Aaron's POV
I lay there staring at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the plaster while the so-called therapist, Dr McKenzie, droned on about “processing emotions” and “healthy coping mechanisms,” and all that s**t.
My ribs still ached from Stuart’s boot slamming into them, and my split lip stung every time I breathed wrong, but none of that mattered. Not to him, not to Dad, not to anyone.
“Aaron,” Dr. McKenzie said for the third time, leaning forward in his chair. “I understand this is difficult. But refusing to engage won’t help your recovery.”
I didn’t answer. What was the point? He didn’t believe me. No one did.
Stuart made sure of that.
My knuckles whitened around the blankets in silent rage. They’d bandaged my hands, but the bruises underneath still screamed hurt.
“You ha
