Empathy

Prologue

How long have you been in the field?

Almost six years.

This is weird, Lynette thought. She’d spoken to many fellow psychs over the years, but never before as a client.

And where did you stud—

Look, this is entirely peripheral. Lynette Foster, Psy.D., regarded her colleague coldly; seeking help was one thing, but she was not going to be anyone’s case study. Let’s get on with it.

Okay, then. Tell me how it started.

Thank you, Lynette relaxed a bit, consulting her notepad. Case, uh ... one-seven, dash, oh-oh-one, seven-oh-one. Eight-year-old Caucasian female. School reported her as a likely abuse victim. LE suspects her father, but no statements, no evidence, no arrests. When she was brought to me—

Why was she brought to you?

Lynette was really starting to hate this guy. I’ve had good results, she fake-smiled, curtly brushing off the question. When I saw her, she presented in considerable pain in the vaginal area. Despite obvious abuse, she remained completely silent as to who—

Yes, I got that part, said Dr. Bajingan, equally curtly. Talk about her pain.

Lynette almost grabbed her briefcase and walked out, instead crossing her legs defiantly. Her pain, she repeated, soberly. Since the girl had clammed up, I held out my hands to her. She took them in hers, and I looked deeply into her eyes, wishing I could relieve her pain. I then ... Lynette blushed slightly. I, uh, then experienced a sharp, burning sensation in my vaginal area, which gradually subsided. Jes—I mean, 17-001701 smiled, gave me a hug, and left Exam 1 humming to herself.

As if you had ...

Absorbed her pain, yes, Lynette finished.

Hm, Dr. Bajingan grunted, writing on his own notepad. And her second visit?

She presented pain-free and happy. Said she ... Lynette trailed off, tears starting to flow down her face. Said she—that she—that she could now fuck all she wanted and it didn’t hurt anymore. Her words.

Bajingan offered Dr. Foster a tissue, acting for the moment like a human being.

That was the entirety of our second visit, Lynette Foster continued, blotting away the tears. No further contact.

You’re blaming yourself, Bajingan said, still more cold than professional. Even young people have to make their own choices, right or not. She was happy, the choice was hers, and you bear no responsibility for that. Understood?

Lynette felt no better leaving her colleague’s office than going in, despite words that seemed intended to reassure. I’m going to a female psych from now on, she thought bitterly.

Chapter One
The Violation of Jessica

Jessica Engill was a perfectly normal eight-year-old girl, to all appearances. The daughter of a divorced couple, Jessica was enrolled in school under her mother’s name. Her father, who had custody of his daughter for one week every other month, didn’t like that one bit—but he kept that to himself, lest the courts take away what was left of his custody rights.

He’s a good daddy, Jessica thought, except when he’s drinking that awful ‘beer’ stuff.

Rapher Dolent was a good father and husband, until the day his own father—no, get out of my head, Rafe screamed to himself. I don’t want to see that bloody scene ever again.

But he did; over and over. Rafe’s dad’s suicide could only ever disappear in a bottle, so he drank. And drank. And drank. Finally, his wife couldn’t take any more, and the divorce was finalised nearly a year ago. Rafe managed to clean himself up enough to win joint custody of Jessi, but it was a huge, unexpected check that drove him back to drink.

Jeroen Dolent had taken out a massive life insurance policy and had never bothered to tell anyone. Much to Rafe’s surprise, he was the sole beneficiary; once the legal issues over Jerry’s suicide were cleared, Rafe got a phone call from a lawyer he’d never heard of with news he couldn’t believe. He was rich.

Or, more accurately, half-rich. Because Rafe and Stephanie were married when the suicide occurred, the laws of their state mandated that she was entitled to half of the payout.

The suicide. The bitch. The memories. It was too much, and Rafe found the bottle again. Jessi found it harder and harder to deal with her daddy, so Stephanie went back to court and won full custody, with Rafe getting visitation rights.

Barely.

Naturally, the drinking got worse. Rafe just got better at hiding it when he got his week with his daughter.

