by Shade, S. M.
Do I want to? The constant grief weighs me down and talking about him might make it feel like he’s a little closer. “What do you want to know?”
“Well.” She sits back and opens her own drink. “How did you first meet?”
A snort of laughter leaps out of me. My answer isn’t going to go very far in showing her I’m not crazy. The way she’s sitting, asking for details on the man I love makes it feel like we’re sharing girl talk, like Thea and I have done a thousand times. Thea, another person I don’t want to think about again. “He stalked me, and I fell in love with him.”
If she’s shocked, she hides it well. Over the next hour, I recount everything from my writer’s block that led to my walks, to the man who started following me and ended up being my whole world. I tell her every bit of the truth. About him and me. The only thing I leave out is the man I stalked and killed alone. She never interrupts to ask how this or that made me feel, only to ask a clarifying question here and there.
Tears pour down my face at the end, when I confess he died instead of me. She hands me a tissue and gives me some time to recover before she speaks.
“I’m so sorry for the pain you’re feeling, Darcy. I hate to see anyone suffer, and you’re suffering from all of this. I want to help you. Will you let me do that?”
“Nothing can make this better. He’s gone.”
“I understand that. Still, I’d like for us to talk again. Would you be okay with that?”
It’s not like I have much control or say over anything, but I know she’s worried I’ll stop talking again. “I suppose.”
“Thank you. There’s one more issue. At this point, we don’t typically allow visitors, but your agent and publisher are threatening legal action if they can’t speak to you. It’s up to you if you’d like to meet with them.”
Of course they are. The cash cow just fucked off out of the pasture. I’m not going to face lawyers or anyone from a publisher I’m not even under contract with at the moment, but there’s something I should discuss with my agent.
“There are some instructions I should give my agent. I need to get someone to take care of a few things, but she’s the only one I’ll agree to see.”
Dr. Childers nods and scribbles down a note. “I’ll arrange for her to visit in the morning, and we’ll talk some more tomorrow evening.”
“Okay.”
My head aches as I’m led back to the ward. The words rushed out once I started telling her what’s happened, but it was hard thinking about all the moments between as well. The things Reeve said to me, the way he looked at me, how he always made me feel safe and desired. How am I supposed to keep going without that? Without him?
All I want to do is go to bed, but I need to get some instructions ready for Amelia when she shows up tomorrow. I’m not sure where I’m going to end up, or how long I’ll be around. I need to make sure something is left behind that honors Reeve, even though I’m the only one who knows how special he was.
In that way, I suppose he still belongs to me. There’s no doubt I’ll always be his.
Chapter Twenty-Three
After another night of broken sleep and violent nightmares, I drag myself through my morning routine. Get up, shower, dress, eat breakfast. Instead of returning to my preferred chair in the day room, I’m called to the desk and informed I have a visitor. It’s outside of the normal visiting hours. When I’m escorted to one of the visitor areas, it’s clear that an exception has been made for me since it’s empty except for Amelia and the orderly who loiters by the door to keep an eye on me.
Amelia has been my literary agent for over ten years. I don’t dislike her, but she’s not a friend or someone I necessarily trust to have my best interest at heart. She’s just doing her job. We both are. So it surprises me to see concern on her face, and I’m even more shocked when she pulls me into a hug. “Darcy, dear, how are you doing?”
“I’m okay. Thanks for coming all this way.”
“Of course. Your friend Thea called to let me know what happened. I guess she was your emergency contact at the hospital.”
Right. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but I’m sure that’s how the media found out so quickly. She must’ve gotten a much better payday for that bit of inside information. I’m surprised she bothered to let anyone know before she sold me out again. I need to remove her as my emergency contact.
“Did you have something to discuss with me? I’m not under contract for anything right now. The papers have all been signed in regards to the Midnight Terror movie rights and production, haven’t they?”
“Yes, yes, there’s nothing for you to worry about. I’m not here on business, Darcy. I wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing, if you need anything from me. This is a reputable place, but I wanted to make sure they were treating you okay. If you’re being held against your will, I know a good lawyer.”
Her motherly tone makes me bite back tears. “Thank you. I am here involuntarily right now. To be honest, I’m not sure what I want to do yet.” Now that I’m actually talking to the psychiatrist, I can tell her what she wants to hear and probably get out without any legal fight.
Amelia lays a hand on mine. “I understand. If you need help, it may be better to stay.”
