Aidan thinks I’m unfixable. He thinks I’m incompetent. Maybe I was for the first three months when words were muddled and unclear, but as that faded, I began to realize the severity of my situation.
Incompetent? No. Fucking terrified of everything? Yes. It’s like having no filter on anything you feel. Everything is more intense… more severe. Each mistake is dire and consuming. Everything is worse. The part I need to hold me back and keep me rational is… gone. Just gone. And I don’t know how to get it back. But Dr. Kravitz swears he can retrain my brain. He promises I can be functional again without being sedated when something goes wrong.
A nurse is speaking again. “Everything that makes us a rational human being has been stripped from her. It’s what makes her so unique. It’s why so many leading professionals in their field have offered to help her pro-bono. Don’t you understand? Medicine can’t work. The suicidal tendencies it evokes is beyond extreme because the rational section of her mind is dormant. She’s an extraordinary case, and she has a team of the finest who are looking for the best solution to her problem. But in order to find an organic way to fix her, we have to find out what parts are broken and to what extent.”
“You mean you have to make her even worse before you even attempt to make her better. None of you fucking care about her. I shouldn’t have ever agreed to leave her in that fucking place. From a psych hospital to an emergency room. How is this fucking helping?”
The voices drift off as I continue to stare at the ceiling, counting every dirty spot it has and growing increasingly agitated when I lose count. They should have given me a clean ceiling instead of a dirty one.
My heartrate climbs when I lose count for the third time, and the itch to find relief grows to be suffocating. Tears start falling from my eyes as my gaze traces the dirty spots again, counting frantically, but when I lose count once more, a frustrated scream tears through my lips as I fight the restraints holding my arms to the bed, feeling helpless and trapped.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten… Is that one eleven or was it the one I counted for eight?
Another scream rips free as I struggle harder, wanting to get up and mark them off as I count them so I can stop losing count. My body shakes as more frustration wells inside me, almost manifesting in palpable knots.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…
My body starts to convulse when I lose count again, and the monitor beside me goes wild as the door flings open.
“What’s happening to her?” someone demands, but I’m too busy trying to find my count again.
One, two, three, four, five…
“Her heartbeat is too fast. She’s seizing! I need—”
“Mika!”
I jerk awake, sucking in a painful breath as Chase shakes me gently, staring at me with wide, horrified eyes. “Mika,” he says softer as my heartbeat drums in my ears, matching its beat in my dream… In my memory.
Chase runs his hand along my cheek, brushing away the sweat-damp hair on my face, as I pant for air. I feel my heart slow down, catching up to the present instead of beating in the past.
“Fuck, baby. What the hell were you dreaming? You were screaming and counting.”
Chase hovers over me, searching my eyes for answers. Instead of giving him anything, I pull him down by the back of the neck and kiss him. Hard. Seeking relief in his touch is dangerous, but I need it, and I want him.
He groans into my mouth like he’s torn about what to do, but I keep kissing him, and he doesn’t pull away. He moves his entire body over mine, settling between my legs, as I lose myself to him and let him chase away the sickening memories.
“Mika,” he says hoarsely, breaking the kiss as I grind against him. “What’s going on, baby? What was that dream?”
My breaths are still harsh and labored, but I stare up into his concerned eyes, even though the darkness hides their beautiful color.
“Just make it stop,” I whisper, repeating his words from so long ago when the roles were reversed and I was the one chasing away his nightmares.
His mouth comes back down on mine, and he tears my panties away, moving his body so he can get them off me completely. When he goes for my shirt, I grab his wrists, stopping him.
He breaks the kiss again and leans back.
“This comes off,” he says without letting me argue, pushing it up and over my head even as I cringe.
When his hands slide over my middle, I know he’s feeling the scars, and it shatters the confidence I had ten seconds ago. But when his lips come back to mine, I forget anything else exists and he lifts my hips, angling me against him.