20 years ago. The study, Murdoch Residence
Carl Murdoch frowned, staring back at the green hopeful eyes of his granddaughter, and he wondered for a mont if he heard her wrong. But knowing the young teen enough, he knew it wasn’t a mistake. That yes, she did ask to undergo psychoanalysis Therapy.
"It’s a treatnt thod--" she started to explain when he paused and failed to answer. "Yes, I know what Psychoanalysis is, Darling. But why?" Carl asked, slightly concerned.
"I believe that my fears--" she explained, giving him a knowing look. Yes, he was well aware of her fears. Unexplained. Roots unknown even by them. Her fear of people, strangers, her fear of sleeping alone, her lack of trust.
"..are because of repressed mories." she continued, and he could see where she was heading. What she wanted to ask him, and he felt differently about it. He didn’t want her to.
Carl leaned forward and intertwined his hands together on top of the table. "These fears--they’re repressed for a reason, dear." He replied, tone filled with patience, trying to make her see his point of view that so mories are not ant to be rembered.
Sam’s eyes widened in surprise, "You know of them?" She asked him, and he shook his head. He wished he knew, but at the sa ti, he didn’t. He just wanted to protect her, it was her mind after all that caused her years of mutism, and he didn’t want her to regress to all those years. She was getting so much better; other than occasional insomnia, the shyness, and the distrust, she was doing so much better than all those years. He didn’t need her to be perfect; nobody was, after all.
Her eyes narrowed at him, scrutinizing his face. She had always been good at telling when they were lying to her; she had morized all their facial features after all. She could see that he wasn’t lying, but she could also tell that he wasn’t telling her the whole truth either.
Carl sighed, knowing she wasn’t fully convinced with his answer. "When you were young, it had always been a struggle putting you to bed. But, there was a particular ti when you were five that you refused to sleep. You kept insisting on the monsters. We checked under the bed, we checked behind the closet doors----like what parents do with their kids, he said, rembering.
"You refused to believe us, cried for hours, refused to stop--- your Nana and I had a fright. You just won’t stop...kept saying ’the monsters in my room’." he shared, scowling at the mory of her sobbing, her little finger gripping on his pajamas and refusing to go back to sleep. But what bothered him most on that episode was that the next morning she didn’t rember any of it.
Sam furrowed her brows together and shook her head to say she doesn’t rember any of that. However, she was quite familiar with the crippling feeling of fear. And sotis it still happens.
The usual kind expression on her grandfather’s face shifted, and his jaw tightened. "I don’t know what it is, but it may not be worth rembering. It’s better that you forgot about them; I don’t want the monsters tucked away in your mind taking over your life", he said, firmly stating he will not consent.
Sam balled her fists, feeling her nails digging to her skin. "They already do!" she snapped, and the loudness of her voice surprised her grandfather.
She felt like she wasn’t being heard.
She felt like nobody was listening.
And so, she raised her voice, hoping he’ll hear.
But worse of all, she hated the fact that he knew all along...about the monsters.
His wide eyes watched her, shocked at her sudden reaction. But he stood his ground, as much as he encouraged and supported her decisions, this one he could not. "They are not worth rembering." He insisted, fearing the possibility of her regressing.
The 13 year old felt sick in her stomach, emotions running amok within her like a raging sea. "Then why did my mind force to forget it?!" she asked, frustrated and confused. She needed soone to tell her, she needed for soone to give her an answer. But even he couldn’t give her that, they both knew.
She felt angry, so much so that she felt it in her bones---it hurt that he knew sothing all along. But didn’t say a word after so many years. But at the back of her mind, logic whispered, ’could you bla him? You are but a child.’
Sam bit her lip, and she gasped, feeling the burning in her chest. "Grandad, I want to rember and know them...these monsters!" She stated, clenching her jaw. Her hand found its way to her chest, and she gripped against her shirt tightly, needing to hold onto sothing, anything. "Monsters, that have ruled over my life! Pulled back constantly. Every. Single. Ti." she said, smacking her chest with her hand each ti. "Monsters, I fear", she added, panting for breath as tears stread down her cheeks.
