Revival

by Kirkpatrick, S.

  “The doctors, the police, and the maniac that put them there. Too many damn people if you ask me.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “They’re on your body. Surely you’ve seen them too.”

  “No, actually, I haven’t.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I feel them. That’s enough for me.” I tell her, not even trying to hide my annoyance, my anger.

  “You didn’t answer my question. How is it possible that you haven’t seen them? When you shower or get dressed… You didn’t see them then?”

  “No.”

  “Answer my question, Bree. I told you, we do this right or we don’t do this at all.”

  I take a deep breath, my eyes already filling again, blurring the tiny woman sitting across from me. She used to not push me like this. She used to let me move at my own pace. Those days are apparently long gone. And I’m too weak to keep fighting anymore. I’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime.

  So I give in.

  I give her the truth.

  I give her my truth.

  “When I was in the hospital, I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. I felt them, and I was terrified of them. I couldn’t bring myself to see what was there. To see the horror that’s embedded on my skin forever. That feeling hasn’t ever really left. I’m scared to see what I really look like now. As long as I don’t see them, I can keep pretending that they’re not there. When I shower or change… I close my eyes. I’ve bathed and gotten dressed enough times that I don’t actually need my eyes to do those things anymore. I haven’t looked in a mirror since before…”

  The rest of the sentence dies on my tongue, the white-hot fear, mixed with the ice cold dose of shame, rendering me silent. My eyes are pulsating, the tension resting there, blinding me from reality for a moment.

  I take a few moments to breathe through the memories, grounding myself back in the present, silently chanting the mantra I use to calm myself after a nightmare.

  You’re safe. He’s dead. He isn’t coming back. He can’t hurt you anymore. You escaped. You’re safe. You’re home.

  I repeat this to myself over and over again, until my breathing regulates. Dr. Nichol’s sits across from me in silence, forcing me to work through it on my own, giving me the space I need to do this for myself, by myself.

  When my breathing regulates, I clear my throat of the emotions that got choked there, allowing myself to continue.

  “I feel the tightness of my skin in each place. I feel the heat that rests on either side. I feel them straining against my clothes. My fingers run across them on accident sometimes. They’re monstrous. I don’t ever want to see them. I feel like Frankenstein and I know I must look like him too. I’m not ready to come to terms with that yet. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

  “So you run from them?” She asks.

  “That seems to be my specialty.”

  “Bree. Look at me.”

  Every cell of my body is humming with rebellion, begging me not to look at her. That all too familiar feeling swimming in my veins.

  Fight or flight.

  Fight or flight.

  Fight or flight.

  “You’re doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, Bree. Choose a different path this time.” She begs.

  Fight or flight.

  Fight or flight.

  Fight or flight.

  “Look. At. Me.” She commands.

  I’m too weak to fight.

  And I’m too tired to fly.

  So I look at her. Knowing what comes next.

  “We do it right or we don’t do it at all, Bree. Those were the terms. You agreed then. Do you still?”

  I nod my consent, bracing myself for what I know is coming.

  Dr. Nichol’s stands and walks to what appears to be a closed closet door. Her slender hand reaches for the knob and I swear the breath in my lungs seizes, vibrating inside. It makes me question whether or not I can actually continue with what she has planned.

  I watch in what feels like slow motion as she turns the knob and opens the door. It inches open in slow motion, like the pinnacle in a fight scene in the latest action movie in theaters.

  When the door is fully opened, she reveals the one thing that could cripple me. The one thing that I want to run from, and run towards, simply to destroy it, all at the same time.

  Hanging on the inside of the door is the one thing I’ve been avoiding like it’s my fucking job.

  A full-length mirror.

  My eyes fling to hers, a silent yet frantic plea, loud enough to fill the silence in this room like a wrecking ball slamming through the walls. My walls. Walls that I rely on to keep me sane.

  “It’s time, Bree. This is where your healing begins. Without this, you will never be able to move forward with your life.”

  She extends her hand in between us.

  A peace offering.

  A life vest.

  Lending me her strength.

  I stare at her outstretched hand, contemplating whether or not I can actually do this. If you break it down it sounds like the easiest choice in the world. Any rational person would just take her hand without hesitation.

  It’s just a mirror.

  Right?

  “You can do this, Bree. You’ve survived so much worse.”

  Understatement of the fucking century, doc.

  But before I know it, my hand is in hers.

  She pulls me forward and positions me in front of the mirror.

  “Do you trust me, Bree?”

  I nod my head. That might be the easiest question she’s asked me today. Though at this point I couldn’t tell you why. I feel torn between resentment and appreciation for everything she’s done for me so far.

  “We’re going to take this one step at a time. You have the power to stop at any time, but I would prefer it if you allowed yourself to experience yourself all of this. I need you to show me your strength today. I need you to show yourself. Okay?”

  I nod my head again, not trusting my own voice.

