“Definitely.”
“And how does Gina feel about this?”
“She orgasms.”
Lauren paused for a second. “Does she cry out?”
Steven licked his lips. “Oh, yes. Very loudly.” He threw his head back and lifted his hands. “Owww,” he groaned. “Like that.”
“Oww? You mean, like she’s in pain? Is she in pain, Steven?”
He smiled again. “Intense pain.”
Lauren looked down at her pad. This man routinely rapes his girlfriend. But is it fantasy or reality? She shook her head. “How does that make you feel, Steven? How does her pain make you feel?”
“It makes me come. It makes me feel special. But not as special as tying her down. I make the ropes so tight they cut into her skin. So tight that they hurt. The ropes hurt, they hurt me.”
Lauren’s head snapped up. What did he just say? “The ropes hurt you, or do they hurt her? Who’s tied up, Steven? You or Gina?”
Her patient did not answer. A tear coursed down his cheek.
“Steven, remember, no one can hurt you here. You’re completely safe. No one will judge you. You can tell me everything.”
He smeared away the tear with the swipe of a hand. “Gina. Gina is tied up.”
“Does Gina say anything to you afterwards?”
“She’s angry. She went away for a couple of days.”
Lauren sat for a moment, trying to think of the best treatment approach to use on Steven. She knew what she had heard: her patient had clearly stated that he was tied up, which could explain many things. Was he abused as a child? Had he been tied down and tortured by one of his parents? She shuddered at the thought.
A noise in the hallway grabbed her attention and she glanced at the large black-on-white wall clock behind her patient. She needed to bring this session to a close. But what a time to have to end it!
She sighed deeply. She knew she could not leave him in his current state. If she could curb his overwhelming desires, it might keep him in check until she had a chance to work with him further and probe deeper to reach the root cause of his psychosis. Right now, she needed an immediate, albeit temporary, measure to accomplish this. To make it work, she had to take him down deeper.
“Steven, we’re going to talk more about this next week. In the meantime, I want you to close your eyes, let your head fall back against the chair, and focus on my voice.” She used a calm, melodic tone to relax him. “That’s it, just let everything go. I want you to picture yourself at the ocean. The waves are effortlessly rolling up the sand and tickling the tips of your toes. The soft breeze is blowing the hair off your face. Now think about all your anger, frustration, tension… and toss it out into the ocean. Watch it float away as it bobs up and down on the waves, moving farther and farther away from you.”
Her patient’s facial muscles went flaccid, causing his cheeks and mouth to droop slightly. He was now exactly where she wanted him. She had performed so many hypnotherapy sessions in graduate school that she was affectionately known as the Underlord, a nickname she did not particularly like. Still, it was a good-hearted attempt by her colleagues to honor her exceptional hypnosis skills.
“Each time you feel a sexual urge coming on, when you feel yourself losing control, you’ll feel intense pain in your left temple. It will be an explosive headache that will last for five minutes and then subside. Do you understand what I’m saying, Steven?”
He continued to lie back in the chair, his head extended and cocked to one side, his mouth hanging open. He smacked his lips a couple of times, swallowed, then said, “Yes.”
“Good. Now, I’m going to wake you up. You won’t consciously remember anything we talked about. When I snap my fingers, you will awaken refreshed and happy.”
He opened his eyes and sat up, looked around, and focused on Lauren. “What happened, Doc? We were talking, and then… I don’t know, you’re sitting there looking at me.”
“Everything went fine, Steven. You just went into a very relaxed state for a few moments.” She glanced again at the clock and rose from her chair. “Next week we’ll talk some more, try some things that I think will help.”
“I feel great.”
“Good. I want you to feel great.” Lauren smiled. “This was an excellent first session, Steven.”
“What about those thoughts, those fantasies?”
“I don’t think you’ll have any problems with them. But you’d better carry a bottle of Excedrin with you.”
Lauren followed her patient out into the hallway, where the shared receptionist sat behind the desk wearing a telephone headset. The other therapists had gathered in the area, as they all had completed their sessions at the top of the hour. Lauren ignored their burgeoning discussion and looked over at the receptionist.
“Did my husband call?”
“No, Doctor, he didn’t. Just like the last hour, and the hour before that.”
Fortunately, the bizarre case Steven presented had helped take her mind off Michael, even if only for a few minutes. Lauren looked away and headed back into her office. She stood in front of a photo on the wall, the one she had taken of Michael in their backyard a few years ago, shortly after purchasing their house.
“Michael,” she whispered, “please come home.”
2
As Lauren readied herself to leave the office for the evening, she prepared a short list of items she needed at the local Placerville Food & More. She opened her purse and popped a Xanax tablet into her mouth, maneuvering it with her tongue to the back of her throat and forcing it down with a few gulps from the water fountain. She hated having to rely on medication, but it helped her avoid the extreme anxiety she sometimes felt in open, public places. Michael understood and, as a result, always did the grocery shopping. Walking into the market and feeling totally lost only made her miss him more.
Food & More was packed with shoppers who had stopped in after work on their way home for dinner. Lauren stood in line, fidgeting, keeping her eyes low and away from those around her. She dabbed at her brow with the back of her left hand. The Xanax should be taking effect soon, she told herself. In the meantime, she had to take her mind off her escalating apprehension before it became incapacitating.
She fixed her gaze on the checkout magazine rack, where the cover of the latest issue of Time grabbed her attention. The large photo showed a haggard young woman, whom the caption identified as Brittany Harding, with the bold headline “False Accusations… or Not?”
Lauren picked up the magazine and thumbed to the article. She recalled this case dominating the local headlines a year or two ago. A prominent surgeon had been arrested for murder, yet it turned out that a psychotic acquaintance of his had actually committed the crime and framed him for it. Lauren remembered the case well because she had once referred a patient to the surgeon, Dr. Phillip Madison. Though her patient’s prior orthopedist had diagnosed psychogenic pain — commonly known as “it’s all in your head”—Lauren felt her patient required a more comprehensive workup. She made the referral and Madison discovered a spinal tumor, which he deftly removed two days later. She was glad to read that Harding’s appeal had been denied. Madison was a good physician.
“Damn shame about that, wasn’t it?”
Lauren looked up and noticed that the elderly woman in front of her was looking at the photo spread of Brittany Harding and Phillip Madison.
“I remember when that happened,” the woman continued. “It’s the lawyers, they’re the problem.”
Lauren looked at her but did not respond. She closed the issue of Time and put it back on the stand. With Michael gone, she knew she would not be in the mood to do any reading.