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Salted Wound by Sia

We've Only Just Begun by The Carpenters

Orlando, Florida

"It's good to see you again, Stavros," Dr. Lekkas murmured as he shook hands with his former patient. "Although I do wish it had been under better circumstances."

"You and me both, Dr. Lekkas." Stavros' smile didn't reach his eyes.

The older man observed the billionaire as Stavros took his usual seat at the couch, his face impassive, his back straight and his entire body still. Even when Stavros had been in his teens, he had been painfully correct and restrained.

Damn Edith and Giorgio Manolis for this, Dr. Lekkas thought with unusual anger. He only needed to look at Stavros' unreadable gaze to know that even now, the effects of the couple's appallingly selfish ways had not faded over time.

Allowing a full minute to pass, Dr. Lekkas then asked quietly, "Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Stavros?"

Again, that smile.

It had been there the first time they had met, Stavros required by the court to receive therapy because the one time that he had given in to his mother's request to stay over in her apartment, Stavros had woken up to Edith standing next to his bed, leaning over him, a pillow on her hands.

Edith's lawyers had skillfully managed to make light of the situation, but everyone who knew of it had seen the incident for what it was. An attempt to murder.

And Stavros had known it, too.

"What do you feel about what happened?"

"I feel nothing, Dr. Lekkas." A calm voice, too mature for one who wasn't even eighteen. "It was exactly as her lawyers said, wasn't it? A temporary lapse of sanity due to stress." The boy looked at him. "You think the same too, don't you, sir?"

You think the same, too, don't you, sir? A single sentence that revealed two things. One was that Stavros Manolis was still suffering from shock and possibly post—traumatic stress disorder. Second was that Stavros, even though he looked like a man already, was still a child, and he wanted to believe that no mother would ever desire to murder her own son.

Instead of answering, Dr. Lekkas changed the subject. "I'd like to talk you about the possibility that you're suffering from post—traumatic stress disorder."

When he was done speaking, Stavros only nodded. "I understand, sir." And there was something about the way the boy spoke that told Dr. Lekkas he did. Stavros had understood Dr. Lekkas didn't want to hurt him with the truth, and that was that his mother had been tempted to kill him.

They continued to meet over the years until Stavros was twenty—one years old, which was the last year required of him by the court to attend therapy.

Stavros had grown into a fine young man, one Dr. Lekkas was proud of. He saw Stavros as a son he never had, and on the last day of their meeting, Dr. Lekkas asked gruffly, "How do you feel about yourself now?"

He had asked the question because it had been the one thing that Stavros refused to speak of, not even once in the dozens of meetings they had.

In response, Stavros gave him the smile Dr. Lekkas had come to despair of. That smile, Dr. Lekkas had come to know, hid a great wealth of pain.

"I thank you for your concern, Dr. Lekkas, but you don't have to worry about me. I'm 21 now. I'm old enough to know what I'm doing, old enough to understand that nothing can be taken for granted."

And that was when Dr. Lekkas had known he had failed. "Son…" The word slipped out before he could stop himself. He had never called Stavros that before.

A mask slipped over Stavros' face, and Dr. Lekkas knew that Stavros was as good as rejecting him. After this, after his slip, he was also sure he would never see Stavros again. Because that was how Stavros coped.

He said abruptly, "I want to tell you a story before you go." It's my gift for you, son. He spoke the words in his mind, in his heart, and hoped that one day Stavros would choose to accept it.

Stavros nodded.

"I had a patient once, he was a lot younger than you when you first came. About twelve, if I recall correctly. He suffered from severe parental abuse and one night – this incident was what caused Social Services to take him away – he saw his father bearing down on him with a knife in his hand. A witness told me that when she saw the father, the look in his eye told her that he really was going to kill his own son."

When he didn't continue, Stavros asked flatly, "And?"

"The child closed his eyes," Dr. Lekkas answered simply.

Stavros sucked in his breath. "But he didn't die?"

Dr. Lekkas looked at Stavros straight in the eye. "The answer's immaterial. When the child closed his eyes, he no longer cared. He had chosen to die." He took a deep breath. "It's pre—built in us to expect our parents' love, and when that's taken away, it cripples us. It destroys our sense of identity. It makes us question ourselves – do we deserve to live even when the very people who created us don't want us?"

Stavros' face had whitened. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because one day, I'm hoping that someone will make you realize that just because a man and a woman have successfully created a baby together – it doesn't make them parents. And if two such people don't end up loving their children – it doesn't mean everyone will be the same."

Stavros had not returned to his office after that.

Until now.

"Do you remember the last words you told me, Dr. Lekkas?" Stavros asked, and still that smile was playing on his lips.

Dr. Lekkas nodded. "Have you found such a person, Stavros?"

Stavros didn't answer, but the silence was telling.

"When most people think of PTSD," Dr. Lekkas murmured, "they usually think of people screaming, people having nightmares. But you know one little—known symptom of it?"

Stavros raised a brow.