Raveling You(52)
“How I’m feeling about what?” Removing my keys out of my pocket, I trace the jagged edge of across the palm of my hand, trying to channel my restless energy stemming from knowing that shortly we’ll be trying to crack open my head.
He sets down the phone and overlaps his hands on his desk. “The fear that your capturers might still be out there.”
“That’s not a new revelation. I’ve always known they were out there.”
“I know, but in a way, the loss of your brother has brought the memory of that back into your life. And the incident with the break-in—it has to be hard to deal with.”
“The police don’t know for sure if our kidnappers were the ones who killed my brother or broke into my house.” A lump swells in my throat at the mention of my brother’s death.
“I also heard you played your first concert.” He avoids my statement. “That had to be stressful.”
“Not really. Playing relaxes me more than anything. Lyric was pretty nervous, though.”
“Lyric, the girl you’re dating?” he asks, even though he knows her. Not only because I talk about her sometimes, but because she had a session with him after William assaulted her.
I nod. “That would be the Lyric I’m talking about.”
He opens a file and glances at a paper inside. “Does she know what’s going on with you at all?”
I nod again. Lyric knows more than most people. Maybe even more than my therapist.
“Do you talk to her about your past a lot?” he asks, shutting the folder.
“Sometimes.”
“About what exactly?”
“Everything I can.”
He meticulously examines my expression over, hunting for cracks in my façade. Like always, I grow uneasy. What does he see? A broken shell of a guy that may never be fixed?
My phone abruptly vibrates from inside my pants pocket, giving me an excuse to look away from his scrutinizing gaze.
Lila: Hey, when is your therapy going to be done? I want to know when I should start dinner.
Me: We should be starting the amnesia therapy soon. It usually only takes about fifteen minutes.
Lila: K. See u soon. And drive careful, sweetie.
“We should wrap this up.” I stand up and stretch my arms above my head, ready to get the next part over. “It’s getting late and Lila needs me home anyway.”
“Alright, lie down on the sofa then.” He motions at the leather couch nestled in the corner of the room near his filing cabinet and the window.
The ceiling has an unpainted spot where the plaster shows through. I don’t know why, but whenever I lie down, I always find myself picturing it caving in and the sheetrock raining down on me.
The doctor turns on some mellow music, a symphony of violins. Then he turns on the camera, sits down in a chair in front of me, and clicks on a timer.
“Close your eyes, Ayden,” he begins with a droning tone. “You’re in a safe place, where no one can hurt you. Now, let your mind relax.”
Like always, I fleetingly feel like I’m falling.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Then I crash into a wall.
You can’t think about it.
You aren’t allowed.
There was a reason for your amnesia.
You think we’d let you off that easy.
You think we’d really let you go.
Don’t think too much.
Or you’re going to lose control.
We’re going to come after you.
Dark eyes… thin bodies…. yellow teeth… blue and red lights flash as sirens near closer to the home. Someone is banging on the door, shouting, “Open up!”
My sister lifts her head, life in her eyes for the first time. My brother is curled up in the corner, though, thin, frail, so close to death.
Our capturers flee, but not without an impending warning.
“No one escapes,” the woman whispers as she stabs her fingernails into my hands. “We’ll come back for you.” Her face… blurred… but the pain… is excruciating.
My eyelids spring open to the patch on the ceiling. The room is quiet, but my heart thunders like a storm inside my chest.
Dr. Gardingdale waits patiently at my side with pen and paper in his hand and hope in his eyes that I’ll tell him I remembered the identities of the people.
“I saw a few images, but everyone’s faces are blurred over and honestly, none of what I’m seeing makes sense,” I tell him as I sit up and plant my feet on the floor. As usual, the room twirls around me in hazy colors and shapes. “They threatened us, though, when we left the house. Said they’d come back for us.” Invisible fingers wrap around my neck and my oxygen supply dwindles. “You should probably tell the police that. Or I will.”