Dark Therapy

7-Aiden

He doesn’t see me until I want him to, he glances over his shoulder mid-sentence, expecting emptiness and freezes when he finds me instead.

“What the—” He laughs nervously. “Yo, can I help you or something?”

I take one more step inside the alley, the darkness swallowing the space behind us.

“No,” I say calmly. “But I’m going to help you understand something.”

His smile cracks. “What? Man, I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t,” I agree. “But I know you.” His throat bobs.

Something in my voice finally reaches his brain, the tone, the stillness, the absence of anything familiar or predictable. He shifts uneasily. “Look, if this is about earlier—”

“It is,” I say simply.

His eyes widened and in the quiet, in the narrow darkness of that alleyway, the part of me that straightened her collar, that watched her breath quicken, that listened to her steady herself, that part stepped aside. The other part moves forward in its place. The part that deals with people who don’t think consequences apply to them and fixes what others break.

Curtis tries to square his shoulders, but it’s a cheap show of confidence. A costume. He’s not built for confrontation — he’s built for commentary from a safe distance. “Man, whatever you think this is…” he starts, voice cracking.

“It’s exactly what it is,” I say, stepping closer.

He backs up a step, cautiously, then another until his spine touches brick. Good. The phone in his hand trembles before he slowly lowers it, hiding it in his pocket like he finally understands that no one on the other end can save him.

“You don’t have to—” he begins.

I cut him off gently. “You upset her.”

He blinks. “Who?”

Interesting. He thinks denial will save him.

“Essence,” I clarify.

Recognition flashes across his face, followed by annoyance and then fear, real, primal fear. The fear that a person feels when they realize the dynamic has shifted and they don’t know how to shift back.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Look, man… that wasn’t even serious. She just– she got a mouth on her sometimes. You know how–”

I hit him before he finishes the sentence but not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough to erase the confidence in his tone. His head snaps sideways and he stumbles, reaching for the wall. I hear his breathing speed up. Good. Fear makes people honest.

He holds a hand toward me. “Yo! Ay man, chill! What the hell is your problem?”

“You are.”

He turns to run but I catch him easily. My fist goes into his gut — precise, measured, below the ribs where the pain blooms deep. He drops to his knees, gagging, trying to catch a breath that won’t come. His fear rolls off him like steam.

“Stand up,” I tell him. He tries. His legs shake too badly. He collapses again. So I crouch down calmly, meeting him at eye level. “You’re going to understand something tonight,” I say softly. “And you’re going to remember it every time you consider speaking to her.”

“I didn’t even do nothin’!” he chokes out.

“You provoked her,” I correct. “You belittled her. You used the oldest stereotype in the book because you’re too fragile to face your own insecurity.”

He opens his mouth to argue. I grab the back of his neck and push him forward, pinning his face to the cold brick wall, not violently though. Just firmly enough to keep him still. He lets out a strangled noise. “You’re going to apologize,” I say, calm, steady. “Properly.”

“To you?” he wheezes.

“No,” I say. “To her. Out loud. Right now.”

“I– I don’t even know if she can hear–”

“She can.”

I turn his head just enough to face her door across the courtyard. He sobs once, a broken, humiliated sound. Then, “Essence!” he calls out, voice cracking. No answer. He looks at me, terrified.

“Louder.”

He gulps and screams, “Essence! I’m sorry!” His voice breaks on the last word. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that! I– I was wrong!”

A window light flickers upstairs, not hers, someone else’s. I tap his cheek once, letting him know he’s done. He slumps forward, shaking.

“Good job,” I say quietly. “Now you won’t make the mistake again.”

He nods rapidly, terrified to look at me. Before he can speak, justify himself, or beg, I grab the collar of his hoodie and pull him just close enough that he can hear my next words clearly, intimately, “You ever raise your voice at her again… if you even look at her like she owes you something… I will come back. And next time you won’t be able to walk away.”

His breath stops, then starts in short, terrified bursts. I release him and stand. He scrambles up, stumbling out of the alley, holding his ribs, wiping tears and snot with the back of his wrist. He doesn’t look over his shoulder.

Curtis staggers out of the alley, limping, shivering, clutching his side like he’s afraid his ribs will split open. He doesn’t look back. He won’t. He won’t bother her again. He won’t bother anyone again without remembering tonight. As he disappears down the street, I stand still, hands back in my pockets, pulse steady, breathing even.The world around her needs correction and I’ve started making adjustments. One at a time.

Essence Clark won’t know I’m close and she won’t know when I’m watching or when I’m not. But she’ll notice the way the world around her starts to shift in small, quiet ways, the kind most people overlook. The wrong people will stop crossing her path and the right things will start to fall into place. Except she isn’t most people so that's when things will start to become interesting.