that clarity, but it made working with her a challenge.
Of course, if h e’d wanted safe, he could have taken the job his old college roommate had once offered: milking rattlesnakes for their venom.
He glanced up. Morgan never wore her mask of civility when they were alone together—she respected him too much for that. But sometimes the way she looked at him, eyes devoid of emotion, dead to humanit y . . . made it difficult to remember she was a person in need like his other patients. Nick worked mainly with newly returned soldiers struggling with PTSD, and they were often just as deadly as Morgan, some of them even more out of control than she was. “Why do you think anyone might be driven to end their life?”
She scowled at his retreat into a more normal psychologist-patient power paradigm. They both knew this was anything but a normal counseling session and that he wasn’t the one with the power here.
Then she shrugged. “Okay, I’ll play along. I’ve watched their videos, seen their online suicide notes and journals. Read what other kids say about them. Seems like i t’s always about bullies or broken hearts or not fitting in.”
“But you don’t buy that.”
“Of course not. No one can hurt you like family. Why isn’t anyone looking at the family, the parents, the people in charge?”
Nick noted her use of present tense. “Is that how you felt when you were with your father?”
Morgan didn’t experience or express emotion the same as the 98 percent of the population who weren’t psychopaths like she was. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have feelings.
The sadistic bastard who was her father had forced her to partner with him in his brutal killings at such a very young age. Anyone would have been warped by that. Nick feared it might be too late to repair the damage her father had done to Morga n’s psyche, but he had to respect her for trying.
She took a moment to choose her words. Not because she was worried about shocking him—he knew what her father had done, what she had done, in intimate detail—he was way past shocking. No, Morgan prided herself on being as honest as possible during these sessions. Her no-bullshit rule, she called it. Said she didn’t want to waste their time with silly mind games.
It was a sign of respect for Nick, which he appreciated, but even more so a sign of her realization that learning how to control her impulses, how to live in a world populated by her so-called Norms, was the only way she was going to avoid her fathe r’s fate. To Morgan, prison, being under someone els e’s control, trapped, caged, was a fate worse than death.
It gave him hope that someone as damaged as she was realized the importance of change. Not that there was any cure for sociopathy, but he could help her not to kill; he could teach her how to think about other people. The y’d always be objects to be used for her own means, but if she could learn to keep her goals aligned with the rest of society, she could live a long, productive, maybe even happy life. Without killing.
“You saw your father again, didn’t you?” he asked when the silence lengthened.
Even now, with all the progress Morgan had made, the man still had a powerful hold over her. Made sense. H e’d created Morgan, shaped her psyche, molded her until she would obey him without thought or hesitation.
She didn’t answer, but the way she clasped both hands around one knee, as if resisting the impulse to pull her legs up to her chest and curl up into a fetal ball, told him everything he needed to know.
“When I was with my father,” she finally answered his earlier question, “it was like I was two people. One inside my body just living—eating, breathing, sleeping, doing. And one outside looking down, judging my performance. Was I acting excited enough to satisfy him? Did I look like I was enjoying myself as he tortured one of his victims? Did I rush in to help and join in on the fun fast
Of course, if h e’d wanted safe, he could have taken the job his old college roommate had once offered: milking rattlesnakes for their venom.
He glanced up. Morgan never wore her mask of civility when they were alone together—she respected him too much for that. But sometimes the way she looked at him, eyes devoid of emotion, dead to humanit y . . . made it difficult to remember she was a person in need like his other patients. Nick worked mainly with newly returned soldiers struggling with PTSD, and they were often just as deadly as Morgan, some of them even more out of control than she was. “Why do you think anyone might be driven to end their life?”
She scowled at his retreat into a more normal psychologist-patient power paradigm. They both knew this was anything but a normal counseling session and that he wasn’t the one with the power here.
Then she shrugged. “Okay, I’ll play along. I’ve watched their videos, seen their online suicide notes and journals. Read what other kids say about them. Seems like i t’s always about bullies or broken hearts or not fitting in.”
“But you don’t buy that.”
“Of course not. No one can hurt you like family. Why isn’t anyone looking at the family, the parents, the people in charge?”
Nick noted her use of present tense. “Is that how you felt when you were with your father?”
Morgan didn’t experience or express emotion the same as the 98 percent of the population who weren’t psychopaths like she was. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have feelings.
The sadistic bastard who was her father had forced her to partner with him in his brutal killings at such a very young age. Anyone would have been warped by that. Nick feared it might be too late to repair the damage her father had done to Morga n’s psyche, but he had to respect her for trying.
She took a moment to choose her words. Not because she was worried about shocking him—he knew what her father had done, what she had done, in intimate detail—he was way past shocking. No, Morgan prided herself on being as honest as possible during these sessions. Her no-bullshit rule, she called it. Said she didn’t want to waste their time with silly mind games.
It was a sign of respect for Nick, which he appreciated, but even more so a sign of her realization that learning how to control her impulses, how to live in a world populated by her so-called Norms, was the only way she was going to avoid her fathe r’s fate. To Morgan, prison, being under someone els e’s control, trapped, caged, was a fate worse than death.
It gave him hope that someone as damaged as she was realized the importance of change. Not that there was any cure for sociopathy, but he could help her not to kill; he could teach her how to think about other people. The y’d always be objects to be used for her own means, but if she could learn to keep her goals aligned with the rest of society, she could live a long, productive, maybe even happy life. Without killing.
“You saw your father again, didn’t you?” he asked when the silence lengthened.
Even now, with all the progress Morgan had made, the man still had a powerful hold over her. Made sense. H e’d created Morgan, shaped her psyche, molded her until she would obey him without thought or hesitation.
She didn’t answer, but the way she clasped both hands around one knee, as if resisting the impulse to pull her legs up to her chest and curl up into a fetal ball, told him everything he needed to know.
“When I was with my father,” she finally answered his earlier question, “it was like I was two people. One inside my body just living—eating, breathing, sleeping, doing. And one outside looking down, judging my performance. Was I acting excited enough to satisfy him? Did I look like I was enjoying myself as he tortured one of his victims? Did I rush in to help and join in on the fun fast
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