Wire-Pulling Pt. 03 (End)

To my surprise, she chuckled.

"I didn't think you were, Paul. But, more importantly, why did Bill tell you to go see a therapist? I happen to know the man. He and my husband have been friends for a long time, and I know personally that he's a good man. Still, I also know that he's not a big fan of therapy. He and Tim actually call me a 'Doctor of Common Sense' when trying to poke fun at my profession."

"Urgh," I groaned. "While I was investigating the Dick, there was... a dangerous moment where I was rather close to him. It was the first time I saw him in real life since leaving his house. And... the moment I saw him in the flesh, I suddenly felt a lot of... rage. I almost..." My voice trailed off, but she perfectly understood what I was saying.

She seemed thoughtful for a while, not writing on her pad, not saying anything, not even looking at me. Until, after about a minute, she spoke up in a pensive voice.

"I know that you used the issues you have with your stepfather as a ruse for your mother. But I honestly think we should actually work through your abuse. Now, hear me out," she quickly added as she saw me attempt to protest. "What your mother is displaying is what we call a masochistic disorder. The usual way to address that is aversion therapy."

I looked at her for a moment.

"You mean, like, negative reinforcement? Like shock collars for dogs?"

"Yes, and No," she laughed. "Basically, I would make her relive the situations in which she gave in to her submissive tendencies, but then point out the negative consequences that followed as a direct result of her submission. Slowly but surely, it reduces a patient's desire to place themselves in another situation like that and allows them to gain the resolve to place their own wants and needs before their partner's. But we need to do that slowly and very carefully. If we go too hard too fast, she could fall into a depression, or just close herself off because it's too much to deal with."

I quickly understood where she was going with this.

"So... you're saying that, if she sits next to us as we work on my issues, that I have because of the abuse that happened as a direct result of her surrendering herself to the Dick..."

"...she would be forced to face reality. She couldn't just brush it off as a bad experience or put it behind her as something that can't be changed. Since she told you that she wants to do whatever it takes to make you happy, she does regret what happened, and she blames herself for it. But she doesn't seem to make the connection between her submissiveness and what happened. We need to point that out to her."

"Well. You're the expert here. But I'm kinda afraid that it will only hurt her."

"It will hurt her. That's the point. And that's why she will need your help as well."

"Okay?"

"How much did Tim tell you about how we tried to help Ava?" she asked carefully.

"Well, not much. But Ava did." I saw her eyes widen in surprise. "She said that Tim somehow managed to show her the difference between being used for her own pleasure, and just being used as a sex toy."

"I didn't know you spoke with her." She sounded surprised but showed a pleasant smile. "But what she said was correct. And, if you could do the same for your mother, it would be a great help."

"Really?" I was still skeptical about a psychologist actually recommending to fuck my own mother.

"I know it sounds suspicious, but I'm serious. While we use our therapy sessions to point out all the negativity her submissiveness caused in both of your lives, she will blame herself. It comes with her submissiveness, Paul. So, you need to show her that you still care. That you still support her. But, most important of all, you need to reassure her that she's not fundamentally broken. Being sexually submissive isn't wrong. There's nothing wrong with her either. If it leads to abuse, it's because there's something wrong with the abusers. So, it would help a great deal if we could show her that she can be submissive to someone who actually loves and cares for her, but needs to retain her authority in case she ends up with someone who would abuse that power."

I hated to admit it... but I was thankful for a professional therapist's encouragement to fuck my mom for a reason that I could call plausible. Even after fully embracing the whole situation, there was still a big part of me worrying about just causing more damage. But now, after hearing that, I could honestly tell myself that enjoying what my mother offered would actually help her.

"You sure about that one? I'm not... just enforcing her submissiveness if I accept it?"

That caused her to laugh.

"I see I'll need to be blunt about that part. So, here it goes: Make out a safe word, then tie her hands and ankles to a spreader bar, and then fuck her till she begs you to stop, Paul." My eyes grew as wide as saucers, which amused her even more. "I told you, as long as she enjoys herself and it happens out of a genuine and mutual wish to please each other, there is nothing wrong with it. If she doesn't beg you to stop using her safe word, fuck her once more for good measure. It's as simple as that."

