Chapter 2

Rip—

That incredibly faint sound of paper tearing was infinitely magnified in the dead-silent living room.

A two-centimeter tear opened at the top edge of the paper, splitting right through that wobbly drawn sun.

My eyes were locked onto that tear, and my heart felt as though it had just been ripped open right along with it.

Extreme panic caused my body to shake violently, making the chair produce dull thuds against the floor.

My mouth was wide open, disjointed breathy gasps escaping my throat, and tears broke from my eyes like a burst dam, splashing onto the straps across my chest.

"Wait." Blaire suddenly stopped.

She watched my instinctive breakdown, and raised an eyebrow slightly. It seemed she felt that doing the deed herself lacked a certain crucial ritualism.

"This isn't right. This isn't the core of exposure therapy," she said, almost to herself. She stepped forward and loosened the nylon strap on my right wrist by exactly one inch—just enough to give my right hand some limited mobility.

Then, she forcefully shoved the torn drawing into my sweat-drenched right hand.

"Elena, you do it yourself." Blaire half-squatted in front of me, putting away her tomboyish nonchalance and adopting a face of compassionate professionalism. "This is a memento. It says 'Mom' on it. I know what it means to you. But you have to understand, severing this attachment is the first step to your recovery."

I clutched the drawing like I was holding onto my son’s last breath left in this world.

I shook my head desperately, pressing the drawing tightly against my heart, tears blurring my vision.

Destroy it? She wanted me to destroy it with my own hands?

No, absolutely not!

I would rather they kill me.

"I know this is cruel." Blaire sighed and reached out to gently stroke my hair, like one might comfort a disobedient pet. "But if you don't break, you'll never speak again. Look at yourself right now, you’re like a whimpering animal. Do you really think keeping this piece of paper will bring Leo back?"

Leo’s name spilling from her lips felt like a knife stabbing into my eardrums.

I frantically waved my partially freed right hand, trying to shield the drawing with my body. The violent exertion brought an intense metallic taste of blood to the back of my throat.

From the direction of the sofa came the soft clink of a glass being set on the marble tabletop.

Blaire stood up and turned to look at Adrian, who stood silently to the side.

Her eyes took on a clinging intimacy that only the two of them understood.

"Adrian, do you remember that time you were in a car crash in college?" Blaire's voice carried an extraordinary piercing clarity under the cold, white lights. "Your leg needed rehabilitation, and the doctor said we should take it slowly because he was afraid you couldn't handle the pain. But what did you do?"

Adrian's eyes flickered.

He looked at Blaire, seemingly pulled back into those years when they only had each other for company.

"You made me hold you down and force you to stand up and walk." Blaire walked over and naturally took Adrian’s hand, lightly rubbing her fingertips against his palm. "You were in so much pain that you bit your lip until it bled. But you said to me, 'Blaire, I’d rather die of pain right here than lie like a weakling for the rest of my life.'"

She let go of his hand and pointed at my trembling body.

"Adrian, she needs your strength right now. Just like I was there for you back then, you need to help her excise this weakness from her." Blaire’s voice was persuasive, guiding him step by step, like a venomous snake flicking its tongue.

Adrian's jaw tightened abruptly.

He turned his head. In the look he gave me, the very last trace of hesitation evolved into cold-blooded resolution.

Adrian marched over to me with heavy strides.

"No... no..." I desperately mouthed the words, my fingers clawing at the edges of the paper, my knuckles turning deathly pale from the force.

"Give it to me, Elena. This is for your own good."

Adrian ruthlessly grabbed my right hand.

At this moment, the man’s physical strength became an absolute tyranny.

Without even caring about the fresh, bleeding welts on my wrist, he forcibly pried my fingers open, one by one.

"Ah—!" I let out a soundless scream, my chest heaving violently from sudden lack of oxygen.

The drawing was snatched away.

Adrian stood under the cold light, staring at the wobbly "Mom" and the fingerprints my son had left on the paper.

He closed his eyes for a second, and then, with both hands, yanked hard.

Rip!

Rip!

Continuous tearing sounds echoed through the living room.

The intact drawing became two halves, four halves, a myriad of pieces in his hands.

I stared at him blankly. A string in my brain snapped completely.

Adrian let go.

The shreds drifted down like a dirty, dead snow, twirling until they landed piece by piece onto my knees, onto the black restraint straps binding me.

The fragment with the word "Mom" fell exactly onto the back of my hand.

Like a madwoman, I used my barely movable right hand to frantically scrape at the pieces on my lap.

I wanted to piece them together. I needed to put my Leo back together.

My nails scratched against the rug, slashed against my own thighs, my breathy gasps turning into wails of despair.

"Enough!" Adrian yanked my wrist and forcibly pushed my right hand back down onto the chair armrest, his eyes brimming with anger.

"Look," Blaire spoke up right on cue, shrugging her shoulders at the audience on the sofa. "Performative dependency. Her pain just now wasn't because the drawing was torn. She’s using a victim's stance to try and control the emotional atmosphere of the room. She's holding you hostage with her tears, Adrian."

The men on the sofa whispered amongst themselves and nodded in deep agreement.

"Exactly. People who have suffered trauma are the best at emotional blackmail."

Listening to their high-and-mighty verdicts, my stomach spasmed violently.

They had defined my shattered heart as a calculated performance.

Hearing their approval, Adrian breathed a sigh of relief.

He looked at me, his tone glacial: "Elena, I hope you understand soon that I'm doing this to save you."

I slumped in the chair. My tears had run dry; the only thing left was the throbbing, dull ache radiating from my heart.

Blaire walked back to the coffee table.

She didn't look at the torn pieces on the floor. Instead, her gaze fell beside my emptied canvas bag—there, sitting on the table, was a silver laptop I carried with me everywhere.

Inside it were all the video recordings of Leo from the day he was born until he was five. It was the absolute last proof that he had ever existed in this world.

Blaire’s finger tapped lightly against the laptop’s cold metal shell, making one long and two short crisp sounds.

She looked up, meeting Adrian's eyes across the air, and said softly,

"Next, we need to move on to a deeper level of treatment."

Adrian looked at the laptop, stayed silent for two seconds, and then, slowly, nodded his head.