Third therapy session
“I think I might be a bad man.”
Christina, to her credit, didn't argue or even ask Isaac was brought this about, just gave him a questioning look.
“I hurt Peter. I didn't mean to. I never mean to. But I do anyway. I open my mouth and words come out and his face crumples and then shuts down. But we end up arguing or with me hurting him most days. I hate it. It's why I used. One of the reasons.”
“You used to avoid hurting people?”
“No. That's stupid.” He sighed. “I used so that I wouldn't hurt when I inevitably hurt them. It hurts so much, I forgot how much. It's easier not caring. When you don't care, it doesn't hurt when you hurt people and you don't have to apologise or give a fuck when they leave.”
“You think Peter will end your friendship because you hurt him?”
“Wouldn't you? Never mind. No. I don't. I think he'll end it because he thinks I hate him for hitting on me and he thinks I think he's a freak and because he's just insecure and freaking out and I make things worse just by being there. Fuck, I hate him sometimes.”
“Why?”
It was a reasonable question, but he couldn't for the life of him find a reasonable answer that didn't sound just like something Petrelli would say to him. “Because… he made me care again. Even on the smack. I stopped caring and then he walks in and makes me care again.”
“Have you always cared too much?”
“I… guess so. Yeah. I cared about everything. My brother beating me up, my sister being a little dictator, being called a- everything got to me. I was constantly hurting.”
“It sounds like you have a rough childhood.”
“Pull the other one. I grew up in pampered luxury. My father is the founder of a transport company working across the Caribbean, my mother was a stay at mother, I went to the best schools, the best sports programs...”
“The value of a childhood isn’t in the money involved. Some of the best childhoods were in abject poverty, knowing you were loved, cherished and wanted.”
He was silent, thinking on that. “I had an uncle. Bert. Roberto. My mother’s brother. He ran a publishing house. They published my first work. He was the one encouraged me to draw, read comics, paint, so anything I wanted to with art and stories. He died when I was nineteen.”
“He sounds very important to you.”
“He was. I wouldn’t have made it anywhere without him.”
“Has anyone else had that effect?”
“I... guess. Charles. Who died recently. Charles Deveaux. His gallery sponsored me and showed my work. His daughter was my dealer. And my ex-girlfriend now. He... I found out he left me money, in his will. Provided I can pass a drug test, or when I reach thirty.”
She canted her head. “How did you feel about that?”
“Shocked. I mean... I left Simone. I left New York. But he still... why would he do that?”
“Because he cared for you?”
“It wasn’t a small amount of money,” he confessed softly. “It was a lot.”
“Because he cared for you?”
Isaac shrugged. He supposed he must have, though he didn’t get why.
“Are you sleeping any better?”
“No.” He was sleeping worse.
“I usually avoid this question, because it sounds very cliched, but how do you feel right now?”
He chewed his thumb, staring at the photo on the wall. The reflection of the room in the glass.
“Empty.”
She nodded.
“Just... empty.”
“Is that common?”
“... I guess. Things hurt, then it’s just empty.”
She nodded again. “Can I ask what happened between you and Simone that you thought her father would want to cut all ties completely?”
“I left her.”
“Why, though?”
“She slapped me. She called me some names, I asked her what it made her if that what she thought of me and she slapped me. So I left.” His voice was soft. He couldn’t get it louder. “Maybe I overreacted, but I’d had it.”
“Was she emotionally abusive?”
“No!” He was shocked she’d suggest it. “No. God, no.”
“Did you fight a lot? You said she accused you of painting her fat.”
“That was just Simone. Yeah, we fought. Last time I saw her we fought. It was our past time.”
“What did you fight about last time? When was it?”
“I... I went for Charles funeral. We went back to his place, sorted through some stuff, drank some wine...” he coloured faintly. “Ended up, um, yeah. We got into a fight in the morning when I asked her if she wanted me to stay. Then I came home and Peter and I went drinking.”
“What did she say that made you decide to come home?”
“What’s saying she said anything?” He snapped.
“You came home from New York the same day and went drinking with your house mate.”
“Yeah. Right. So aside from that...”
She chuckled.
“She... told me... god, this is humiliating. She told me at least when I was on the drugs I cared more about her during sex than myself.” He steadfastly refused to bury his face in his hands, despite the scarlet burn on his cheeks.
“Why do you think she said that?”
He shrugged. “I- I don’t know. She wasn’t complaining at the time.”
“Do you think she wanted to hurt you?”
He thought about it. They had done it before. “... maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe.” He looked away. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“All right. I’d like to see you in a couple of days.” She stood up. He pushed himself upright, not looking at her.
“Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
He stepped out of her office and, without a word to Zara, stepped out onto the pavement, wanting distance between himself and that place.
