Monsters

Asher - Age 16: Fault

Asher sighed as he walked out of the counseling room, feeling lighter than he'd ever felt in his sixteen years of life.

His counselor had insisted for years that what had happened to him hadn't been his fault. For some reason, today it'd clicked. 

It wasn't his fault. 

What had happened to Asher had been horrible, painful, shameful, but it wasn't his fault. It hadn't happened because he was bad. It hadn't happened because he'd been too loud, too needy, too anything.

It wasn't Asher's fault, it was his.  Asher's father. It had been his fault.

It had been his fault for touching Asher. His fault for passing him around to the other males as a reward. Or an incentive. 

Fathers were supposed to protect their kids, not be the ones the kids needed to be protected from. They were supposed to kill any adult that touched their kid, not jerk off while they were violated. 

It'd been five years, and the memories still woke Asher up sometimes, screaming and thrashing in his bed, fighting against phantom hands he'd never been able to stop, bombarded by memories of his small body being ripped apart, his joints dislocating as he fought the cruel fingers bruising his flesh.  

But it wasn't Asher's fault. 

As he shut the office door and turned, his eyes met Lucinda's, the woman that had saved him from that nightmare. 

And now, because of her, he was safe and his father was only a memory. 

"Good session, I take it?" Lucinda smiled warmly at him, her glamour nearly perfect. If he hadn't known she was really a young woman, he'd never have seen beyond the magic that suggested her curly brown hair was white and her smooth skin was wrinkled. 

"Yeah, it was, Aunt Lucinda," he teased, knowing that the humans they walked past on the way to the car would see the pair of them as a teenage boy with his elderly aunt or grandmother.  

 He knew she used the glamour to protect herself, just like he used his tough-guy persona to protect himself, and Asher could respect that. 

"Good, good, I'm glad," she said, opening the car and sliding in. She glanced at him as he buckled and said, "If you ever want to talk about it out side of counseling..." 

"I know. Thanks," he said, voice thick. 

But that's not going to happen. 

He knew she felt guilty for not getting him out earlier, even though she'd literally freed him the day she found out. He didn't want to burden her with any of the grisly details. 

Besides, even though he knew it was an irrational fear, part of him was scared she'd think less of him somehow if she knew the whole truth. And she already knew more than anybody else except his counselor, Jackie, and his best friend Bram.  

Bram.

Even though he hated himself for it, just thinking about his best friend sent butterflies through his stomach. 

And he could only imagine Bram's reaction to Jackie's new assignment for Asher. He easily pictured Bram rolling his eyes and saying Counselor Jackass was an idiot. 

But Jackie the Jackass had been right many times before, so Asher intended to follow her advice. If it worked, maybe he'd tell Bram about it later. 

The goal of this new, ongoing assignment was for Asher to start being aware of what made him feel good, to find pleasure in his own body instead of associating it with powerlessness and pain. Food, exercise, sleep, laying in the sun, taking a bath--he'd been given the homework to focus on how his body felt during activities he enjoyed. 

Oh, and masturbation, let's not forget that little gem. 

Asher still couldn't believe that suggestion. Just the thought made him feel sick to his stomach. 

Most of the time he tried to pretend nothing existed above his knees and below his navel. He hated looking at himself, caring for himself, even cleaning himself. It all brought back too many memories, memories of pain and blood and shame. 

Rancid breath burning his lungs. Red, merciless eyes getting off on his pain. 

He shuddered involuntarily at the triggered memory, feeling his heart rate increase and his breathing grow shallow. 

Find something to ground yourself, Asher ordered. He was done having panic attacks. The last one had been the last one. 

Lucinda glanced at him and waved her hand, a pack of warhead candy materializing in her outstretched palm.  

Asher took it without question and shoved three candies in his mouth, focusing on the intense sensation burning his tongue rather than the thoughts trying to drown him. 

It took a few minutes and another mouth full of candy before he felt in control again, but it worked. 

Jackass had been right yet again, so Asher would try to follow the woman's advice. At least some of it.