It was during this visit that Jessi came screaming out of the bath one night. Daddy, daddy, there’s a spider in the bathroom! Kill it! Kill it!!

Rafe sat upright in his favourite armchair, ogling his eight-year-old daughter as she stood there, naked, dripping wet and terrified.

And everything changed.

---

Setting down his beer failed. It fell from the edge of the table onto the carpet as Rafe wobbled over to his daughter, undid his pants, and let his semi-hard cock free in front of her face. Jessi’s jaw fell open in shock just in time for daddy to grab her head and shove his pee-pee into her mouth.

There was no escape; Jessi had to endure what seemed like an eternity as Rafe brutally fucked her face, growling, desperate for release. Still only semi-hard, Rafe didn’t violate his daughter’s throat until he came, flooding it and her mouth with the same seed that created her, forcing the girl to spurt half of his load through her nose.

Finally, he let Jessi go, and his head cleared. The girl wasn’t crying; she was stunned, her mouth open, the remainder of his cum dripping slowly off her bottom lip.

Oh, my god, baby! What have I done? I’m s—

His daughter didn’t stick around to hear the rest. She turned, stomped into her bedroom, and slammed the door.

---

Rafe didn’t so much sleep as pass out, drinking even more than usual out of a profound sense of guilt and shame. He had violated his daughter every bit as much as if he’d raped her. Rafe woke, climbing painfully out of his armchair, his head pounding as he tried to remember the name of the high-fructose breakfast cereal she was munching on, like any other morning.

Hi, daddy, Jessi said as he passed her on his way to some strong, black coffee.

Hi, baby, Rafe answered, trying to sound cheerful.

Mommy will be here soon.

Oh, shit, that’s right, it’s Sunday, Rafe panicked silently. Okay, finish up and go get ready.

Not surprisingly, it was Rafe who spent the most time getting ready: a couple aspirin, a quick shave, Italian shower, hair combed, fresh clothes—well, relatively fresh—breath spray, and a couple more aspirin.

Now, if only he could wash off the guilt …

Go answer the door, honey, Rafe yelled from underneath his pounding head to his daughter at the sound of the doorbell. When he was as close to presentable as he was going to get, Rafe walked to the entryway between his ex and his daughter, turned to Jessi, squatted down with the accompanying creaks and moans, and hugged her, perhaps too tightly. Backing away, Rafe put his hand gently atop Jessi’s head and looked sorrowfully into her eyes. I love you, baby.

I love you too, daddy, came the reply, spoken as always.

Rafe faked a smile. You be a good girl, understand?

I’m always a good girl!

Rafe and his ex barely acknowledged each other as Stephanie took her daughter by the hand, turned, and walked toward her car.

---

That night, Rafe laid off the alcohol. If I’m going to jail, he reasoned, I want my wits about me. Not that he slept; Rafe lay awake all night, waiting for the knock at the door.

Chapter Two
Consequences

Monday came and went. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. No visitors. Rafe was just starting to relax a bit when a loud pounding at his front door made him jump, literally, off the chair.

Rafe’s heart thumped audibly as he looked through the peephole and saw … nothing at all. He cracked open the door, and two young boys stood there, holding newspapers. Rafe expelled a sigh of relief that would’ve been obvious to anyone not concentrating on his sales pitch.

Good morning, sir! The Daily Press has a special offer just for you tod—

Relief notwithstanding, Rafe was not in the mood. Sorry, boys, I get my news online.

There’s more in the print edition that—

Rafe abruptly closed the door, which was not thick enough to keep him from hearing Have a nice day, asshole! from the other side.

---

Lynette sat in Exam 1 across from the pretty young girl who, despite being shot full of medications, was in so much pain that she had to be wheeled in. Case No. 17–001764 was an exotic beauty; latte-skinned, dark-haired, hazel-eyed—as if Rihanna had a nine-year-old daughter.

17–001764 was also, clearly, a rape victim. Like Jessica Engill, she was also not giving up any details.

Another one for Dr. Foster, huh?

