“Honey, I don’t think you being alone is a good thing right now.”
“Mom, look, I’m fine.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I stared at the laminated countertop as if it contained advice on how to deal with overprotective parental units. I used to do that with ease, but now it seemed to take every bit of energy I possessed.
“No, you’re not.” Underneath the love was a depth of worry that four weeks of having me back couldn’t erase. “You’ve only been out of the hospital a couple of weeks, and Keelie says you’re not sleeping well.”
“Keelie called you.” Shifting the phone against my ear, I tried to tone down my frustration at having my every move reported by my baby sister.
Mom’s tone softened. “Of course she did. She wouldn’t head out of town and not let us know. She’s worried about you.” Her unspoken, We all are, came through loud and clear.
“I know.”
Her concern was typical of my close-knit family and something I’d yearned for while I was locked away with the faceless monster I still couldn’t seem to escape. But now that I had them back, I didn’t find their concern comforting. It was more like a smothering weight. Doesn’t that make me the worst daughter ever?
“How about this: I will be fine.”
Her quiet sigh signaled her surrender. “I know you will be, baby, but…”
I dropped my hand to trace random patterns on the counter. “Mama, I’ll be okay. It’s just going to take time.” Hearing myself repeat my therapist’s favorite phrase made me wince as I watched the sunlight spilling through the glass patio door. “Keelie needed to get back to work, and she’ll only be gone a week.”
“I’d feel better if you had a friend stay with you.”
I managed not to snort. For that, I’d need to actually have a friend. Being MIA for six months had done a hack job to my social life. Not to mention I had a new aversion to socializing. “I’m fine.” Since that came out sharper than I wanted, I added, “I promise to call or text you every day, okay?”
“Every day, Megan.”
With the end of the discussion in sight, I agreed. Again. “Yes, Mom.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
The swath of sunlight blurred, and my throat tightened. “I love you too, mom.”
We exchanged goodbyes, and I disconnected my phone and set it facedown on the counter. My eyes burned, and I tried to blame it on another sleepless night, but I knew better. After Keelie had left the previous afternoon, I spent most of the day wondering when my mom would finally break down and call. She managed to make it twenty-four hours before calling me, which was better than I’d expected, especially since this was the first time I was truly alone since my rescue four weeks before.
Bracing my hands against the counter’s cool surface, I spread my fingers wide, pressing in. The scrapes and cuts that had once marked my skin were healing. Unfortunately, I was now the bearer of thin white scars that encircled my wrists, thanks to the wire restraints used to bind me to the chair during my question-and-answer sessions. A familiar dread crept in, dimming the sunlight until Keelie’s apartment wavered into a terrifying grayness. I pushed harder against the counter, concentrating on how it warmed under my palms even as a line of cold sweat broke out along my spine.
This is real. I am real.
“I’m okay.” The sound of my own voice eased back the nightmare, just as my therapist had told me it would. I wasn’t sure if I was pissed or annoyed by that fact. I was going to stick with annoyed since that seem to be my theme for the day. As this was my first go-around with the whole therapy thing, I had no idea if that was the correct response or not. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I gave a damn. Then again, I was finding it hard to give a damn about much of anything lately.
Give it time.
Frustration joined my irritation, and I turned away from the counter to pace. If I ever got back to normal, I was banning those three words from my vocabulary. Logically, I knew that four weeks was not a lot of time in the grand scheme of things, but I still felt trapped by my inability to shake the horror that shadowed every waking moment. I felt trapped by the nightmares that wouldn’t leave me alone and a sense of loss I couldn’t understand—and by the suspicion that someone was watching me, just waiting to pounce.
According to my all-knowing therapist, all of it was just a by-product of six months of captivity bundled into one diagnosis—post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, a label I never considered would apply to me and my relatively normal life. I mean, seriously, how much danger could a noncommissioned officer expect to face while serving as the administrative assistant to a retired colonel who now works in the private sector? The low-danger nature of the job was one of the reasons I chose to remain an NCO when I joined the marines. I wasn’t looking to make a name for myself—I just wanted a successful career before I found the mysterious “one” to share my 2.5-kids-and-dog life with. You know, the normal American dream.
Unfortunately, I’d gotten pulled into a nightmare to end all nightmares, and my goals had changed. Now I just wanted to make it through a full night without waking up in a cold sweat, with a raw throat and blood-curdling nausea-inducing images seared into my mind. The lack of sleep and the low level of apprehension I couldn’t shake left me feeling as if the nightmare wasn’t really over.
Hang in there, Megan. The fading echoes of my imaginary protector drifted through my mind, triggering that elusive sense of loss.
“He’s not real.” Saying it out loud didn’t help this time, which was no surprise. My therapist’s explanation hadn’t stopped me from mourning someone who didn’t exist but was simply a coping mechanism. Logically, I understood it, but somewhere deep inside, it wasn’t sinking in.
Welcome to the crazy train. Next stop, mad ramblings and wild hair. That thought had made me give a sharp, humorless laugh. Rubbing a hand over my face, I blew out a hard breath and resumed my pacing, trying to yank my mind off the jumbled path it was determined to tread.
