that, dear?” the older woman inquired, her eyes widening in mild alarm.
“You know, even to this day, I can't recall exactly why or the precise details of what happened next, but it changed everything. Evan could never remember either. He only remembered the sound of wood on wood and a squeaking growling noise, and then the pain stopping. He told me I had rushed in, picked up his abandoned wooden practice sword, and before Turner realized, blocked the onslaught. I remember the feeling of the blow slamming me to one knee on the mats, the vibration of the hit as it made my bones rattle, and the absolute fury on Turner’s face. He wanted me to move, and I refused to. This part is where it gets ugly and drawn out.” She sighed for the hundredth time as the woman’s face showed her shock and she paced a little ways before continuing. “The abridged version is: I stood up, he swung again, I went flying, and when I got up again he had an actual knife.”
“The words get blurry in my memory, but he demanded I drop the sword because I was a girl. I defied him because I wasn't going to let him harm Evan again. He was furious, so he lifted me, hurled me to the ground, and shredded the skirt of my dress, then my ponytail, with his pocket knife. According to him, if I wanted to engage in 'men's business,' I was no longer a girl in his eyes. I do remember that part quite vividly." Emlyn's words were devoid of emotion as if she were placing an order for a cheeseburger. Yet, she couldn't help but swallow hard, recalling the flashing strikes of the knife, the sound of fabric tearing, and the weight of a large hand forcing her head over her knees as he sawed through her ponytail. She briefly closed her eyes, shook her head, and gave a small shrug before continuing.
“I later discovered that he had always treated Evan that way. Perhaps he shielded me from his true nature because I was a girl, or maybe I just hadn't provoked him enough to reveal his true colors. What I can say is that, from that point forward, he stopped treating me like a little girl. I trained with Evan, and learned the forge, and when he went to the medieval recreation fairs to advertise and sell products, I was dressed as a dirty servant boy named ‘Lyn.' I wasn’t allowed to wear girl’s clothes, makeup, or even to grow my hair out again.” Her eyes focused on Dr. McDougal’s large pearl ring that seemed two sizes too large for the wrinkled digit.
“I was rarely allowed to visit friends or do much more than go to school, train, or work. Our camping trips changed too; Mom stopped coming, and they were anything but enjoyable. He would build a base camp, drive Evan and I into the woods, and drop us off with basic supplies before going back to camp to wait for us to find him. That’s the nicer shorter version....” Emlyn trailed off, settling back onto the couch, her mind swirling with memories and a simmering undercurrent of anger.
"What about your mother? Where was she in all of this?" the therapist implored, her eyes reflecting a sense of sadness. Emlyn offered the older woman a faint smile, her hands neatly folded as she gazed at them, tracing the creases on her knuckles.
"Terrified, mostly. Not of Turner, he was kind to Mom, but of him leaving her. After Dad went missing, that was her biggest fear. She wasn't good at being alone, and she'd tell you that herself. Evan and I never blamed her for it; it made us more sad than angry, to be honest, because it was evident that we couldn't fill the void for her," The woman twitched like she wanted to reach out and comfort the younger woman but stopped herself.
“Can you tell me about your brother?” the woman asked softly, looking down briefly at her notes for a moment her face.
“Evan? What can I say? He’s my big brother. We found ways to make it all bearable. Adelina, my best friend, helped. The three of us are thick as thieves, forever. Evan and I protected each other when we could, but he was five years older and frail as glass until he turned fifteen.” Emlyn mused, another sigh escaping her as she reminisced.
“The day after his birthday, he got really sick. Fever, shaking, vomiting, dizziness; it lasted three days. The first and only time he had ever been sick that I could remember, and then he just woke up, fine. Better than fine. After that, like snow on a wet day, it seemed like muscles finally started sticking to his tall frame. He got stronger, he caught up with me in speed and reflexes; it was so great. For years, I felt guilty because Evan would get picked on and I would step in to protect him, even as his little sister. I knew he hated it and resented me a little for it until he started to flourish and closed the gap.” Emlyn said, a fond smile gracing her lips as she recollected, before changing the subject.
“Turner hated our father's secret language and would get mad when he heard us using it, so we learned sign language and had secret conversations at home. We even taught Adelina both languages, so she'd never feel left out.” She chuckled then, remembering the crazy adventures they would sneak out and get into.