Lynette held out her hands, shaking off her reluctance. The girl took them, and looked through her tears into the nice doctor’s eyes.

Those eyes also began to water, and Lynette nearly cried out as a massive wave of pain slammed into her groin, as if a baseball bat had been rammed violently into her vaginal channel, barrel end first. Lynette nearly let go of the girl’s hands …

… but her instincts—both to help and to Do No Harm—kicked in, and Dr. Foster rode out the hellish experience. In her mind’s eye, she imagined the baseball bat being gently extracted; visualised the vaginal tearing healing; saw and felt the perineal tears go away; imagined the blood disappearing. Lynette felt the very real pain peak within her and then finally, mercifully, subside.

Holy shit—if childbirth is like that, she thought wryly, I’m never having kids.

Finally able to open her eyes, Lynette looked into the soul of a young girl who was suddenly pain-free, smiling through her tears. 17–001764 suddenly leapt into the doctor’s arms, gave her an expressive hug, and ran out the door.

Lynette felt the guilt return. What was it that Jessica said? ‘Now I can fuck all I want, and it doesn’t hurt anymore’?

Please, little—she consulted the girl’s chart—please, little Robin, don’t go there.

---

Aw, Christ, dad, a shotgun? Really? You had to go and use a fucking shotgun?! Jesus H. Christ!!

Rafe awoke, shaking and sweaty—and ice cold. The visions were returning; just when he thought maybe, just maybe, he finally could shake off the memory of being the first to see his father’s lifeless body, this nightmare was his most vivid yet.

Like it had just happened, all over again.

Rafe stumbled out of bed and into his study. He opened the liquor cabinet—fuck the beer, I need the real stuff, he thought acidly—grabbed a bottle of single-malt, sat in his executive chair, and promptly fell off the wagon.

---

In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins was playing, somewhere. No, that’s not right, Rafe managed to piece together a coherent thought. The beat’s off, and that’s way too fucking loud. That sounds more like—

The banging resumed.

Like someone at the door. Fuck.

Rafe Dolent found enough strength in his arms and legs to push himself from his chair, the croaking of the black faux leather stabbing via his ears into his pounding head. Walking gingerly to his front door failed when the pounding came yet again. Jesus Fucking Christ, chill, I’m coming, Rafe yelled, sending yet another streak of white-hot pain across his retinas.

Holy shit! Stefani Ellenberg stepped back at the sight that greeted her, never mind the overwhelming smell of alcohol seemingly leaching from her former employee.

Since when do you cuss? Rafe mumbled, leaning on the door jamb. Seeing ‘Stef wih an F’ was the last thing Rafe expected; he was not exactly kind when he quit his job—no, my career—as a physical therapist. It didn’t help that ‘Stef wih an F’ shared a name with his ex; even worse, she looked like a younger version of Stephanie.

Your dad again? Ellenberg didn’t curse much—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t blunt. Rafe winced.

Mostly, he almost replied, but caught himself. I don’t owe her any explanations.

‘Stef wih an F’ didn’t mince words, nor did she come here to waste my time. Dammit, Rafe, you were my best PT. You were this close to your doctorate. Your dad is dead. Okay? He’s dead. Why are you so desperate to join him?

Rafe tried to straighten up in indignation and almost fell over.

Ellenberg softened. Rafe, we love you, okay? We want you to come back. Please?

I don’t need to work, Rafe snarled, and tried to shut his door. ‘Stef wih an F’ straight-armed the attempt.

Maybe you do.

Arrogant bitch, Rafe thought as he watched Ellenberg walk to her car. She’s such an arrogant goddamned bitch.

When she’s right.

Chapter Three
The Violation of Jessica, Part Two

Rafe’s attempts to lay off the booze were not going well. One the one hand, the visions of his father’s suicide were refusing to cooperate. On the other, his week with his daughter was supposed to start today.

Supposed to, he reminded himself. Jessi, it seemed, hadn’t said anything about her last visit, or he’d have been arrested by now. But … but what? Will she make up an excuse? Will she show up anyway?

And why am I more afraid that she will?

