Page 1 of Wild Thing
To the good girls who make bad girl decisions.
I'll see you in hell.
Prologue
DYLAN
Present Day
What people will say about me when I die?
Will they lie and say I was kind? That I was aniceperson?
Or will they tell the truth about me?
That I had been nothing but a selfish bitch.
RIP Dylan Forrester. Rot in pieces.
To be honest, I wouldn't mind being remembered for being someone I wasn't. Everybody lies at funerals, don’t they? Peoplesniffling and crying, pretending the dead had no darkness to them, only light. No one dares utter the ugly truth. That the person who died was actually a shitty human, who led a shitty life.
But me? I know I'm a bad, wicked person—I don’t deserve to have anything nice said about me. Not after all the heinous shit I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt.
"Dylan?" Dr. Crowe asks. "You still with me?"
My attention shifts from my pretend-funeral to my very real therapy session. “Yeah. Sorry… the answer is no. I don't think I'm a good person.”
She nods, her expression one of quiet concern as she listens to my admission. It was an uncomfortable truth I’d lived with for a while now, although it seems like it's breaking news to Dr. Crowe as she busily scribbles in her notebook. I'm not the first, and I certainly won't be the last, to admit such a thing in the confines of this room. The soft hum of the air conditioner provides a white noise background to my depressive thoughts as I glance at the clock.
2:10 p.m.
I still have twenty minutes of hell to go.
A large part of me rebels against therapy, and I catch myself wondering why I even bother coming here on my own volition. For the apparent non-judgmental company perhaps?
But then I remember how fucked up I am. I need to be here. I'm unlovable, unworthy, and also unimpressed at the hourly rate this bitch is charging.
I have fucked my life up in more ways than I care to count. Multiple bad choices, all disguised as good ideas at the time. It's always the same story with me, the same self-destructive pattern over and over again. It's puzzling as to why I never seem to learn, because I always do regret my choices after the fact.
But at the time? Self-destruction looks good on me and feels even better, which is perhaps the most alarming.
It doesn't matter what Dr. Crowe says, not really. It doesn't change the past, and I highly doubt it will influence the future. Because at the end of the day, I am who I am: an immoral person with venom running through my veins.
Maybe I'll just tell her what she wants to hear and be done with these fortnightly torture sessions. I am wasting her time, after all. I'm irredeemable, aren’t I?
“Maybe I did deserve to lose it all,” I mumble.
There she goes again, noting something down. Or is she just scribbling? Doodling a peace sign, or writing her shopping list, wishing away these last twenty minutes just as I am. I give it three seconds before she asks me why I think that is. Dr. Crowe sighs and shifts in her chair.
Three.
Two.
One.
Here it comes.
“And why do you think that is?” she asks gently.