If this were a thesis defense, she would have failed it, she thought. She wasn’t supposed to lose it; she was supposed to keep her cool and defend it. But her emotions overwheld her. The need to know was too strong. The want not to be afraid, thundered within her.
She took a step forward; she stood her ground. "I won’t be pulled back by these fears anymore---fears I don’t even understand!" She exclaid.
"I want to know them. I want to face them. I want to na them. So, I can decide--- if these monsters are worth being afraid of!" She yelled, nose stuffed and eyes red. Her heart was hamring against her chest. And she knew that even then, she was still afraid.
Sam gasped, looking straight into his eyes. "I want to be more, grandad," she said, almost pleading, tears soaking her blotchy cheeks.
Monica stood by the foot of the door, she had heard her granddaughter shout a few monts ago, and she decided to see what caused it. Only to witness the young girl breaking in front of his husband, her body shaking. And she knew, she only wanted to be understood---the frailty of a genius, she thought.
"I can’t be more if I’m soooo afraid." the redhead said, voice shaking. She knows the possibility of what she was asking may result in sothing worse.
"Sam--" Carl started, unsure if he should consent. She wanted it so bad, but she was so young, so innocent, so naive.
"I want to be... ", Sam confessed, almost in a whisper. "All these ti, I don’t think--- I’ve been , at all."
"I don’t think..." She added, gesturing to her chest, "..this is.... I don’t think I’m supposed to be afraid---of the World." she said, her eyes noticing the new presence in the room, standing at the foot of the door, with tears in her own eyes, Monica.
"I think I am supposed to be more." She said, wistful, at the sa ti certain of her words. She wiped her tears and looked back again at her Grandad and then to the other presence in the room, Monica.
The older woman had tears in her eyes, and she understood what Sam wanted. She understood what she needed. Monica turned to Carl and said in a commanding tone the redhead had never heard before.
"Give her what she wants."
Then she turned to Sam, with a small smile, "How about so tea and biscuits?" she offered, knowing the Brit in her would find comfort in it. The redhead nodded, and the two walked out of the Study and went to the kitchen.
Carl Murdoch walked in the kitchen minutes later, his eyes resting on the teen sipping so camomile tea. The British seemingly engraved in her, and the three enjoyed a comfortable silence. Sam knew she was heard, and for now, it was enough.
"You’re only 13", Carl spoke, breaking the silence. She turned to him; she could see the worry, the concern.
"You were so young, almost 4 when they just dropped you off our porch. Didn’t explain why; that was a few months after your mum and dad died. We thought, maybe they couldn’t raise you properly---your brother was 14 then, he was sent to Boarding School." he shared; looking back, he could still rember it like it was yesterday.
"We were happy to have you, of course. But, you were so far away from your ho, and your brother--you couldn’t grow up with him, and he was your Family," he added sadly, and she listened to him every word.
They locked eyes for a second or two, "Then we learned about the Selective Mutism---" he continued, but he didn’t know the right words to say next.
"They didn’t want because I was defective. I was a disgrace." Sam said, causing the couple to frown. "They just didn’t understand." He tried to ease the pain.
"It’s okay. I understand." She told them, as her cousin said, she was the disgraced child of the Fredricksen’s.
Carl sighed. "Do you really want Dr. Martin to treat you?" He asked.
"Yes." She answered, hopeful.
"It would be like digging a graveyard, Darling", he advised, knowing even if he refused her now. She was smart enough to know that she only had to wait five years till she turned legal, and she could do whatever she wanted.
"I’m not afraid of the skeletons, Gran", Sam said bravely. Carl smiled sadly at this, "It’s not skeletons I’m concerned about. It’s the possibility that while you’re digging down, sothing may be digging up..." He advised, letting the rest to her genius mind.
...and pull you down.
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