---

Dr. Lynette Foster, Psy.D., shook her head in disbelief as she read the file of Case No. 17–001798. Six years old; presented to her physician in significant pain, hymen ruptured, vagina penetrated by object(s) unknown; parents cleared; day-care under investigation but unlikely; victim refuses to identify the cause. Is there something in the water lately? Lynette asked herself aloud, or am I the go-to for SA victims all of a sudden?

The girl sat in Exam 1, groggy from painkillers that weren’t quite effective. Lynette took her stool and sat in front of the girl, who continued to look toward her lap. Extending her hands, Lynette smiled and waited for the girl to take them. When she did, the girl’s expression seemed to change, from daydream to trance, as Lynette took in the dull, throbbing pain from groin to groin. Not unbearable—this time, anyway—Lynette was able to absorb and dispatch the ache, the only physical damage being the girl’s former maidenhood.

Unfortunately for 17–001798, there was nothing Lynette could do about the effects of the drugs. Still unwilling to speak but clearly pain-free, the girl let the kind doctor lead her to the waiting area and her anxious parents. She’s not talking yet, Dr. Foster told the young couple. It may take time for her to process whatever happened to her. Please bring her back to see me when she’s ready, but don’t rush anything. Okay?

Betty, Lynette turned wearily to her receptionist after the family had left. Anything else on my schedule?

Betty consulted her calendar. Nope, all clear.

Good. I’m going the fuck home.

---

Seven weeks of torment ended when Rafe heard the knock on his door—and an entirely new torment began. They’re here. It’s all good. Okay. They’re here. Act normal.

Rafe Dolent hoped his pounding heart wouldn’t betray him when he opened the door. As it turned out, he needn’t have worried—an almost-nine-year-old tornado hit him full force, arms around his neck, a big kiss planted on his cheek.

Daddy!!

I missed you, too, baby, Rafe answered, holding back tears. He and Stephanie barely acknowledged each other as his ex set down their daughter’s suitcase, affected a 180, and returned wordlessly to her car. Her new car, Rafe noticed. Her new Mercedes.

Whatever, bitch. My Mustang GT would kick its ass, Rafe smiled ironically.

At least you taught me about cars, Dad.

---

On this night, Rafe was desperate to stay sober. He’d stocked the refrigerator with soda, as much for him as for Jessi.

REPLACE WITH CHAPTER NUMBER
Closure

Case No. 17–001798 was sitting in Exam 3 when Dr. Foster returned from lunch, and she very nearly threw it back up. The six-year-old appeared almost comatose, and was gurgling a fluid at which Lynette could make a terrible guess.

Lynette dropped her suitcase and ran to the girl, knelt in front of her wheelchair, and grabbed at her tiny hands. Immediately, Lynette was overcome by searing, unforgiving pain, and she let go, falling to one side and curling up into a fetal position on the floor. Grabbing her knees in a desperate need to hug something, Lynette shook uncontrollably at the violence she knew this tiny, tiny girl must’ve experienced.

I can’t do it, Lynette’s mind screamed. I can’t! It’s too much! It’ll kill me!

Slowly regaining her faculties, Dr. Lynette Foster stood—which took several seconds—and wrestled with what she must do, if this girl was to survive whatever evil she had endured. But, what if it kills me? Or both of us? I can’t—

Lynette found a chair and sat down in front of 17–001798. I can’t let her suffer, she completed the thought.

The girl’s hands once again in hers, Lynette let loose with an awful scream as waves and waves of immense pain seemed to slam into her entire body. Somehow, in the midst of hell, she knew she must not squeeze lest she break the young girl’s hands. It was a slight acclimation to the terror, but just enough to navigate its nuances. Okay, concentrate, Lynette began. First—oh, dear God, her rectum. Who the fuck—no, concentrate. Concentrate. The damage; feel the damage heal. Torn walls, healing. Muscles, repairing. Pain, subsiding. That’s it. Okay. One down.

