Revival

by Kirkpatrick, S.

  “Kat chose the song and painted every note by hand.” He tells me, his voice still laced with sleep.

  “What song did she choose?” I ask, turning towards him, never breaking his hold.

  “It’s angry chick music, your favorite.” He smiles. “It’s ‘I am the fire’ by Halestorm.’”

  That song is one I’ve blasted relentlessly after the guys moved to LA. It was my anthem when I was trying to be strong, to let Dex go. To move on from loving him to the point of pain. It’s how I got through three years of feeling like a part of my body had been ripped away.

  It’s so fitting that it hurts.

  Dex spent the morning taking me through each and every part of my special room, letting me know who contributed to what. I was embarrassed at first when he told me that Karen found the photos that I hid all those years ago. I never thought Dex would ever see them. I kept them tucked away, only allowing myself to look at them when I couldn’t sleep.

  But they’re my favorite part of the room. Aside from the fact that Dex made it all. That part is, of course, better than the rest. It’s my little bubble of paradise.

  The moment we stepped out of my sanctuary, I felt all peace fizzle away, replaced with the anxiety of being in the real world again.

  I somehow convinced myself that when I was released from the hospital, the nightmares and fear would go away. Like being in my own home surrounded by all of my stuff would be the cure to the demons that haunt me at night. I thought being stuck in the hospital, with a daily reminder of what happened, that it was causing my brain to latch on to the memories, replaying them as a reminder, refusing to let me forget.

  I was wrong.

  They aren’t going away, and I’m worried that they might not ever leave. Shouldn’t I be over it? Shouldn’t I be moving on and healing already? That’s the magic word all the doctors and therapists kept talking about, and yet for some reason, I’m just not there.

  Maybe there’s a part of me that just snapped… That truly broke. That can’t heal from what happened. Like it died inside me and is rotting me away from the inside out.

  He’s dead. He’s not coming back. He can’t hurt me, or anyone else, ever again. I know these things. So why can’t I move past this? Why can’t I just go back to being Bree again?

  These are the things I plan on asking my therapist today. I want to know why nothing feels normal anymore. I need to know that I can eventually find my way back to just… being me. I can’t keep living in my sanctuary room, hiding from the rest of the world.

  I shake my head, ridding my mind from the thoughts that have been playing over and over again since I woke up this morning. I know constantly repeating the same monologue in my head over and over again will solve nothing, but it feels like the only goddamn thing I can do right now.

  Dex holds my hand tightly in his lap as we wait for my name to be called back to Dr. Nichol’s office. She’s the same therapist I had when I was in the hospital and the one I’ve seen twice a week since being released.

  She’s the tiniest woman I’ve ever seen in my life. She can’t be more than five foot tall and I’d be surprised if she even weighed 100 pounds soaking wet, but she’s got a kind smile and she’s patient with me, never pushing me beyond what I say I’m ready for. I have a feeling now that I’m out of the hospital that might change soon though. She can’t keep letting me hide forever.

  “Breelle Cooper.” I hear the receptionist call out.

  I turn to Dex, my hand still firmly grasped in his.

  “Will you be here when I get out?” I ask him.

  “Same as always, babe. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” He tells me, his shy smirk gracing his lips.

  Every time he calls me anything other than Breezie, he breaks out in that same adorable little smirk. It brings a flush to my cheeks, warming my heart and soul. I couldn’t make it through this shit storm without him and to know that I have his love, even on my weakest days, it’s the driving force that pulls me out of bed each day.

  “I’ll see you in an hour.” I tell him as I stand, reluctantly pulling my hand from his, walking towards the opened door where the receptionist waits, ready to take me to Dr. Nichol’s office.

  “Follow me, Ms. Cooper.” The receptionist says to me, although her eyes never leave Dex.

  I take in the appearance of the woman who is supposed to be walking me to my therapist appointment but is instead drooling over my boyfriend. She’s beautiful. Slim waist, high ponytail of naturally blonde hair, and pretty pale green eyes. She’s exactly the kind of girl Dex was always with before me.

  I feel a spark of fury ignite from within my core, an overwhelming desire to gouge her eyes out and make her less appealing to look at. Every second I stare at her beauty, it’s like I can feel my scars raising up even higher on my tattered flesh.

  I will never look like her.

  I will never have flawless skin ever again.

  I will never have that carefree look in my eyes because I know the darkness that lurks inside people.

  Instead, I’m left to be scarred.

  Ragged.

  Broken.

  Used.

  I see the way she smiles at Dex’s form, lust practically pouring off her. Dex’s eyes are cast down, fiddling with his phone, no doubt texting Abel to keep him updated on me. He has no idea what’s unfolding a mere 10 feet away from him, but as I huddle deeper inside of his hoodie that I’m wearing, a part of me realizes how cruel I am to keep him.

  He deserves to have a beautiful woman on his arm. Someone he can be proud of. Someone he can show off. Someone who is easy to love and easy to be with.

  I am none of those things.

  At least not anymore.