"Okay," I said hesitantly. "Though, that might be a problem since we're currently living in the company safe house. Meaning, we're under 24/7 surveillance."

"Yes, I don't think that would be a good idea. But, if I understand you correctly, your stepfather is about to be trialed. The therapy is going to take a while, Paul. Don't get any illusions about that. You have more than enough time to ease into it after you move back into your apartment."

I thought about her words before nodding.

"That'll work, I guess."

"Great!" she called out happily. "Now, how about we get started and call your mother in? Or do you want to keep the private setting for now? Maybe there are... aspects of your life with your stepfather that you'd rather not discuss in front of her yet."

I was a little taken aback by the genuine concern in her voice, but I just shrugged.

"Nah. She knows everything that happened. She was there to witness it first-hand."

Even though I said it with as much indifference as I could muster, I saw the corner of her eye twitch when I said it. Regardless, she gave me a curt nod before turning to the door and calling Mom into her office. I had to smirk when she now directed us towards a couch, so Mom and I could sit right next to each other while the doctor took a seat in some kind of a padded office chair, finally giving me the cliché-setting I expected before.

The moment we sat, Mom took hold of my hand and gave it a strong squeeze. I didn't know whether she tried to encourage me, reassure me, or express that she would stay by my side. Either of these options would have made me feel better, were it not for the whole thing being planned as a ruse to get her into this office. It left a sour taste in my mouth.

"So, Ms. Anderson, I think I got a pretty good picture of what Paul needs. And I'm thanking you for being here as his support," the doctor started.

"I would do everything for my Paulie!" Mom nodded with a determined expression.

"I'm happy to hear that. Because I think it would be best to start working through his trauma from the beginning." I felt mom's hands, which were still holding on to my own, twitch when the doctor used the word 'trauma'. "Please, would you mind telling me how you got to know his stepfather?"

Mom looked down at her lap for a long time before we heard her take a deep breath and nod.

For the following eighty minutes, after Mom told us the detailed version of how she got to meet Senator Dick and how he managed to pull her out of her depression caused by Dad's death while he quickly picked up on her issues, I got to start recounting the highlights of my youth in his house. I quickly understood what Doctor Walker meant when she explained that aversion therapy thing to me, because, every time I told her about a particularly painful memory, she followed up by asking where Mom was in those moments, what she did after one of us got put down verbally or physically, and how her inaction made me feel at the time.

Mom stayed quiet every time Doctor Walker did this. Not once did she inject herself into the conversation to even attempt to defend herself. Though, the tears that ran dark lines of her mascara down her cheeks about halfway through the session made it clear that she not only regretted what had happened but that she actually suffered from those memories as well.

And that was when the doctor slightly changed her approach. From then on, she would actively include Mom in the session, making her explain the reasons why she didn't leave him, why she didn't tell the truth to the police, and why she stayed silent when asked about the details of my 'accidents' by the ER staff whenever Dick put me in the hospital.

I understood how she could have fallen for Dick. I understood that he never showed his true colors during the time he courted her. And I believed her explanation about it being too late to run once he did go off the rails. But, despite all that, and despite the fact I had forgiven Mom for what had happened, it still stung. And it took me a while to realize why exactly. This was the moment I realized that Bill's push to get me into this therapist's office was probably the best thing he ever did for me.

During the session, it was Doctor Walker who acknowledged Mom's reasons and affirmed that these are typical circumstances abuse victims face, stopping Mom from falling into total despair over her inability to protect us. Despite understanding all this, and despite forgiving her... I just couldn't say it out loud. Because, for the first time, I actually and fully understood where the uneasiness came from whenever I had to talk about my childhood. I wasn't afraid of people asking for details or looking at me with pity. I was thoroughly ashamed of my past self that was so utterly powerless while facing off against Dick, and so completely useless when trying to protect my mother.