The victim’s vagina was next. Already violated and ‘fixed’, for lack of a better descriptor, it was as if her abuser knew he could take it the next step and pound this poor girl with no relief, and no remorse. Fortunately, she had escaped severe internal damage; her reproductive system would recover. As she had done far too many times now, Lynette walked herself through the healing process.

Two down.

The girl’s throat was next. Once again, she was damned lucky; the pain of violation did not mean serious damage.

Finally, the scalp. Entire clumps of the girl’s hair had been yanked out by the sheer force of her abuse. Lynette took that pain, too, from the girl into her own being, as if it all was her own. Again she screamed, the full force of totality sending her into oblivion.

---

When finally she regained consciousness, the only pain was in Lynette’s neck, stretched unnaturally over the back of the chair in which she had collapsed. Working out the kinks, she stood slowly upright, getting her bearings, and walked into the hallway toward the receptionist. The office was otherwise empty.

Hey, Betty? Where’s the girl?

What girl?

1798. She was in Exam 3.

When I got back, you were in Exam 3 taking a nap, so I let you sleep. No girl that I saw.

You didn’t bring her in?

I didn’t bring anybody in. Betty hesitated. Everything okay?

Lynette scowled and turned back toward Exam 3. The wheelchair was still there. Suddenly alarmed, she nearly ran into her office and pulled the girl’s file. Referring physician, she said out loud. The referring physician is—

“Yeah. Of course it is.

---

Dr. Lynette Foster almost slammed the door to Dr. Bajingan’s office, but she didn’t want any interruptions. Instead, she closed it quietly, walked purposefully over to the smiling man’s desk, and threw down the four case files.

You evil mother fucker, Lynette snarled, barking out each word as if It. Was. Its. Own. Sentence. Or maybe I should say baby-fucker. How many? There has to be more than the girls you’ve sent me.

Bajingan just sat and smiled, an ear-to-ear grin that made Lynette want to strangle the fat fuck.

And the six-year-old—her vagina wasn’t good enough? You had to violate her rectum, too? And her throat?!

You’ve done a wonderful job with those poor little girls, Bajingan taunted, his last three words nearly dripping with imitation syrup. Simply a wonderful job.

I’m turning you in, Lynette finished, grabbing the files and turning toward the door.

No, I don’t think so, Bajingan almost sang. You have no evidence, I’ve made sure of that. That sweet, sweet little six-year-old cunt? She was sent directly from my office to you. And Robin and Jessi? They didn’t turn into hot little sluts until after they left your office. Who’s turning who in?

Dr. Foster stopped dead, her hands balled up tight. 001798 was in fact spitting up her own vomit, not ejaculate. Lynette had long since reconciled the other girls’ responses to their sessions, but Bajingan was right: if he said anything, she’d have no believable response. Empathy? Right.

Oh, he continued, and there’s also the little matter of my being the personal physician to the families of every prosecutor and judge in this city. Lynette turned back, her jaw fallen. Bajingan sat up purposefully, his face the portrait of Satan himself. You’ll do exactly what the fuck I say, exactly when the fuck I say it.

“Do I make myself clear, Doctor Foster? The penultimate word hung like a painting in James Franco’s fireplace.

---

Lynette almost got hit by a car as she carelessly crossed the street—and didn’t even notice. Consumed by rage, she knew she was in no shape to drive to Rafe’s house, or anywhere else for that matter. Instead, she saw a sidewalk cafe and sat down.

You okay, miss?

Lynnette almost jumped at the intrusion. Yeah, I’m fine, she assured the server. Uh … chardonnay, please?

Certainly.

I have to stop Bajingan, Lynette found somewhere in the jumble of her brain. I have to. But how?

The cold, smooth taste of apple, pear and oak barrel left a slight burning sensation in her parched throat just as Lynette saw Bajingan exit his building. Studying his phone, he nearly pranced toward the crosswalk.

There’s a delicious idea. Lynette’s features took on a smile that was outright evil. If only I was in my car so I could—

At exactly that moment, Bajingan walked into the street and was killed instantly by the grill and hood of a delivery truck. The driver had no chance to stop until after the impact, which threw the victim some 40 feet away, where he landed with an awful thud, a motionless tangle of broken bones—arms, legs and neck all bent at impossible angles.