  It’s selfish of me to keep him. Even though he’s the glue that’s holding my broken soul together, I see what the weight of this has done to him. He’s lost a little weight, he doesn’t go into the shop as much as he needs to, as much as I know he wants to. He looks so tired, the bags under his eyes confirming as much. Hell, he’s sleeping on the floor for crying out loud.

  He doesn’t crack jokes anymore…

  He may be trying to help me. But he’s losing himself in the process. What kind of person would I be if I sat by and let that happen?

  “You can ask him for his number once you show me to Dr. Nichol’s office. I do have an appointment to keep after all.” There’s no fight in my voice, just resignation.

  Acceptance.

  I have to come to do what’s best for Dex. What’s fair for him. And to do so, I have to come to terms with the fact that the Bree he fell in love with died inside that warehouse.

  And she’s not coming back.

  The receptionist turns to me and smiles coyly. “Right this way, Ms. Cooper.”

  We walk through the hallway in silence, the receptionist sashaying in front of me the entire way, not a care in the world. The closer we get to Dr. Nichol’s office, the faster my heart begins to beat. I can feel the tendrils of anxiety overtaking me, crawling up my skin, gripping my heart, and suffocating me from the inside out.

  I don’t want to be here.

  I don’t want to feel these things, face these things.

  I want to bury them with Rob.

  But before I can turn away and run, we come to a halt at an open door, Dr. Nichol’s smiling widely when she sees us approaching.

  “Welcome, Bree. Please come in and have a seat.” Dr. Nichol’s greets me as I walk through her door.

  Her long, raven black hair falls down to her waist. Her oversized cardigan does nothing to hide how tiny she is underneath it. She’s in her early thirties, but I feel like she’s an old soul, looking at the world as a blissful 60-year-old woman who just wants to share her caramel candies with you to make you feel better. Her smile is sincere and warm, but I just can’t seem to muster up the strength to smile back.

  I don’t want to be here.

  I can’t handle this.<
br />
  I need to leave.

  “I see that look in your eyes, Bree. Don’t even think about it.”

  Of course, she knows I’m thinking of running.

  It’s all I ever do.

  I run.

  I run from the things that scare me. I run from the things that could break me. I run from the people that have the power to hurt me. I run to stay safe. Something I’m kind of paranoid about now.

  But who can blame me?

  Everything she could say has the ability to wreck me. She did it in the hospital, and she’ll do it again now. The only question left is, will I let her?

  “You have two choices, Bree. You can stay or you can go. No one is making you do anything. You need to know that each of these choices will have their own set of consequences. If you choose to stay, the same rules apply that we had in the hospital and every session since. We do this right or we don’t do this at all. We can sit here and talk, or we can sit in silence. But only one of these choices will allow you to move on with your life.”

  I stand in the doorway, unmoving, as I take the time to truly ponder the options that she’s given me. I can’t pretend as though I actually want to be here. The thought of letting her into the darkness that consumes me, literally makes my skin crawl, makes my scars heat up with shame.

  But on the other hand, the thought of having this darkness consume me for one more minute makes me want to tear my own heart out just so it can stop hurting.

  I’m so tired of hurting…

  A sigh of resignation leaves my lips.

  Decision made.

  I take a seat on the brown circle chair she has on the far side of the room, turning to face her as she lowers herself to the couch that rests across from where I sit.

  “The round chair. Ya know, a twenty-year-old me would have guessed you chose that chair because you felt like you needed to be held together. The thirty-year-old me thinks maybe you just like the chair. Which one of us would be right?”

  Her bluntness shocks me. I wasn’t expecting to be psychoanalyzed as soon as I sat down. I can’t decide if I’m impressed or offended because she’s not wrong about either assumption. But still… Where’s the damn icebreaker to warm me up to this entire appointment? She hasn’t pushed me like this before, I don’t know what’s causing it today.

  My lack of response must provide her with the answer she was searching for because she just nods, her smile slipping.

  “It’s okay, ya know. I’m not here to judge you.” She tells me.

  “I know. But you might be the only one in this room who isn’t judging me.”

  “Why are you judging yourself?” She asks.

  “Why aren’t you?” I retort. “And please don’t tell me because it’s your job not to. How do you sit there, knowing what you know, and not make a judgment call?”

  I think I may be the first person to ever ask her something like that before. She doesn’t look like she’s choosing her words carefully or anything, she honestly just looks like she’s contemplating the question.

  “If I spoke a different language than you do, would you judge me for it?” She asks.

  “Um, no…” I respond, confused by how quickly the conversation changed from where I thought we were going.

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s nothing wrong with the fact that you’d speak a different language.”

  “But it’s a different language than you speak. We wouldn’t be the same. How would you understand me?” She asks.

  I play along, curious as to where she’s going with this. I take a few moments, truly considering how I would communicate with her if she spoke a different language than I did.

  “I mean, it wouldn’t be ideal, but we could use Google translator and just type out what we wanted to say so that the other person could understand.”