  “I’m going to step behind this door so that I’m still in the room, but I won’t be able to see anything. This will allow you the privacy that you need to take this next step. But, I am here if you need me. Once I am behind the door, I will ask you to reveal sections of yourself to the mirror so that you can finally see okay?”

  I nod once again.

  “Once I’m behind the door, I will need you to use your words because I won’t be able to see your nods. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” I whisper.

  With that, she steps behind the small section of space between the open door and the wall. It’s oddly comforting knowing that I’m not truly alone, even though I have the illusion of privacy.

  “Okay, let’s start small. Remove your hoodie and place it on the couch.”

  I do as she instructs. I slowly lift the hem of Dex’s hoodie from my torso. This hoodie has been my safety net for the last several days. It protects me, and Dex, from the road map. He hasn’t asked why I wear it when it’s blistering fucking hot outside. But he must know why. Each time he sees me in it, he gets a sad look in his eyes that tells me he’s not prepared to see what all it’s hiding.

  Dr. Nichol’s voice pulls me back to the present.

  “Now look in the mirror and tell me what you see on your skin.”

  I close my eyes, turning toward the mirror, and inhale a deep breath. This is the most scared I’ve been since I woke up in that hospital bed. At least then, I had an idea of what to expect. But this…

  I have no idea what will happen in this room, in front of this mirror today.

  I open my eyes and catalog the skin that’s exposed. My face and my arms. Most of what happened in these places has healed. Bruises, broken bones, and rope burns. But on my biceps… Are the first scars I have to face. I hear Rob’
s voice in my head.

  ”Minimal damage. Massive blood loss. It’s like a Jackson Pollock painting in real life. A treasure really. You should feel grateful that you’re my muse for the day.”

  The first tear falls from my eyes. I can still smell the blood as if it were happening all over again. My heart rate starts to pick up and my chest tightens along with it.

  “Tell me about the scars you see, Bree. Describe them to me.”

  I go through each scar on my left arm, there are more there since Rob was right-handed.

  “I can’t do this Dr. Nichol’s.” I cry.

  “You can do this. You just don’t want to, Bree. It’s easier for you to hide this from yourself and everyone around you. But you can’t do it forever. You’re running from reality. And that’s something you said you wanted to change right? To stop running?”

  “Yes!” I tell her on a fierce whisper.

  “Then face this, Bree. Don’t do it for Dex. Don’t do it for Abel. Don’t do it for Max. Do it for you! Because you deserve to live a happy life again. You deserve to be happy. But you can’t have any of those things if you’re hiding from yourself. This is on you now. No one else has the control. Not even me.”

  I raise my right hand and trace the scars on my left bicep, forcing myself to focus on the reflection I see staring back at me instead of losing myself to the memories. It’s so damn hard, but I fight. I don’t run from it, instead, I push back. I push my fingers down, centering myself to the present.

  “They’re ugly. They’re still jagged. Serrated blades don’t make clean cuts.” I whisper.

  “Tell me more.”

  “They range in size, but they’re the smallest ones on my body. They’re about three inches long and about a quarter of an inch wide.”

  “What color are they?” She asks.

  “The area around them is still pink. But the scars themselves are white. They’re obvious against the color contrast…”

  My heart rate starts to pick up, my subconscious trying to pull me back to that dark corner of hell.

  “How many scars do you see?”

  Her words pull me back just in time. I let out a ragged breath, my heart beating fiercely in my chest.

  “I have seven on my left arm and four on my right arm.”

  “Do the scars look the same on each arm?”

  “No. The left arm is worse.”

  “You’re right-handed, aren’t you?”

  My brows crinkle together in confusion at the sudden change in the conversation. The question seems to come out of nowhere. My curiosity gets the better of me, to see where she is going with this.

  “Yes, I am.” I tell her.

  I watch as one of her petite arms reaches around the door frame. In her hand, is a single black permanent marker. I take it from her fingers and examine it within my own, unsure of what she wants me to do with this.

  “Did you ever play ‘Connect the dots’ when you were younger, Bree?”

  “Yeah, Abel used to always buy me activity books when we were kids. That was where my passion for drawing came into play.” I smile at the memory. The action feels foreign to my face.

  It’s been so long since happiness came naturally to me. For as much as I rebel against my brother, he has always loved me and tried to provide a good life for me. Even though it never should have been his responsibility to do so.

  “Well, then this exercise will be even better than I intended it to be. I want you to take the marker and play connect the dots. I want you to make something beautiful come out of what you think is so ugly. I want you to channel all of those good memories of the activity books that your brother bought you and put it into this moment. Fight against the darkness.”

  I turn the marker over in between my fingers. Again and again. I use this time to draw in those happy memories of my childhood. Abel would bring home a plastic grocery bag full of activity books and coloring books for me, anything to bring a smile to my face. He wanted to keep me from realizing what our reality was. He always protected me from the darkness of life.

  As I got older, the activities would get harder, like crossword puzzles and Sudoku, but I was always a sucker for a good maze or connect the dots. Hell, I still am. When I get kids cereal, I always do the activities on the back of the box. A reminder of better times. Easier times.