Lynette threw back the remainder of her wine as she sat, shaking—now in profound shock rather than rage—watching in turn a stunned delivery driver, a sea of witnesses, a blur of EMTs, a yellow sheet, a broken body loaded into an ambulance on a gurney, police trying to restore some sense of the normal, and a server setting down her second chardonnay.

Dr. Lynette Foster, meantime, was lucid enough to realise that her problem was suddenly gone—and suddenly worse.

---

Neither Jessi nor Robin would ever know the irony of the moment they sat together on Jessi’s bed, holding hands, the younger girl finally convincing her ten-year-old friend that Dr. Bajingan was mean, really mean. Please don’t fuck him anymore. Please?

Epilogue

Yeah, the female psych was definitely the right idea, Lynette thought. She felt crushed under the emotional weight of terrible, terrible remorse—and yet there were no tears lost for Dr. Bajingan.

I’m sorry to interrupt, I just want to make sure I’ve got the facts right. Dr. Liefling went back a page on her notepad. You left his office, and went where?

Across the street. I was too upset—

Pissed, you said?

Right. I was too pissed off to drive, so I sat at the cafe across the street; a sidewalk table. That’s when I saw him walk out of the entrance, smiling like he didn’t have a care in the whole fucking world.

And you imagined exactly what?

I imagined running over his smug, fat ass.

So, you were the driver in this scenario, Liefling finished.

It was a statement, not a question. Lynette got the point, and didn’t. You’re saying—what are you saying?

I’m saying, Liefling began in a tone of soft certainty, that Bajingan walked into traffic of his own accord, while you imagined being the driver who hit him. Even if we accept that you have some sort of empathic power, you could not have killed him.

Lynette still wasn’t buying in. But I could have affected the driv—

And make him step in front? No, Liefling soothed, You and I both know that’s pushing all credibility. However much you believe he deserved to die, it was an accident that killed him. Okay?

Okay. She was hesitant, but Lynette accepted what had to be.

About your father …

Billy the Kid Rapist, yeah. You’re telling me I didn’t kill him, either?

Dr. Liefling smiled reassuringly. We’ve all wished someone dead at some point in our lives, she winked. Here, you imagined a scenario that was all too possible at a construction site. Plus, once again, it wasn’t the same as you imagined it. You know that’s true; now, let it go.

It was the second time Dr. Lynette Foster had walked out of another psych’s office as a client. It was the first time she felt that the visit was worth it.

---

Thinkin’ ’bout you’s workin’ up an appetite, Rafe crooned, badly off-key, Lookin’ forward to a little afternoon delight—

Lynette smacked her open palm on Rafe’s bare chest, prompting a pained Ow! She patted the same spot gently, as if to make it all better, then went back to fondling his mostly soft, very sticky cock.

Their midday fuck had been an awesome thing, even though Jessi only wanted to watch this time. Her dad had cleaned up his act so completely that he was back to being the handsome, fit man she remembered—and a really hot guy, she had to admit. Lynette seemed to agree, and fucked her boyfriend with appropriate relish, giving Jessi quite a show as she slammed down repeatedly on Rafe’s cock—Jessi called it a ‘cock’ now, but only at home—driving each other to a climax that Jessi would miss, as she had run into the kitchen to answer the phone.

When the happy nine-year-old ran back into the bedroom, her dad and his girlfriend lay cuddled, naked and satisfied. Dad? Lynette? Can Robin come over to play?

Why not? Rafe asked, amused. You can have friends over.

Lynette tried to hide her chuckles, and failed completely.

Jessi giggled. No, silly. She wants to play.

Rafe frowned, then caught up. Ohhhh … Jesus Christ! Rafe turned to Lynette, then back to his daughter. If you ladies fuck my willy off, then where will you be?

I dunno, began the shrugging, smirking logic of a nine-year-old.

But it’a be fu-u-u-u-un!