My therapist keeps asking me if I've lost my filter.

“It could be a mental illness, I guess.”

That's what I tell my fifth therapist across from me. She sits patiently, one leg crossed over the other. I’ve spoken to four different therapists about my boyfriend’s obsession with stealing cars, sometimes while they’re still moving.

He’s stolen six in the last month and totaled every one. This therapist looks mildly horrified, but she nods politely.

“It’s embarrassing being on the road with him,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He’ll jump out of our car in the middle of traffic, run straight to another one, and speed off.”

Therapists think it's something to do with his childhood, kleptomania, maybe he grew up with strict parents and was conditioned into thinking stealing was the only way. “He's twenty four,” I tell her. “He's not a kid.”

The therapist nods, scribbles something down, and pretends to listen. Her office is suffocating and I want to leave. I can tell she's stalling, glancing at her watch when she thinks I'm not looking.

I already know what she's writing.

I’m a lost cause, and my boyfriend is a psychopath.

“Senna,” my therapist leans forward. I can tell by the twitch in her brow she’s about to say something problematic. “This might seem like… a strange question,” she says. Her tone is far too sweet, like she’s sucking on a sugar cube. “Senna, would you say you have been feeling… off lately?” Her smile widens. “For example, have you … kicked a passerby?”

“What?”

She leans closer. Her breath smells like nothing. “You told me about your boyfriend. Jude, was it?”

“Yes.”

She nods. “Jude does things, perhaps, impulsively. Do you think you share that with him?”

I lean back. “No! What are you talking about?”

She cocks her head. “Are you sure, Senna?” She hums. “Come on,” her lips curl into a smirk. “Surely you have some dark thoughts. It can't all be your boyfriend. Go on. Surely you want to call me… perhaps, a stupid fucking bug-eyed bitch.”

She smiles wide when my cheeks heat up. “I suggest you talk to Jude.”

Her eyebrow quirks. “Why not go for a nice walk on the beach? You can talk about his… impulsiveness to steal cars.”

She’s smiling like she knows something I don't. “Does Jude get…arrested a lot?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Multiple times a day. It’s a problem. He’s changed! Jude was a normal guy, and then he started getting violent. Scary. He steals cars and doesn’t even care. He attacks people on the street, and it’s like nobody else sees it but me.”

I can feel myself starting to splinter when she smirks, my patience wearing thin.

“My boyfriend has a mental health issue, and you’re laughing?”

“Yes.” The therapist looks me dead in the eye. “It’s very funny. Your boyfriend has lost his filter. It’s quite common. Head injuries are usually the cause. Think of Jude as having a moral barrier. Right now, it’s broken.”

I laugh.

When she doesn't, I find my voice. “I'm sorry, what?”

I leave therapy early, slamming the door behind me. “Thanks for nothing!”

Outside, Jude waits for me beside his latest stolen car: a bright yellow Bug.

“Yooo, Senna!” he yells, sticking his head out of the window. He’s wearing a suit I don’t remember him buying, his thick brown curls pinned back by sunglasses.

He's wet. Soaking wet.

He grins, spitting water from his mouth. “Coming for a ride?”

“Why are you wet?”

He shrugs. “Fell in the sea.” Jude pats the drivers side. “Hop in!”

I hesitate, before climbing into the front. “Is this car…stolen?”

Jude grins. “Oh, babe, you know it is!”

“So, I talked to a therapist about you,” I start.

“Oh?” He laughs, cranking up the radio. “Do tell.”

“Jude, slow down.” I manage when he speeds past a red light. “She says you've lost your filter.”

I try to explain it the way she did. “Your brain has a moral wall that stops you doing bad things.”

I choke on my words when my boyfriend speeds up, loudly whooping.

The psychotic gleam in his eye sends my heart into my throat. “Jude, she said you’re suffering from a head injury!”

“Ha!” He shoots me a grin. “You're funny!”

“No, I'm being serious!”

He stops the car suddenly.

So abruptly, I swing forwards on my seatbelt, and am violently yanked back.

Jude taps the steering wheel, smirking.

“You know what's funny?” He says. He gestures in front of us at the afternoon rush hour. “People."

He revs the engine, twisting to me. “Don't they remind you of bugs when they run?”

Jude starts the engine, and I scream when he rams straight through the crowd, sending us veering off onto the beach.

I stumble out of the car, breathless.

Jude stands still, knee-deep in the shallows, glaring at the sky.

“I hate you,” he whispers, laughing, and my therapist’s words slam into me.

“Your boyfriend’s filter is broken.”

He shoves me onto my butt.

Violently.

“I hate you.” He stamps on my head, giggling.

“I hate that you're SO fucking oblivious.” Jude pulls out a knife, and plunges it into my gut. “Does that hurt?” He hums, as blood spills from my mouth.

“Awww, does it hurt?” His lips graze mine and he twists it deep in my abdomen.

“Tell me it hurts,” he moans. “Tell me it hurts. Tell me you're going to die. Tell me you're closer, baby.” My vision feathers, his face bleeding into shadow. “When are you gonna die, hm? Is it now?” He laughs, and my vision goes dark. “... now?”

Death feels like melting.

But I'm not dead.

I wake up on the beach, standing in the exact same spot.

Jude is three inches from my face.

Behind me, a bustling crowd of people.

No screaming.

No sirens.

“Three letters,” my boyfriend mutters, his lip curled in disgust.

He points a pistol between my brows, lips splitting into a grin.

“NPC.”