See No Evil

One

How would you kill him?

I don't know.

Think about it. He hurt you. He made you touch him. He humiliated you. You must want him to pay.

Yeah, but . . .

You would never really kill him. I know that. But you need to get over your anger, release the rage. The only way to be free of him is to picture him without any power over you. Visualize the one person you hate the most in the world dead. Can you?

Yes.

What does he look like?

He's sitting at his desk.

And you walk in . . . what does he say to you?

"Come here. Kneel. Now."

What do you do?

I go. I have no choice. They'll send me away . . . I've lived on the streets. I've been to juvie. It's worse than sucking his dick.

Picture yourself walking toward the desk. This time, you're going to say no. This time, you're going to pay him back for touching you. For making you touch him. How?

I want him to know exactly what it feels like.

And?

I want to cut his dick off and shove it down his throat. Let him suck on it.

Good. Very good. Picture him choking on his penis whenever you get angry or upset. That's the first step to getting rid of the rage, the anger. To heal and become normal.

I'll never be normal.



Emily Chandler Montgomery would never be normal.

She sat in her idling Volkswagen Bug and stared at the looming house in front of her. She didn't even want to pull into the garage, as if it would swallow her and she'd never escape. She hated coming home.

Home. What a joke. She had no home. It had disappeared when her father died. All she had was a house of many rooms, none of which welcomed her, except for her tiny sanctuary upstairs.

But where else could she go? She'd run away, and that hadn't worked. Living on the streets was impossible, especially for a pampered, spoiled rich kid like her.

At least that's what her shrink had told her.

And in many ways--most ways--it was true. She didn't want to live on the street and sell her body. Because out there these were her choices: whore or gutter rat. Emily liked her bedroom, her spa, the Olympic-size swimming pool where she could swim laps until her arms ached and her lungs gasped for air. The clothes, the food, the roof.

If only Victor was gone, she could live in the castle without fear. Why had her mother married Judge Victor Montgomery? He was a creep back when they were dating, and he was worse now. A fake. A hypocrite.

I hate you I hate you I hate you!

She pounded her fists on the steering wheel until her hands ached. The rage circulating in her blood made her ears hot, her sight dim. She wanted to break something, but the words of her shrink battled against the anger.

Take a deep breath. Again. Let it out slowly. Focus on your calm place. Picture a blank canvas. Now paint your oasis, the place you feel safe. Paint that in the canvas of your mind. Put yourself there, in the picture.

Emily released the car's clutch and slowly drove into the garage. She pretended she floated in the middle of the sea, nothing around her. The ocean was calm, peaceful, the water a brilliant blue, the sky orange, red, violet in the setting sun.

Her oasis.

As Emily parked her car next to Victor's Jaguar, her safe place disappeared. She held her keys in her hand and considered running them along the side of his precious sports car. But they'd know she did it and find a way to punish her. Make her spend another weekend in juvie. She could hear her mother's cold, disapproving tone. "It's for your own good, Emily. Your antics have embarrassed the family yet again."

When you get angry, you let your enemies have control. Take a deep breath. Picture those who torment you getting what's coming to them. Justice for you and everyone like you. Write about it. Talk about it. Get it out of your system. When you keep your feelings inside, anger wins. Your enemy wins.