Page 17

Suffocating

TRUIE

I would love to claim I’m getting better, that things are settling, and I’m able to let in the light. But each instance of peace is fleeting at best, bracketed with feeling out of control and moments of full-blown panic.

I know some time has passed since I killed Alain. And I’m aware that I’ve spent almost all of that time in Teague’s suite. After sneaking out and following him down the hall, seeing yet another monster from the depths of my own personal hell, I’ve been more than good with staying right here.

I’m happy, if you can call it that, when Winnie comes to spend time with me.

And I’m safe when Teague is nestled here in the chair by the fireplace, laptop open on the arm of the chair or balanced on his knees as his fingers fly across the keyboard.

Generally, I’m as okay as I think I can be in the light.

It’s when the darkness closes in on me that I struggle. When I’ve slept hard and gotten lost in the dreams of then.

Back then, I was strong. I worked out, danced, and ran. I was so, so very capable.

In the before times, I watched Winnie’s back, made sure she was covered. In the after, she’s been my literal savior. I would be dead without her, and would’ve ended all of this suffering well before now.

And now…? Now I have to figure out what to do.

How to live without her watching over me.

How to be strong again when all I want to do is crumble.

The comfort I felt yesterday is still here.

I assume it was yesterday, though I could be wrong. Time has a way of scrambling for me, like the abstract concept goes even further sideways while twisting and twirling, weaving its way into a fabric that can be so fucking terrifying.

The haze of memories—of the times when I thought I was such a little badass, that nothing and no one could touch me—flickers, dancing just on the edge of consciousness. And that, my friends, is by design. Because reality is too much for me to process. Where I am now— broken and hiding in the dark, compared to the bright and shining light of past-me—is enough to send someone much, much stronger into a tailspin. A deep dive into depression and anxiety… and hopelessness.

Yeah, I can’t do that again. I survived it once—survived a lot of shit once upon a time—I can’t do it again.

I inhale deeply and burrow further into the welcoming comfort of this bed. The scent is warm and delicious. The subtle weight of my covers is perfect, the heft and the bulk of it soothing like a hug. Neither too much, nor too light leaving me feeling exposed or like I could float away.

The bed beneath my cheek moves at the same time I register a low, masculine rumble echoing from the same place. Fear shoots straight down my spine, skittering along every nerve ending and through every muscle fiber, freezing me where I lie.

My breath is so shallow, I would almost guarantee it doesn’t look like I’m breathing at all. I slit one eye open and then the other, finding a vast plane of white cotton that was probably crisp and perfectly pressed several hours ago. It likely didn’t have a damp spot of drool right below my mouth either, but here I am.

“You’re awake.” The words echo through me, deep and comforting, beneath my cheek.

A hand, massive and full of restrained power, slides up my spine and wraps around the nape of my neck, capturing me. Holding me firmly in place. Trapping me.

Panic crashes into me like a rogue wave, threatening to pull me under and strip me of all control. Every muscle pulls taut. My lungs cannot suck in air, and my brain just fucking stops functioning. It stops.

I’m nothing but a ball of terror, traumatized by vacant, distant memories. Drowning in a flood of abuse and torture and pain. So much pain. Dear God, when will this ever end? I’m so tired of the constant oscillation of emotions.

“No, darling. Shhh… None of that now. You’re safe, remember? You’re safe with me; I’m not about letting anything happen to you.”

Words are just words. They’re weapons used to manipulate and scar. I’ve heard those very promises repeated time and time again until believing them was easier than remembering who and where I was. Because losing myself, disassociating from what I was experiencing, was the only way to get through it.

And the where? Yeah, I didn’t want to think about where I was held. Or about who put me there. Certainly not about all the things they took from me.

But this voice is different. It’s the one from my dreams, soft and lyrical. It’s not associated with my nightmares.

“I’ve got you, love. Nothing is going to happen to you. Shhh… Let’s get you breathing, yeah? With me now, in—there you go—and out. Good girl, again. In and out.”

Something inside me shifts. Only slightly, barely even worth noting, but it does. A loosening in my chest, in the muscles that were squeezing the air from my body. Enough for me to follow along with this voice and take the smallest breath—inhaling and then allowing an exhale.