Most people would think the last thing a shadowrunner would ever need is therapy. I mean, aren't we all just cold, heartless killing machines? Yet here I am, sitting in Dr Goldburg's offices on Council Island.
His office is odd, full of more books than any library I ever saw in the Tacoma Public Schools. He's a short man, balding with salt and pepper hair. I probably shouldn't trust him, but I am determined by god to find some way to come to grips with the biggest obsticle I have in life.
The couch he asked me to sit on is posh and fluffy, probably cost more than I make on a good run. I'm paying this guy a thousand 'yen an hour, so I guess he can afford it. God, I really didn't want to be there. But I have to, I owe it to not only Frank, but the rest of my crew to get a hold on this pent up rage.
Dr Goldburg looked at me, and asked the question that is the root of my problems, "Why are you so angry?"
I closed my eyes, the mere thought of the whole situation bringing emotions to the surface that I have carried since I was sixteen. "My parents were murdered."
He looks at me, "How were they murdered?"
I take a deep breath. This is a story I have told a hundred times, well rehearsed so I don't have to feel anything when I do, "My mom and dad were successful buisness owners in Tacoma. Owned a huge bike dealership as well as a bar and grill that catered to the biker crowd. They started taking business away from a rival bar owner, so he shot them, then burned down the bar." As the words spill from my mouth, I feel the anger slowly bubble, managable, but still under the surface.
The doctor nods, and looks at me, "How old were you when it happened?"
Simple questions, I can handle this, just facts, right?
"I was sixteen, in fact it was two days after my birthday. My dad had bought me my first bike."
The doctor nods, "WHere were you when this hapened?"
I sigh, damnit, this is the part of the story I never tell, never want to tell, "I was in the bar, in the back, doing my homework. He shot me too, and I played dead. I somehow escaped out the back, but my parents..."
The doctor nods, "And how do you feel about surviving?"
The question from the doctor literally stopped my heart, how do I feel? I fall silent, "I.. I don't know." I finally sputter out.
The doctor looks at me, "You know, Harley, it's ok to feel guilty, it's ok to be angry."
At that moment, the stone wall I had built to keep my emotions in formed a small crack, as a tear fell down my cheek, "I hate them for leaving me, for making me live on the streets, in fear of being found. I hate them because I had to become who I am now."
I sat on that couch and cried for the first time in almost 15 years for my parents, for my lost childhood, and for the life I now live.
The doctor looked at his watch, "I want you to write about your feelings about it this week, and we will pick this up next Wednesday."
So here I am. How do I feel? I feel like an ass.