"Tell me about the day he disappeared," the therapist gently prodded, interrupting her reverie. Emlyn swallowed, her smile fading as the memories of that fateful day resurfaced. Everything seemed to revolve around that pivotal moment. Her voice turned husky and hushed as she began to recount the events.
“I was thirteen, Evan was eighteen, and it was a very blue moon kind of day, only happening once in a while. On the last day of an event, Turner would let us free to enjoy it instead of running the stand. Those were amazing days. Music, dancing, tournaments; we had so much fun. Adelina was with us that year, and I think Turner was a little worried about what she would tell people when she got back to town.” Emlyn reflected with a faint, nostalgic smile, her silver eyes taking on a softer glint.
“So he even gave us money to spend. Adelina had been drooling over the dresses and food all weekend. She even convinced Turner to let me get garb, a real dress, and a butterfly-henning headcover that hid my short hair and ‘strange’ ears.” She paused and reached for a bottle of water she had set on the floor beside the couch when she had arrived. After taking a slow, deep drink with the distinct sound of crinkling plastic, she recapped the bottle and continued her narrative.
“Evan was pretending to be bored as we danced, laughed, and watched our dresses swish in the sun. Mine was so pretty. Adelina got one in royal purple with yellow trim that matched her hair. We were just silly girls at play. We started to get hot from the heavy skirts and the sun. Evan, playing our brave knight, said he was going to fetch us shaved ice. He made a silly bow to us before taking his leave. Adelina and I fell asleep under a tree waiting. It was only a half-hour later when we heard the booming noise that woke us up.” She paused again, her eyes going hazy with the memory.
“Everyone was confused because the cannons and fireworks weren’t scheduled until the close of day. Adelina and I got scared and started looking for Evan. It was an hour before we became terrified and got security involved. All they found was a puddle of colored liquid and his hunting knife left behind the shaved ice stand. You know most of the rest, it should have been in the files, though it won’t tell you that that night was the first time my mom saw Turner beat me. She did nothing but cry and flee the room while I fought and bled.”Emlyn revealed, her voice trailing off as she paused, bracing herself for the next emotionally draining question. The therapist's eyes sparked with the anticipation of a breakthrough as she posed the crucial inquiry.
“Is that why the incident happened? The one that brought you to me?” Yep, she knew it. Finally, the matter at hand. Emlyn scoffed a little and rolled her eyes as she stood up and paced back to the picture of the horses. Her right hand subconsciously pulled at the charm that hung from her neck by a silver braided chain. The charm was made of interlocking rings; the internal silver links created a swirl pattern and held to a solid silver circle by intermittent delicate blue links. She and Evan both had them, given to them by their father, shortly before he disappeared. Emlyn smiled calmly as she turned to Dr. McDougal and tried to explain, the corner of her left eye twitching subconsciously.
“Honestly, I have nothing against clowns. They're kind of creepy as a whole, but I don't really hate them. Tulip, though, was completely drunk off his patchwork-pants-covered ass. I politely refused the damn reefer-shaped balloon repeatedly, but it wasn’t until he tried to put the rubber leaf down my shirt that I clocked him. I still feel justified. I admit that flipping him into the punch bowl might have been excessive when he got up angry and started swinging his balloon pump like a bat, but that was instinct and nothing more. Honestly, though, I was accosted first and he blew way over the legal limit at a charity event that wasn’t even serving alcohol!” Emlyn concluded, letting out a sigh and throwing her hands up. A buzzer on the desk went off, signaling the end of their first session.
"Well, Emlyn, you've certainly provided me with a lot to consider, and it's clear you have ample reasons for your anger issues. I'm looking forward to our next session, where we'll delve into breathing techniques and strategies for coping with social anxiety in public settings. I believe your experiences with isolation may have contributed to overstimulation, potentially triggering your outburst," the older woman remarked as she moved behind her cherry wood desk. On the desk's surface sat a large calendar next to a nameplate that read 'Dr. Lisa McDougal.'
"How about we schedule our next appointment for two weeks from now, on Thursday at four in the afternoon, dear?" she proposed, consulting the calendar and completing an appointment card. She handed it to Emlyn with a warm smile, who was gritting her teeth in an attempt to keep her jaw from dropping.