“I’m glad you came because I do have a couple of things that need taken care of. Has Nash Fullman sent the information you need and signed the paperwork necessary to receive his payments?”
“He’s signed all the paperwork and sent the information for his financial institution. I asked them to hold off on actually depositing the money until I talked to you…just to make sure.” She looks hesitant and uncomfortable. “I realize you made that choice a while back, but people often make rash decisions like giving away money before an…attempt.”
Of course. “Amelia.” I lean my elbows on the table and look her in the eye. “I appreciate you looking out for me, I do, but I want that done. I was of sound mind when I handed the rights over. I want the money to go to him and his family. He needs it. I don’t. As you well know, I have more than I could ever spend. Speaking of that, I also wanted to ask you to get this to my accountant and have him get in touch with me, please.”
She skims over the page and nods. “You want him to set up a scholarship fund? That’s very kind of you.”
“Yes, to benefit children aging out of the foster care system. It’s something I should’ve thought of a long time ago.”
“The Reeve Memorial Scholarship. Who’s Reeve?”
I could spend the rest of my life answering that question and never make anyone understand what he was to me.
“He…he was someone I loved. The man who died on the tracks. I want him to be remembered.”
Amelia’s head jerks up, and she stares at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t know anyone died. I suppose they kept it out of the news for some reason.”
“I know. I’m sure they considered him a vagrant. Unimportant. He did a lot he’ll never get recognized for, so please, get these instructions to my accountant to create a trust to offer scholarships. He can send anything that needs to be signed here.”
Amelia promises to take care of it, and to keep in touch with me. She gives me another hug before she leaves and tells me not to hesitate to call her if I need anything.
No matter what happens to me now, I’ll have left behind something worthwhile. A family who will never have to struggle financially again, a chance for other foster kids to escape the system without ending up on the street, and a tribute to the man who showed me what I am.
The rest of the day slips by and it isn’t until an orderly comes to take me to Dr. Childers office that I remember we have another session this evening. She greets me and offers me a soft drink, like last time.
The first few minutes are just questions about how I’m feeling, whether I’m sleeping at night, how my appetite has been, the usual. When she sits up straighter and sets her notebook aside, I know she’s about to get down to the things she re
ally wants to discuss.
“We talked about Reeve yesterday and about the grief and pain you’re feeling. Before we can begin to heal that wound, there are some things you need to understand. They may be very difficult to hear, but I need you to listen to me. You don’t have to accept what I tell you. You can believe me later. Just listen to me now.”
Nothing could be harder to hear than what I already know. I’m not happy about sitting through what will probably be a bunch of useless platitudes about dealing with grief, but we may as well get it over with. “I’ll listen, but nothing can heal this. He’s gone.”
“I understand. Let’s just talk. I want to draw a few lines, help you make some connections that you might not be seeing, okay?”
Some tiny sliver of hope that whatever she says might help the pain seeps through, despite my skepticism. “Okay.”
“You went through a severe trauma as a child. As severe as it gets.”
“Yes.” Taking a deep breath, I sip my drink.
“The man who killed your family. Do you know what happened to him?”
This isn’t the direction I expected this to take. “He went to prison. He was executed.”
Dr. Childers nods. “Yes, he was, just this year. Did you go to witness the execution?”
“No, I wanted to put all of that behind me.”
“Understandable,” she says. The direction of the conversation shifts. “Have you always used writing as a coping mechanism?”
“I suppose so. Ever since I was in middle school.”
She smiles at me and crosses her legs. “And you turned it into a very successful career. When did the writer’s block start?”
It’s hard to remember exactly. I can’t pinpoint the day I first sat down and nothing would come out. After a few moments of watching me think, she suggests, “Right around the time of the execution?”
Was it? “No, it was before. Before the execution date but…”
“Finish your thought,” she encourages.
“After I was contacted with the exact date and time. I got a phone call letting me know I could attend. I said no, and couldn’t write a word by that night.” The realization is a sobering one. “Do you think that was it? The stress of being reminded of the murders caused my writer’s block?”
She nods at me. “I think it led to a lot more than that. It’s how these things often work. A stressor causes this domino effect that can quickly spiral out of control.”
Agreeing to a murder then helping to cover it up led to me hunting a bad man and killing him as well—not that she knows that. Yeah, I can’t disagree with the downward spiral theory. The room suddenly feels too small, and sweat pops out on my skin.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“It’s hot in here. Stuffy.”
“Would you like to continue this talk out in the gardens?”
