"I learned to fly against my will."

The words left my lips, leaving behind nothing more than a bitter taste on my tongue. I stared at the still body before me, lying in a pool of blood seeping out of him. The knife I held in my hands, never leaving me, stayed by my side, unlike the companions I once held close.

The cries of my mother sent a million thoughts coursing through my mind, but I didn't want to face them.

"It's over," I whispered, a tear cascading down my right cheek, leaving behind a trail of warmth I needed. "Goodbye, mother."

Like a thief in the night, bloody and armed, I ran through "my home" in search for the exit with my heart in my hands like a lost child looking for their parents. But I didn't plan to go back to them. I wanted a new life and chance to start over in a place full of opportunities, but I had no idea where to start.

"I'm not sorry, you bastard."

My first victory against the man who held me captive for the first ten years of my life and made me learn things I shouldn't have hung over my head. For the first time, I felt alive, like a being less sinister than I believe myself to be. Despite the fact that my father was most likely dead, I was eased by a sense of relief layered over years of vengeance and pain.

A taste of it is all it takes to make me yearn for it again. The sight of spilled blood on the tiled floors of "my home" haunted me and continued to. The sobs of my mother as she wept for the loss of the man who hurt her echoed in my head without a sign of ending.

With one last look at the "home" I believed was the best, I let out a sigh for the first time that evening.

"One for sorrow
Two for mirth
Three for a wedding
and Four for a birth
Five for silver
Six for gold
and Seven for a secret never to be told."

The poem passed through my mind as every letter of ever word hit me one last time.

"It's like you taught me, Father," I mumbled to myself, holding the smile on my face for as long as I can.

A bitter chuckle left me as the mist from my lips dissipated before my eyes one last time. A glance was all I needed yet it felt as though I wasn't going to be free.

"Have a nice life."

"Are you okay, Mr. Roman?"

The loud whisper brings me out of the brief moments of rest I could gather, startling myself more than I think it should My glare rises from the pair of my pale hands sitting in my lap to meet the concerned stare of Dr. Theodore, waiting for my response.

"I fell asleep for a moment, but I should be fine now," I assure him, faking another smile for him to relax. "Thanks for asking."

He nods in response and returns his attention to the notepad in his hands, filled with questions to ask me, I assume. My dart all over the room in search of something to hold my attention before I fall asleep again. Or until I can return home. There's nothin around except bookshelves lining the walls, holding the books I've read before.

My gaze comes to rest on the cup filled with the beverage he drinks every time we have a session. Its quote hits me as I register it letter for letter, word for word.

"You are a dangerous collection of all my favorite things. An old soul, a heart of gold and hands that make my body sing."

My mind begins to ponder on the several possibilities of what meaning that quote could hold for him. There could be several hidden behind one like that. regardless of the true meaning it holds to the one who said it.

It can be that the sexual desires haunting his mind are consuming him much like the darkness of my mind. However, he could have solved that problem in a matter of time by finding himself a lover. Shall I be so frank about a daunting matter such as that? He will never hear those words come from me while I'm sober.

It can also be that he seeks someone who adheres to the few standards, but for someone like him, they can mean the opposite of what he says. There are those like hi who may want to be mysterious and intriguing, but that gets old as time passes by.

"If you have something on your mind, should you not share it with me as your therapist?"

My attention shifts from the cup he once held to the man towering over me with a hint of a devilish grin in his eyes. His smile brings back a few memories I once enjoyed reminiscing in.

Judging by his composure, I find it fitting to assume he is uncomfortable with the situation I've placed him in. I can't say I won't agree with him yet it feels better to place him in an uncomfortable situation. Why is that? Can it be that I enjoy watching people get hurt?

"Again I ask you, what are you thinking of?"

He kneels before me on one knee as if he's proposing to me. The only thing he's missing is a ring for me to agree to marry him. Although, I doubt things will work out between us due to my being a nutcase in reality.

"I was thinking about a lot," I reply, my grey eyes meeting his bright, electric blue ones, almost plumbing the depths of my soul. I continue, "Shall we stay like this and talk then?"

The corners of my lips lift in brief joy, almost appearing as though I'm content with the arrangement. Beneath the lights hanging over me, he seems more attractive than he did when he sat across from me in that chair of his.

He's more attractive than I'll ever admit, but the only thing that catches my attention the most is his eyes. They entrance me to the point where I can't seem to look away from them even if I want to. His appearance is alluring, I'll admit. He has pulled me into another one of his traps without much effort. How foolish I am.