“Ridiculous,” he said to the empty room, then “Damn it,” because he wasn’t any closer to sleep.

Pushing aside the covers, he threw on a robe and padded to the dining room where he poured a brandy. He shook his head at the crazy thoughts keeping him awake, then stopped to toss back the drink. His throat burned, but as the alcohol hit his bloodstream, he felt calm descend on his manic mood.

The intensity of her stare flickered through his mind. After her tragic experiences, he’d expect confused and timid behavior, or defiant and belligerent. Nem displayed neither. She had a fight and strength he didn’t see often in adult patients, let alone a child. She’d looked at him in a way that even now made him sweat. Even recalling those moments, sent a mild tremor through his body.

He took another swig to calm his rising heartbeat. Yes, this drink helped. Sleep would wash away these nonsense thoughts too. He was overwrought and tired. Simple as that.

Vacation pinged in his mind again.

At first, he’d thought the flare in her dark eyes was her recalling a tragic past but that didn’t fit when he examined the session in hindsight. When she talked history, she spoke as if she felt unaffected, with everything tied up in a neat conclusion. Therefore, it must be him who’d angered her. Fair enough, not uncommon in patients.

“You'll receive what you are due in correct proportions.”

She said this staring at him as if she saw everything. His past, present and… his future. Really, calm down, man.

But she did hint at what he’d done. Or was that his guilt coloring her words? How would she know? Did she suspect something or was this a guess?

He'd been careful.

He'd tried to stop.

If this was her way of seeking justice, surely his efforts to curtail his behavior mitigated a small forgiveness? In fact, becoming a psychologist was his attempt to understand compulsions. His story wasn’t one of an abusive childhood. His leanings were inbuilt from birth. Genetic he’d often thought, and if God made him this way, then whose fault was that?

Research suggested addiction was genetic; he’d even written a paper on this subject. That’s why child psychology was his chosen specialty. Unlike many others afflicted—and that is how he viewed this condition—he knew what he did was wrong. He took the occasional risk hoping for discovery. Never with patients though, because his oath, to never do harm while practicing, he held sacred.

For almost a year he'd curbed his urge with photographs and videos, and diligent focus. The damn itch still built over time, demanding he scratch. He’d fight it but always the whispers came back.

But she could not know all this.

She. Could. Not. Know.

In his mind, he hurled those words over the barrier too.

Be gone, demon thought.

He hauled himself back to bed, thanks to the alcohol, a nice buzz humming in his head. Tiredness seeped into his body as he pulled back the covers. They felt heavy, as if lead had been stitched into his blankets. Now he felt hopeful he might escape into the pitch-black nothingness of sleep.