Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 232

JAX'S POV

The clock ticks too loud in this room. It always does.

There’s something about the silence between each tick that makes my skin itch, like it’s daring me to say something, to fill the air with words I don’t want to give.

I’m sitting on the same couch I’ve sat on for weeks now....brown leather, a little too soft, like it’s trying to trick me into comfort. Mrs. Roberts sits across from me, her legs crossed neatly, pen already poised above that damn notebook she’s been scribbling in since the second session. I still haven’t figured out what she writes when I don’t say a word. Probably *“resistant”....*Probably *“volatile.”*

Maybe it's *“hopeless.”*

Every time I come here, I tell myself I’ll try. That I owe Xander that much. And I do try....at least at first. I sit here, I breathe, I even answer the easy questions. But then she starts pushing, peeling back layers I’ve stapled shut, looking for the rot I’ve worked so damn hard to bury.

And I get it. That’s the whole point of this. Healing, digging....talking. But how do you heal something you can’t even look at without wanting to crawl out of your own skin?

The first session, I remember feeling a flicker of hope. Like maybe this could work. Like maybe I could finally breathe without feeling like I’m choking on smoke. But now? Now it just feels like drowning in slow motion. Every question she asks drags me deeper. Every “insight” feels like a knife twisting somewhere tender.

I drag a hand down my face, stare at the small crack in the wall behind her....my fault.

I’d been trying, I really was, but then she said something that hit too close and I lost control. I'd been pacing and my fist went through the plaster before I could think, and now there’s a neat little patch where they covered it up.

Xander already worries too much. If he knew I’d snapped in *here,* the one place that’s supposed to fix me, he’d try to carry that too.

And I can’t let him.

So I just sit here, pretending this is helping. Pretending I’m okay with her questions and that I’m not unraveling in tiny, quiet ways that no one but me can see. She clears her throat softly, eyes kind in that way that makes me want to look anywhere but at her.

I’m here for Xander, not because I believe this works. Not because I think I deserve to get better. Just because he still believes I can.

She asks me how my week’s been so far. Her voice is steady in that practiced way that’s supposed to make people open up. My foot’s been tapping since I sat down, it’s useless trying to stop it now. The rhythm’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

I shrug, eyes flicking toward the blinds. “It’s been okay.”

She hums, pen scratching something down. Then I remember Xander, his voice telling me to stop holding everything in, to share more and quit hesitating. I exhale through my nose and add, “Been a little rough, actually.”

“Rough how?” she asks, like she’s testing the temperature before stepping into deeper water. My gaze drifts to the wall I punched. I mutter. “I’m sorry about that again.”

I’d already apologized the last time, but looking at it now, it hits me harder. The shame crawls under my skin. I felt really shitty about it. Even thought about quitting this whole thing. She shakes her head, not unkindly. “Jax, this space isn’t about being perfect. It’s about letting things out. You were expressing something...granted, not in a way I’d recommend....but you were still expressing it.”

I glance down at my hand, flexing my fingers. And suddenly I’m back in our apartment, Xander’s hand wrapped around mine gently. He didn’t say much after our talk at the restaurant. Just cleaned the bruises. And later, when I thought he’d fallen asleep, he pulled me closer, held on like he was scared I’d vanish by morning.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat.

Mrs. Roberts closes her notebook, sets it aside. “I’ve been doing this long enough to recognize when someone’s carrying more than they’re ready to admit,” she says softly. “And you are. I know how hard this must be....sitting across from someone you don’t know, being asked to dig up things you’ve probably buried deep. I’m not trying to rush you, Jax. But I am curious about the part of you that showed up that first day. Because that version of you feels like he’s been fading. And I’m wondering what pushed him away.”

I could tell her about the way some days, I can’t tell if I’m healing or just getting better at pretending I am. But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. My chest feels like there’s a fist around it.

So I shut down instead.

She nods, not surprised. “All right,” she says quietly. “Then let’s go back to something we touched on last time. Your strong preference for ‘Jax’ over Jackson. You said it’s tied to the orphanage. To the Father.”

My pulse spikes. I’m already shaking my head before she finishes. All I told her was that my parents are dead and I spent some years in an orphanage. That’s it. And somehow, she turned that into a goddamn excavation site... dissecting and prying open old bones I didn’t even know were still buried in me.

Normally, I don’t think about any of that shit. I keep it locked away. I’m still surprised I ever talked about it with Xander....how the hell did he even get me there? Because sitting here now, it doesn’t even feel like it happened to me. It’s like it’s someone else’s story, someone else’s pain.

She’d tried to get me to describe it. What it was like living there. But that whole period of my life....the walls, the damn prayers, the way Father Elias’ eyes lingered too long....it’s all defined by one thing. One memory that stains everything else black. I avoid it like it’s poison.

I drag a hand through my hair, the motion rough and almost angry. “I don’t wanna talk about that,” I mutter.

Her voice stays calm. “Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

I can feel her watching me, trying to find the right words to pry me open again. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I can almost hear Xander’s voice again saying I can’t keep running from it

“Jax,” she says gently, “....you’ve built walls for good reason. They keep you safe.”

She pauses, studying me for a beat before continuing, “But in here, those same walls make it hard for me to reach you. And I can’t walk through something I can’t see.”

I stare at the floor, my knee bouncing.

“Unfortunately,” she goes on, voice still calm, “....therapy isn’t magic. It’s a partnership. You bring the truth, however messy or painful it is, and I help you make sense of it. Otherwise, you’ll keep leaving here carrying the same weight you came in with.”

She lets that settle before adding, softer now, “And that would be letting the silence win. It might feel safer, but it also keeps the pain in charge.”

I look up at her then, the words digging somewhere deep.