Scandalabadboybillionair c940e

give a damn what he happens to be writing, or thinking for that matter, and finally he looks at me. He puts the pen down on the notepad and moves both of them to his lap, looking his best that I have his full attention. I don’t know why. He knows I don’t want his attention.

“Are you still having nightmares, Emma?” So we’re just jumping right into the depressing shit today? Have it your way.

“Yes.” I look down at my tangled fingers in my lap and blow out a deep and pathetic breath. It’s the unfortunate truth. “I don’t know how I could ever sleep soundly again.” The sadness in my eyes reaches him, and a look of compassion crosses his face. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. I regret opening up. I wish I could take it back.

“Emma, I want you to try to see your nightmares as a safe way to understand your emotions, and the way your subconscious is dealing with your trauma.” He moves his elbows to his knees as he leans forward with his hands steepled. “No one enjoys nightmares, and we hope to forget them as soon as we wake up, but in order to ensure that they don't return, we have to understand them.”

I hear him, yet I’m reluctant to listen. It makes sense that I have nightmares, given what I’ve done. But I can’t stand that he keeps saying “we” as if he has nightmares, too. I bet he doesn’t. He probably gets plenty of rest in a nice warm bed next to a beautiful trophy wife. He interrupts my snide thoughts.

“In your nightmares, what are you doing?”

I swallow the knot developing in my sore throat. “I’m killing her.” My eyes retreat back to my hands before additionally confessing, “Not with the gun. I’m beating her to death.”