  With the good memories in the forefront of my mind, I use it as momentum and uncap the marker. I step closer to the mirror and turn my body so that my right arm is in the focal point.

  For the very first time, I face my scars head on.

  This is the closest I’ve ever been to them. I force myself to see puzzles to solve rather than nightmares to run from. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. As I exhale, I open my eyes with a new found determination.

  I raise the marker to my arm and trace my first jagged scar.

  I try to think of all the pages in those books from when I was a kid. My favorite one was when the dots connected into a unicorn. Abel always liked the dinosaurs. Dex’s favorite was when the dots connected into a box of donuts.

  Another smile graces my lips.

  That makes two in one day.

  I can’t remember the last time I smiled so much, so effortlessly…

  So genuinely…

  I let the marker flow freely across my skin. I try not to think of what will come out of it. I don’t care what it looks like when it’s done, anything is better than what I’m seeing now. I just want to cover up these scars…

  But it’s the memories of all the Saturday mornings with Abel that keep me propelling forward. It’s Captain Crunch and cartoons. Its fuzzy socks and my big brother’s t-shirts. Its Dex and Brody helping me hang the finished products on the fridge or on Abel’s door to surprise him with when he gets home. There’s so many smiles, laughs, and happy times that I’ve let myself forget.

  Before I know it, I have a full image on my entire upper arm. And to be honest, it’s kind of beautiful. It’s intricate and looks like a triangular geometric image. It’s oddly feminine, which is incredibly surprising since it came from a place of such toxic masculinity. The dark ink covers each jagged scar perfectly.

  You can’t even tell there are scars hiding beneath the surface.

  “Wow…” I breathe out as my fingertips trace the ink.

  “Can I see?” Dr. Nichol’s asks from the other side of the door.

  “Yeah, you can come out.” I tell her.

  She’s so small that she doesn’t even have to push the door open to step out from behind the tiny pocket between the door and the wall. She walks right over to my side and takes my arm in her hands, examining the marks I’ve placed there.

  “This is beautiful, Bree. Wow, I didn’t expect to see anything like this! I kind of love it.” She laughs.

  And without conscious thought, I laugh right along with her. Because I kind of love it too. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I don’t ever want to let it go.

  “How does seeing this here make you feel?” She asks me.

  “It’s kind of amazing actually.” I tell her honestly. “I would much rather see this than what’s actually there.”

  “But this could become what’s actually there, ya know.”

  I tilt my head in confusion, unsure of what she means.

  “You could get this tattooed on you, Bree. You could turn the scars you have into beautiful works of art. Connect the dots, connect the lines, same thing. You could turn these into whatever you wanted. It’s entirely up to you.”

  Her suggestions catches me off guard, but still somehow resonates within me. I never expected a tattoo prescription, but I feel like that’s exactly what she’s giving me. And she’s absolutely right, I can turn these scars into whatever I want. I can make them beautiful, I can make them disappear. I could find a way to wear them, without feeling ashamed of them.

  Once again, I find myself smiling in her office.

  “I lik
e where this idea is going, Doc.”

  She smiles back at me, and when she does so, it’s like she’s telling me that I’ve given her the greatest gift she’s ever received. I’m proud of that smile.

  “Well let’s get started on the next section of skin. Let’s see what you come up with. Even if you don’t like the sharpie work you do, you can start thinking of different ideas in the meantime. But at least this way, you can walk out of here with your head held high.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  DEX

  “I don’t know Abel, she still hasn’t taken that damn hoodie off and I feel like I will have to steal it and burn it just so she’ll stop fucking hiding from me.”

  “I know man, but you know that’s not your choice to make. And you can’t take anything away from her right now. She needs to feel a little more grounded. And if living in your hoodie is what’s doing that for her, then you know as well as I do that you can’t ruin that for her.”

  His words should be comforting to me. I should be happy that he understands where his sister is at in life and that he’s willing to be so patient with her. But I don’t know how to get him to see that she’s not just hiding, but that hoodie is the emotional equivalent of her running away. Something she promised me that she wouldn’t do anymore.

  I know this isn’t about me, isn’t about our relationship, but letting her run now is just going to make it easier for her to run in the future. And I can’t, no I won’t, sit back and let that happen.

  Not now, not ever.

  She’s come too far, and survived too much, to succumb to the aftermath. I just don’t know how to get Abel to understand this.

  “Dex, are you still there, man?” Abel’s voice calls through the phone.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Let her keep the hoodie, dude. It’s still really fresh for her.”

  “It’s still really fresh for all of us, Abel. And that’s what I need her to see. She’s not alone in this. We’re all here, ready for whatever comes next. She just has to be the one to decide she’s ready for whatever that is.”

  My words come out as a plea. I’m begging my best friend to understand that I know what’s right for his sister. I know that’s a hard pill for him to swallow, but it’s the truth. I know Bree better than anyone. Hell, I know her more than she knows herself. That’s why I feel so strongly about this. I know how deep her flight instincts run.