Of course, Doctor Walker had known about it from the beginning. Or she might just have expected it, I don't know. But she also immediately noticed when the realization hit me, and she was relentless when pushing me to say it out loud. Somehow, I think, hearing that part had an even greater effect on Mom than hearing me talk about the abuse itself.

By the time Doctor Walker wrapped up our very first therapy session, Mom was a mess. And not just her. Recounting those memories took quite a toll on me as well. I almost felt lightheaded when I stood up from that couch while trying to swallow that annoyingly persistent clump in my throat. And, when we walked out of the building to sit back in the car that was still waiting for us, Mom clung to me like her life depended on it.

We both must have looked like a mess, as I could see the way Jim looked at us before he wordlessly opened the door for Mom to sit in the back and started the quiet drive back to the Shelter.

We just never made it there.

About halfway through our way home, we were just passing through an intersection when I saw a white van run its red light. I didn't even have time to scream out a warning before it T-boned our driver's side and all I saw was glass shards flying past me. The impact wasn't violent enough to flip us over, but it still pushed us all the way to the sidewalk where I heard loud popping noises as our tires burst upon hitting the curb.

It took me a moment to get my bearings after we came to a halt. The first thing I did, though, was make sure Mom was okay. I didn't even think of checking on Jim or myself until I made sure she was fine. Suddenly, the door next to me flung open and someone grabbed my arm, pulling me roughly out of the car.

I saw myself confronted with three men, all above six feet, looking rather fit, and wearing ski masks. While one of them tried to hold me in place, another one approached me with what looked like a syringe of some kind. Now the daze I was in after the impact vanished, just to be replaced by panic spreading through me.

I ripped my arm out of the man's hold and positioned myself with my back to our car, so they couldn't come at me from behind. I reached for my gun, but it wasn't there. The guy who pulled me out of the car must have disarmed me while I was still too confused to notice what was happening. I wondered why the hell Jim didn't get out of the car to help, but I also knew they would attack the moment I took my eyes off them, so I couldn't check on him.

The three positioned themselves about eight feet away from me, forming a half-circle with the one holding the syringe in the middle and the other two not only flanking him but also cutting off my escape routes. Even if abandoning Mom and Jim had been an option, there was no way for me to just run. Especially since they had at least one gun: Mine.

Without saying a word, sharing a glance, or making any other signal that I picked up on, the two on the flanks stepped towards me simultaneously. I reacted on pure instinct as I stopped the one on my left with a straight, quick jap to his face. The one on my right, however, managed to grab my right arm and pulled his head back when I tried to slam my forehead into his nasal bone in response. They knew what they were doing. They obviously had done this kind of thing before and knew what to expect.

Suddenly, my left arm was also held in a death grip. Turning my head in surprise, I saw his face covered in blood after my jab had, very obviously, broken his nose, but there wasn't even a hint of pain or even discomfort on the guy's face! Usually, even the slightest pressure on those nerves would cause a man's eyes to tear up and basically blind them. These guys were used to it. This didn't fare well for me.

Together, they pulled me towards their wannabe doctor, though I managed to surprise them by stopping my resistance and instead using their pull to propel me forward, pulled up my left leg like one of those soccer goalies trying to kick the ball across the field, and managed to kick the guy straight up where it would hurt him the most. The guy broke down as a pitiful wail escaped his throat and his wide eyes bulged out of his head.

I didn't place the foot back on the ground, though. Instead, without skipping a beat, I raised my knee almost to my chin before I slammed it, with every bit of strength I had left, down onto the tip of the foot of the guy holding my left arm. He had just raised his arm as if to try and slam his elbow against my head but, with my heel meeting his toes, most of the force behind that attack was lost.

Now, one of them would be out of commission for a little while, the second one had lost his grip on my arm, leaving only one attacker I had to deal with. I was starting to think I could actually pull this off.

