A Guilty Mind Read Online Free PDF Page B

seemed heavier than ever.
    â€œGeorge, how do you see your future?” Dr. Michael had asked in their final session.
    Averting his eyes, George remained silent, afraid to give an answer, afraid to speak at all.
    When no response was forthcoming, Dr. Michael said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought that’s why you started coming to me. To change how things are, to make things better, to have a chance at a happy life.”
    He frowned. “I don’t deserve a happy life.”
    â€œThat’s not you talking, George. What’s happened these last few weeks? You said things have changed. What things? Why have you changed your mind about coming forward?”
    â€œNothing’s different. It’s for the best.”
    â€œI don’t believe that. Something happened. What is it?”
    â€œNothing,” George said. He rubbed his hands across his thighs. “Just let it go, for God’s sake.”
    The therapist sat back in his chair, stroking his mustache, watching his patient. George couldn’t meet the doctor’s eyes. He folded his arms and clamped his lips into a thin, hard line. A tiny vein pulsed in his temple. “You’re afraid of something, or someone.” Dr. Michael uncrossed his legs and shifted toward him. “Who is it, George? Who are you afraid of?”
    â€œNo one. Goddammit, I’m not afraid of anyone.” He jumped to his feet and stabbed the air in front of the doctor. “Why can’t you just believe that I’ve changed my mind?”
    â€œI think you want to confess, George, so something or someone is causing this,” he said, his eyes never leaving George’s face.
    â€œWell, you’re wrong. You don’t’ know everything, okay?” He gestured wildly, his face reddening. “Why can’t you accept that I don’t want to play your pointless cleansing-­of-­the-­soul game anymore? Why can’t you leave me alone?” George stepped forward, towering over the therapist. Dr. Michael shrank in his chair.
    â€œYou need to calm down, George.”
    â€œJesus! Don’t tell me what to do! For God’s sake, don’t I get enough of that at home? I sure as hell don’t need it from you.” Fists curled tightly, his eyes were dark with fury. Dr. Michael paled but remained in the chair, motionless and silent. George turned away, sweeping a ceramic lamp to the floor, the smashed bits scattering across the floor. Staring at the broken lamp, he felt his anger evaporate. He fell onto the sofa, limp and devastated.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said, words like a moan. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œIt’s okay, George,” Dr. Michael said softly, still gripping the arms of his chair.
    George raised his eyes. “No. It’s not okay and we both know it.”
    â€œIt’s only a lamp,” the doctor said. “But this anger of yours goes back to what I’m saying. This is not an easy thing I’m suggesting, George, and I can’t make you do it, nor do I want to. I’m sorry if you feel pushed by me. I want the decision to be yours. You’re so close. Without this step, it may be difficult for you to overcome your . . .” The doctor seemed to hesitate, as though searching for a word that wouldn’t offend his patient. “Your guilt.”
    George stood awkwardly, a tear slipping from his eye. “I can never be free, Dr. Michael. It’s out of my hands,” he said, his voice empty of the passion it had held only moments earlier. “I’m tired. Time’s up for today, Doc.”
    He’d walked out, nearly knocking into Mrs. Watson. Brushing by her without a word, he’d gone straight to the club and a fifth of the best scotch he could get his hands on. It was not the kind of day or night that made a man proud.
    Less than twenty-­four hours later, seated at the bar between two of his oldest friends, men