  “So if you would be willing to find a way to understand me, to help me communicate with someone who speaks a different language than I do, without judging me, why are you so shocked that someone would be willing to do the same for you?”

  Her response shocks me. It leaves me speechless as I realize the implications of what she’s saying, hearing what she actually means behind her question.

  “Just because you’ve experienced, and survived, something I could never even fathom, it doesn’t mean that I’m not willing to do everything in my power to help you find a way to live again, Bree. I may have to try different methods, I may struggle at times to be the best person for you. But I can promise you that I will do everything in my power to help you move forward from this.

  I do not judge you because your experiences are different than mine. I admire you because you didn’t let them defeat you. I read the reports. I know what you went through. I know you were willing to sacrifice yourself to save your friend. And I will be completely transparent when I tell you that if I was faced with the same situation, I know I would not have been as strong as you were. I don’t know many people who would be. I know the strength that lives inside you. And I want to help you find that strength again. You didn’t lose it. It’s just been misplaced. And I’d truly be honored to help you find it again.”

  I haven’t been in her office for five minutes, and I’m already crying so hard that I’m gasping for air. With every word she speaks, with every memory she pulls forward, I feel the pain of those days searing in my skin all over again. I relive the fear, the sting, the sorrow, the burn. It engulfs me as I release a torrent of unwanted emotions, wailing in the round chair, hoping it really can hold me together.

  “I can’t… be strong… anymore. I’m trying so… so fucking hard.” I gasp out the words, holding my chest as the tears continue to pour down. “He took… everything from… me.”

  I let the words spill from lips as I collapse backward in the chair, pulling Dex’s hoodie further around my body, hiding my scars from the world. The scars are inside and out. There’s no hiding from them. They consume me entirely.

  Dr. Nichol’s doesn’t try to comfort me. She doesn’t hold me, cuddle me, coddle me, or promise me everything is going to be okay. Instead, she just lets me shatter in my chair, giving me the space, the permission that I need, to just let it all out.

  I cry so hard that my whole body shakes. I turn into a human earthquake, convulsing so powerfully that my body begins to protest again the movement, begging me to calm down.

  But I can’t.

  I have no control over what’s happening right now. I just have to give in, like a powerful current in a big surf wave that pulls you under. There’s no fighting it.

  It just consumes you.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, sobbing with all my might, draining myself of every last emotion in my body. But as my sobs die down, Dr. Nichol’s voice brings me back to reality.

  “What all have you done since you’ve been home?”

  Her question forces my body to breathe more steadily, thinking on the last few days instead of the pain in my mind.

  “Just sat at home with friends and family.” I tell her, hiccupping through my words.

  “Why?” She asks, genuinely confused.

  “Um, I don’t know. Because they’ve all been really worried about me and were excited to see me.” I tell her, feeling a little defensive.

  “Is that what you wanted to do?” She asks me.

  “Of course. There were times I wasn’t sure I would ever see any of them again.”

  “I understand that. But what I’m asking is whether or not that’s all you’ve wanted to do for the last two weeks.”

  “There’s a lot I want to do Doc, but I have some pretty serious restrictions right now. I can’t drive. I can’t go to work. I can’t even plan a vacation because I have to be here for all my appointments.”

  “You’re right. But you can go to the beach, something I know you love. You might not be able to surf yet, but you can still go sit and be around the waves. You can still go shopp
ing, go out to coffee with friends. You can go to a movie, or… anything really. You spent a long time trapped inside 4 walls against your will. I’m just surprised that in your first couple of weeks of freedom you chose to spend them inside a different set of four walls.”

  “Yeah well, I’m not really up for being around a whole lot of people I don’t know right now. I have no plans to doll myself up or strap on a swimsuit, or anything like that.”

  “Why not? From what I’ve learned you like the waves so much you’re practically a mermaid. I assumed your first day home you’d be on the beach.”

  “That was before my body was carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey Doc. A lot has changed since then.” I’m shocked by the way the words so carelessly roll off my tongue, breathing them into reality when I’ve tried so hard to hide from them.

  “So your scars are holding you back from doing what you love?” She asks me, an accusatory tone lacing her words.

  “If you looked like I do under this hoodie, you would hide too.” I whisper, shame coating my words.

  “Let me see.”

  “Let you see what?” I ask.

  “Your scars.”

  Her response is so matter-of-fact, as if it’s the most obvious request to make. I stare at her, unsure of how to respond. Is she serious right now? Does she really expect me to strip down in front of her and let her see the road map of my personal hell?

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” She asks, genuine confusion in her voice.

  “Why would you want to see them?” I retort.

  “We haven’t had very productive sessions since you’ve been released and that ends today, Bree. Why wouldn’t you want to show me? These are your battle scars. A battle you won, I might add. These display your honor. Your love. Your loyalty. Your strength. Now show me.”

  “No!”

  “Tell me why.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything! And I damn sure don’t have to show you anything. This is my body. I’ve had enough happen to it without my consent, I don’t plan on letting that happen again!” I shout.

  “Who all has seen your scars, Bree?”