A flash of movement outside the patio door stopped my restless movements as a colorful little bird did a flyby. A pang of jealous longing hit me, and the walls went from comforting to confining. Needing the escape, no matter how minor, I unlocked the slider and stepped onto Keelie’s tiny balcony. My baby sister managed to afford a nice but cute—another word for small—apartment on the fifth floor of a complex with a sliver of a view of San Diego’s coastline. It wasn’t the remodeled bungalow I once shared with two other women, but it worked, especially since Keelie’s roommate had recently gotten married and was only staying on the lease to give herself an exit strategy.
Instead of a half wall, the balcony was a series of iron rods, which gave me a chance to people watch from my lofty perch. It was a pastime I used to enjoy, but ever since I’d gotten back, it wasn’t the same. Curling up in one of the two chairs, I pressed my bare feet against the railing. Eventually, my claustrophobia receded. The sounds of the city drifted up—the hum of traffic, a dog barking somewhere, and off in the distance, the deep toll of one the many cargo ships dotting the harbor.
My gaze drifted to the scramble of life below. For a moment, I considered going back in and unearthing one of my sketch pads. Almost seven months without them should have left me jonesing for the creative outlet and comfort. Instead, the thought of putting a pencil to paper left me in a cold sweat. I was scared the madness in my head would bleed onto the page.
Right, no sketching.
Unable to get lost in the possible stories associated with each passing face, my mind detoured, wandering down darker roads. How much ugliness lies under all the friendly smiles and pretty faces? I squeezed my hands into tight fists, forcing my thoughts back to brighter paths before I got lost in the murky alleys. But it was hard not to wonder if the guy in board shorts and a baseball cap, checking his phone as he sat on a bench, was the same one I’d seen hanging around at other times. Is he watching me? Is he working for the monster?
Laughter, like shiny bubbles, burst from a group of young women juggling surfboards and tote bags. Baseball-cap man turned to watch them walk by, and even from my perch, I swore I could hear his appreciative whistle.
See? Perfectly normal—unlike me, thanks to my warped psyche.
Yeah, something was seriously wrong with me. With the sun warm against my skin, despite the cool late-January breeze, I rubbed my bare heels against the railing’s edge and tried to enjoy the moment. Watching the minor drama play out below, I noted a familiar red-and-white bag from a nearby Mexican restaurant being carried by one of the women. Like Pavlov’s dog, my mouth watered. Hmm, maybe I should brave a public appearance. My stomach rumbled an agreement, and since it tended to be extremely picky lately, I took that as a cosmic sign.
I got to my feet and was heading back in for some shoes when something made me pause and turn, catching a flash of sunlight hitting something in the distance, blinding me for an instant. Shadows rushed at me. The hated voice filled my ears and echoed through my skull, harsh and unrelenting.
Give me what I want.
I don’t have it.
Don’t lie. Give it or die. I don’t care.
I stumbled, pitching forward, and threw my hand out to stop my fall. The rough stucco wall scraped against my palm, but I barely noticed as my nightmares slithered into the light. I caught a glint of teeth. A faceless blur moved closer as the teeth grew, threatening to swallow me whole.
You think you’ll escape, but you won’t. It touched my face, making me flinch. You can’t escape me. I won’t let you go.
A horn honked, shattering the hellish tendrils and slamming me back to the present. I sucked in air, trying to breathe around my pounding heart, my vision blurred by a sudden piercing ache slicing through my head. Even worse, the sensation of being watched hit my back like a venomous arrow.
Blinded by panic, I half fell, half tripped inside. I slammed the door closed behind me as I put my back to the wall, getting out of sight. Body shaking, mind breaking, I slid down the wall until I could wrap my arms around my knees. The past rose up in a hellish wave, threatening to suck me under.
You’ll be okay. The assurance that had once provided comfort now lashed at me, scoring deep wounds. It didn’t matter whether it was a coping mechanism or a figment of my imagination—I was far from okay and very much on my own.
My anger and despair rushed out on a choked sob. “I’m not. I’m not.”
They were watching, waiting. Despite being out of that hellhole, I was still trapped, still caught in whatever evil web had shattered my life. That voice, the one that belonged to the endless questions, was still there, still whispering its evil in my mind.
The nightmarish images, memories—whatever the hell they were—circled, waiting to land, but I couldn’t let them. I knew to my marrow that if they settled in, I was well and truly done. The only thing left of my future would be four padded walls.
You could make it all go away.
The insidious thought found a foothold, offering relief from the sounds and images stalking my every waking moment. I was so damn tired. I just wanted a moment of peace and quiet. Was that too much to ask?
Open your eyes, and show me you’re still here.
The memory of Bishop, rough and commanding, yanked me back from the crumbling edge. “I’m still here.” My voice shook, but the words were true—I was still here. For six months, I’d managed to hold on. There was no way in hell I would let go now. I just needed… help. And I knew exactly who to ask.