That is, until the guy holding my right arm decided to stop playing around. While I was dealing with his buddy, he let go of my arm voluntarily, turned to face me directly, and, as soon as my foot connected with his friend's toes, delivered a straight kick to my right knee. It hurt like all hell! Thankfully, all the adrenaline in my body successfully kept me on my feet, so I was able to position myself where we started: With me in between them and the car Mom was in.

Syringe Guy was still yammering and cursing on the ground and didn't seem like he was in any state to get back up anytime soon. The one with the broken nose and surely gravely injured foot had yet to assume a solid stance but was anything but out of commission as he seemed more annoyed than pained while he bent down to pick up the syringe. The third guy was still in perfect mint condition.

I, on the other hand, could barely stand straight as my right leg was quivering and felt like the muscles around my knee had just vanished. I was sure, that kick had caused some damage to the ligaments in my leg.

My earlier enthusiasm vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. I just hoped the automatic crash detection system in the car had done what it was designed to do and had sent out notifications to my colleagues and the police. As that thought entered my mind, my eyes involuntarily shifted to the right, where Jim sat in the driver's seat, and I felt renewed panic spread through me. He did not look good. He just hung in the seatbelt, slumped over the steering wheel, with blood gushing out of a massive cut on the side of his forehead. I didn't even think he was still breathing.

And then it happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. The uninjured attacker had used the opportunity to close the distance between us, trying to get another hold of me. In my panic, I did the only thing I could think of. As I turned my upper body to the left, I utilized the movement to throw a haymaker right at the guy's face using everything I had, abandoning all caution that Bill and the boys at work had drilled into me. I didn't care about breaking my hand. I needed to buy time!

My fist connected. As if in slow motion, I saw my middle knuckle bust open his lower lip before the lower row of his front teeth broke away. Next, the rest of my fist connected fully and not only broke the man's jaw but even ripped its left joint from the connection to his skull. He wasn't even able to scream anymore. His eyes grew as wide as saucers before they lost their light, and his limbs became slack. He dropped to his knees, his body fell back, and he lay there on the street without even twitching.

I watched in perverse admiration as, right underneath the man's left ear, where my punch had destroyed his jaw joint, a swelling bulge formed that suddenly burst open to paint the asphalt red.

The seconds I spent watching that grotesque spectacle were enough for the last remaining attacker to make his move. Now I was the one who received a powerful blow to my temple that left me in a daze. I fell to the ground, right next to the guy I just knocked out, where I was now bombarded with kicks that were persistently aimed at my head. When one of them finally made it through my raised arms that tried to shield me, I could barely get my bearings again. My resistance was broken.

Before I could do anything, the guy's face was suddenly in front of me, right next to his fist holding the syringe as he took aim. I saw it come at me. I tried to grab his arm and stop its descent, but I was too out of it and reached right past it, grabbing nothing but air when I felt the thing enter my neck right above my left shoulder.

I felt the effect immediately as I became very tired very fast. Before I ultimately lost the battle and my eyes closed, I felt him grab my leg and pull me away.

When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I noticed was the smell. It smelled damp and moldy. As I shook my head to try and remember what happened, I felt the pain shoot through my body and groaned. My knee was killing me! My right eye wouldn't open for some reason. It felt as if something was pressing onto it, or as if it was thick and glued shut. My nose was also stuffy, so I had to breathe through my mouth.

Then I saw Mom, sitting slumped over in a cheap metal chair, with her chin pressed to her chest and her eyes closed. Her hands and legs were zip-tied to that chair. When I tried to get up and get her out of that chair, I finally noticed that I was zip-tied to a similar chair as well. I tried to move my arms and test the restraints, but my right hand hurt even more than my knee and was swollen to almost twice its normal size.

I became desperate, but, no matter how much I tried, the pain from the zip-ties cutting into my skin was too great to effectively struggle against them.

I looked around the dimly lit room. Though, it wasn't a room, as I now recognized, it was more like some kind of hall. Maybe an abandoned hangar, or a storage facility. Jim was nowhere to be seen, so they must have left him in the car. I prayed they left him there because they didn't need him, and not because he was already dead.