Page 63 of Save Me

The puppy takes a while, trying to skirt around everyone, but they keep looking at me, moving closer to me the whole time. My heart flutters in my chest. That’s right. I’ll help you.

When they’re almost here, they glance to their right at a woman. The puppy glances back at me, and my heart goes out to them.

Please. I’ll save you.

Then the puppy turns and shrinks into the woman. Gently, she pets his head, and he nuzzles into her.

There’s a cracking feeling in my chest, and that familiar hot welling in my eyes is here.

You know what? This is stupid.

The woman picks the puppy up, and I almost run out of the event, keys shaking in my hands as I get into my car. This was a terrible idea. I don’t need a dog. Why am I even here?

The tears spill as I drive, and I pound the wheel. Why did he have to go? Why couldn’t he get to know me? Why couldn’t he spend time with me?

It hurts so bad. I need something to hurt worse so this pain can ease. I need more tattoos.

I pass a sign for a piercing shop and yank the wheel so hard the tires screech.

Piercing will work.

Piercing didn’t work.

It didn’t work so hard that now I’m sitting in a therapist’s office, tongue pounding, and actively dying.

“Here.” My therapist hands me a piece of candy as I try to suck in breath after breath. I can’t breathe. I can’t freaking breathe; my chest is tight, and I think I’m having a heart attack.

“Eat it,” she says.

I snap my gaze up to her. She wants me to just…eat candy while I’m losing my mind? “I need…” I suck in a breath. “The dog.” That dog was meant for me. We were meant for each other. That woman just got in our way.

“It’s sour.” She nods calmly. “Sour things help break the body out of panic.”

I don’t know if I can; my tongue feels huge in my mouth, like I’m swallowing it and it’s blocking my airway. Like I can’t breathe.

My therapist just stares at me with a calm look of sympathy on her face. And it pisses me off. You know what, it would serve her right if I choked and died on a piece of candy while having a heart attack.

So, I rip it open and put it in my mouth.

Immediately, it burns against my piercing with a sizzling heat. I gasp, opening my mouth, air rushing in. Then my mouth floods with saliva, also burning.

Fudge, I almost spit it out, but the sourness wears off ever so slightly. Instead of spitting it out, I stare at the red and blue carpet the therapist has in her office. She’s silent, so I can hear the candle wick tutting, interrupting the silence with little fluffs of flame.

“What do you feel in your body?”

“Pain,” I spit back.

She merely nods. “Sounds about right. You’re back.”

Back? What the heck is she even talking about?

“Fight or flight tends to take us out of the present, the here and now. Sometimes the best coping strategies are the ones that keep us grounded. Sour candy is a wonderful way to do that. Or dipping your face in ice water.”

I suck in a breath. My tongue hurts, and that overwhelming, all-consuming black cloud of grief is back, pressing me into the ground. And I can’t help but wonder if the puppy, whom I’ve named Minky in my mind, is also feeling the same.

The therapist starts talking, startling me. “Do you want the dog for the dog’s sake? Or is it possible that you see yourself in that dog and through saving the dog, you’re trying to save yourself?”

I narrow my gaze at that blue and red carpet, the one with the triangles in the weird patterns. “No, that dog needed my help.”