Christina, to her credit, didn't argue or even ask Isaac was brought this about, just gave him a questioning look.
“I hurt Peter. I didn't mean to. I never mean to. But I do anyway. I open my mouth and words come out and his face crumples and then shuts down. But we end up arguing or with me hurting him most days. I hate it. It's why I used. One of the reasons.”
“You used to avoid hurting people?”
“No. That's stupid.” He sighed. “I used so that I wouldn't hurt when I inevitably hurt them. It hurts so much, I forgot how much. It's easier not caring. When you don't care, it doesn't hurt when you hurt people and you don't have to apologise or give a fuck when they leave.”
“You think Peter will end your friendship because you hurt him?”
“Wouldn't you? Never mind. No. I don't. I think he'll end it because he thinks I hate him for hitting on me and he thinks I think he's a freak and because he's just insecure and freaking out and I make things worse just by being there. Fuck, I hate him sometimes.”
“Why?”
It was a reasonable question, but he couldn't for the life of him find a reasonable answer that didn't sound just like something Petrelli would say to him. “Because… he made me care again. Even on the smack. I stopped caring and then he walks in and makes me care again.”
“Have you always cared too much?”
“I… guess so. Yeah. I cared about everything. My brother beating me up, my sister being a little dictator, being called a- everything got to me. I was constantly hurting.”
“It sounds like you have a rough childhood.”
“Pull the other one. I grew up in pampered luxury. My father is the founder of a transport company working across the Caribbean, my mother was a stay at mother, I went to the best schools, the best sports programs...”
“The value of a childhood isn’t in the money involved. Some of the best childhoods were in abject poverty, knowing you were loved, cherished and wanted.”
He was silent, thinking on that. “I had an uncle. Bert. Roberto. My mother’s brother. He ran a publishing house. They published my first work. He was the one encouraged me to draw, read comics, paint, so anything I wanted to with art and stories. He died when I was nineteen.”
“He sounds very important to you.”
“He was. I wouldn’t have made it anywhere without him.”
“Has anyone else had that effect?”
“I... guess. Charles. Who died recently. Charles Deveaux. His gallery sponsored me and showed my work. His daughter was my dealer. And my ex-girlfriend now. He... I found out he left me money, in his will. Provided I can pass a drug test, or when I reach thirty.”
She canted her head. “How did you feel about that?”
“Shocked. I mean... I left Simone. I left New York. But he still... why would he do that?”
“Because he cared for you?”
“It wasn’t a small amount of money,” he confessed softly. “It was a lot.”
“Because he cared for you?”
Isaac shrugged. He supposed he must have, though he didn’t get why.
“Are you sleeping any better?”
“No.” He was sleeping worse.
“I usually avoid this question, because it sounds very cliched, but how do you feel right now?”
He chewed his thumb, staring at the photo on the wall. The reflection of the room in the glass.
“Empty.”
She nodded.
“Just... empty.”
“Is that common?”
“... I guess. Things hurt, then it’s just empty.”
She nodded again. “Can I ask what happened between you and Simone that you thought her father would want to cut all ties completely?”
“I left her.”
“Why, though?”
“She slapped me. She called me some names, I asked her what it made her if that what she thought of me and she slapped me. So I left.” His voice was soft. He couldn’t get it louder. “Maybe I overreacted, but I’d had it.”
“Was she emotionally abusive?”
“No!” He was shocked she’d suggest it. “No. God, no.”
“Did you fight a lot? You said she accused you of painting her fat.”
“That was just Simone. Yeah, we fought. Last time I saw her we fought. It was our past time.”
“What did you fight about last time? When was it?”
“I... I went for Charles funeral. We went back to his place, sorted through some stuff, drank some wine...” he coloured faintly. “Ended up, um, yeah. We got into a fight in the morning when I asked her if she wanted me to stay. Then I came home and Peter and I went drinking.”
“What did she say that made you decide to come home?”
“What’s saying she said anything?” He snapped.
“You came home from New York the same day and went drinking with your house mate.”
“Yeah. Right. So aside from that...”
She chuckled.
“She... told me... god, this is humiliating. She told me at least when I was on the drugs I cared more about her during sex than myself.” He steadfastly refused to bury his face in his hands, despite the scarlet burn on his cheeks.
“Why do you think she said that?”
He shrugged. “I- I don’t know. She wasn’t complaining at the time.”
“Do you think she wanted to hurt you?”
He thought about it. They had done it before. “... maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe.” He looked away. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“All right. I’d like to see you in a couple of days.” She stood up. He pushed himself upright, not looking at her.
“Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
He stepped out of her office and, without a word to Zara, stepped out onto the pavement, wanting distance between himself and that place.