Page 60 of Dark Therapy

Two years, and I was still shackled to him, a ghost chained to memories that refused to release their grip on me. Every day I woke up in a world where Damien was locked away, a world that should have feltsafer. But instead, the silence he left behind only grew louder, filling every empty corner of my life with shadows that belonged to him.

At first, I thought his absence would bring peace, that his confinement would be the exorcism I needed. But it wasn’t long before I realized I was wrong. The first time another man touched me, I felt Damien’s presence like a brandburningthrough my skin. It didn’t matter how gentle they were, or howinnocent the touch. My mind would wander, slipping down dark pathways of memory and desire, wondering how Damien would touch me in their place.

How his hands wouldclaimme.

In those moments, I’d close my eyes, pretending the man’s hands werehis. I’d imagine his gaze—intense, unyielding—searing through me, and suddenly every soft caress turned to fire. I felt his phantom fingers at my throat, his breath at my ear, his quiet, possessive words sinking into my skin like atoxinI was desperate to drink down. But every time, the illusion would break, leaving me hollow. And even in that emptiness, the desire simmered, dark and twisted, keeping himalivein ways I hated and craved.

And then there were the nightmares, those beautiful nightmares that held me captive in my sleep. I would find myself back in that room, in the depths of his control, feeling the edge of danger with every move he made. But in the dreams, I was different—stronger, fearless. I met his darkness with my own, letting it coil around us, a dance we were bound to repeat. And every time I’d wake, heart racing, skin tingling, only to find that I was alone.

The mornings after were the worst. I’d sit by my bed, my fingers tracing the edges of my sheets, feeling the imprint of his absence like a scar. I’d remind myself he was locked away, kept far from me by walls and guards and the judgments of a system that could never understand what truly lingered between us. And yet, in some twisted corner of my mind, that distance only deepened theneed. He was everywhere and nowhere, a presence that refused to fade.

Every patient that walked through my door became a test, a reminder ofhim. I studied them, looking for even a fragment of his intensity, the way his gaze could strip me bare with a single look. But they were all empty shadows in comparison, lacking the sharpness, the edge of danger that Damien embodied so completely. I’d sit across from them, letting them talk, my mind wandering back to the days when Damien filled that chair, every session a game of control that I couldn’t help but lose.

They all paled in comparison to him.

Each patient brought their own wounds, their own traumas, but none of them reached that raw, mercilessdepththat Damien lived in. I’d find myself pushing them, probing them too deeply, searching for a darkness that wasn’t there. And when they’dflinch or pull back, I’d realize how far I’d gone—how far he’d twisted me.

People would tell me I seemed different now, colder, more detached. But I didn’t correct them. How could I? When the only warmth I felt was in the shadow of a man I could never have, a man who hadruinedme.

Two years. Two years of trying to scrape his mark from my soul, only to find it etched deeper with every passing day. And in the dead of night, when the world was silent, I’d find myself whispering his name, feeling it curl off my tongue like a forbidden word, savoring the feel of it as if he could hear me.

Because the truth was, even though he was locked away, a part of me was stillhis.

The first year was easier in some twisted, masochistic way. Damien used to send me letters every week, small cryptic notes that somehow felt more like a lifeline than a taunt. They arrived in simple envelopes, always addressed in his scrawled handwriting, a reminder of his existence that I both dreaded and craved. I never wrote back—not once. I told myself I wouldn’tgive him the satisfaction. But every time another letter arrived, I felt a thrill of anticipation I couldn’t deny.

Each letter was a mirror, revealing my own fractured thoughts, my darkest inclinations that I buried under layers of professional detachment. He wrote about the games he’d play, when he gets free. He described the ways he’d make me realize that I was his, every line laced with the kind of possessive longing that should’ve repulsed me. But the letters becamemysecretaddiction. I waited for them like they were sustenance, each one confirming that he still thought of me, that he was still there in the shadows, holding onto me as tightly as I held onto him.

The letters stopped after the first year. Not a word, not a single hint that he remembered the way he had once haunted my life. It was as if he had vanished into the walls of that institution, the distance between us growing with every unfulfilled day, every empty mailbox. And with each passing month, I felt a new ache forming in my chest, one that replaced the raw burn of his obsession with a dull, hollow ache that refused to leave.

It was a strange kind of grief, one that twisted and curled into something I couldn’t quite name. Every day, I felt myselfsinking a little deeper into that emptiness, as if I had lost a piece of myself when I lost him. As if his silence was the final proof that I had truly failed him.

And then she came.Claire.

She walked into my office without an appointment, unannounced. A woman who carried herself with a self-assuredness that bordered on contempt. Her eyes were cold, calculating, but there was something else there, something I recognized instantly—the mark of someone who had survived Damien’s world, someone who had perhaps even thrived in it. She looked around my office with a slight smirk, as if she found it amusing to see where he had once sat, to know the games that had unfolded here, the chaos he had left behind.

“Claire,” she introduced herself.

She didn’t bother to sit. Instead, she stood there, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on me like a blade. “You know, I thought about killing you,” she said, the words slipping from her mouth like a casual observation, like she was commenting on the weather.

My heart stilled, but I kept my face steady. I didn’t dare show her the fear she likely wanted to see. “Did you?” I asked, my voice calm, but inside, every nerve felt like it was strung tight.

Her mouth twisted into a smirk. “Don’t flatter yourself. I had plenty of chances, but he wouldn’t allow it. For some reason, he seemed…fondof you.” She scoffed, shaking her head. “God knows why. You were his therapist, the one who was supposed tohelphim. But look where he ended up. Locked away, rotting in that place, and all because he had the misfortune of meetingyou.”

I felt her words like a physical blow. Every syllable a sharp, cutting reminder of my failure. But I forced myself to stay quiet, to let her continue.

“You’re incompetent, you know that?” Her voice was low, a whisper filled with disdain. “Damien came to you for help, and youfailedhim. If he’d gone to anyone else, someonecompetent, someone who wasn’t so caught up in their own feelings, he might have had a chance. He might’ve been saved. But instead, he got you. His little obsession. His downfall.”

Each word dug deeper, tearing open old wounds I’d tried so hard to close. I could feel the bile rising in my throat, the shame clawing its way to the surface, but I forced it down. I couldn’t give her that satisfaction.

“And you know what the worst part is?” she continued, her voice softer now, almost sympathetic, though I knew it was anything but. “The worst part is that you probably know it, don’t you? You know that you failed him. You know that every time he came to see you, every session, every word he said, was his way of reaching out, of asking for something he didn’t understand. But you didn’t see it. Or maybe you did, but you didn’tcare. You were too busy playing the victim, too caught up in the thrill of having a man like him want you.”

She took a step closer, and I felt myself shrink back, though I fought against it. “Youruinedhim,” she whispered. “And now he’s paying the price for your incompetence. The only reason you’re still breathing is becausehewanted you alive. But trust me, if he ever changes his mind…”

She let the threat hang in the air, a silent promise that lingered long after she was gone.

The door closed behind her, and I sat there in stunned silence, her words echoing in my mind, each one a barb sinking deeper anddeeperuntil they felt like they’d taken root.Ihad ruined him. She was right. Damien had come to me, seeking help in the only way he knew how, and I had failed him. I had let my own emotions, cloud my judgment. I hadn’t seen him for what he truly was—a broken, dangerous man who needed help. All I saw was the thrill, the dark allure of his obsession, the way he made me feel alive in a way I had never felt before.

And now, because of me, he was locked away. And I had no one to blame but myself.