Her question catches me by surprise. This is a late session. It’s dark out. I haven’t been outside at night since I’ve been here. “Yeah, that’d be good.”
She calls an orderly and gives him instructions, then we head outdoors. Since he stays back far enough not to listen to our conversation, but close enough to keep an eye on us, I imagine she told him to stand by in case I lose my shit again.
The night air feels good, but the stars hanging overhead seem to radiate loneliness.
“Better?” Dr. Childers asks as we sit opposite each other at a small table.
“Yes, thank you.”
We get back to the conversation. “How long after the writer’s block started did you meet Reeve?”
That’s an odd question. “A few months? I had just moved to a new place. I thought maybe a change of scenery, getting away from the noise of a city would help.”
“And when did the writer’s block end? After you met him?”
“Not right after, no. I guess it ended once I was happier. He made me happier, and I could write again.”
“And once you could write, that’s when he left?”
Something in her tone or the question itself agitates me, but I can’t pinpoint why. “What are you getting at?” I snap.
My attitude doesn’t affect her at all. She looks me in the eye and continues with her voice gentle but firm. “When you stopped writing, you lost your coping mechanism. You had to find a new one. Once you regained your ability to write, you didn’t need it anymore. So it disappeared. Don’t you see? Reeve isn’t real, Darcy. You created him in your mind. He was there when you needed him because you needed him. You’re suffering from PTSD and depression.”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” She can’t be serious.
“You said he saved your life. Kept you from killing yourself with the generator?”
My palms slam onto the table. “He did!”
Dr. Childers waves her hand in dismissal when the orderly starts toward us. She isn’t done. “You were overwhelmed. Anxious and depressed. Suicidal and getting close to acting on it. Your mind found a way to relieve some of that, to give you what you needed in the moment. A person to protect you. From the world and yourself. The brain is remarkable in its abilities, especially when it comes to our survival instinct. He didn’t save you. You saved yourself.”
“You’re wrong. This is the craziest shit I’ve ever heard. You think I dreamed up some man and then fell in love with him? I had sex with him, for fuck’s sake!” I can’t bear to sit at the table anymore so I get to my feet. She follows suit, but doesn’t approach me. “We fucked our brains out so many times!”
“Sexual hallucinations can feel very real. It’s not uncommon with severe PTSD sufferers.”
I’ve trusted the wrong person to spill my life story to if she’s this stupid. “He was killed! His blood’s probably still all over the railroad tracks and the train. There may not have been much left of him, but there’s surely a police report, a death notice. Just go look it up! You’ll see I’m not crazy! Reeve was real. He was the best and worst thing to ever happen to me because he taught me to live when I would’ve been better off dying!”
“You wouldn’t be better off dead, and you won’t fully recognize that and get better until these hard truths are accepted. When you told the nurses at the hospital about Reeve, the tracks were checked. The young man who pushed you out of the way of the train and saved your life was interviewed multiple times.”
She takes a step closer to me, and I retreat, trying to keep my anger under control.
“There was no one else on those tracks that night, Darcy. There was no blood. The train didn’t strike anything. Reeve didn’t die. He never existed.”
“You’re wrong!” I shout, but she only continues.
“Is there any other person who ever talked to him? One friend or passing acquaintance who acknowledged him?”
“He didn’t…we were always alone. That doesn’t mean…” My head thumps painfully, and I tug at the ends of my hair.
“Can you show me one picture, tell me his phone number, where he lived, take me to his home?”
“Stop it!” I cry, backing away from her.
“I’m sorry. You need to know. The senator’s alive and well because none of those things happened. It was all in your head. No one was killed. You didn’t do anything wrong. You just need some help.”
This can’t be happening. Why is she doing this to me? None of it makes any sense. Reeve’s real, of course he is. I’ve felt him, his arms around me, his lips on mine, his cock inside me. She’s trying to trick me for some reason, make me think things didn’t happen the way they did.
“Gaslighting,” I sob. “That’s what this is. Why?”
“I only have one more question for you. The man who killed your family. What’s his full name?”
My stomach cramps painfully, and the world wavers in front of my eyes. “I don’t…”
“You do. You do know. His name was Joseph Reeves.”
“That doesn’t mean anything!” My scream pierces the night, and before I squeeze my eyes shut, I se
e the orderly coming for me.
“I know it may not make sense to you, but the way our subconscious works is often a puzzle. You created this man in your mind, a man who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt others, but never you, and that’s the name your subconscious chose. That’s not a coincidence. The sooner you accept reality, the better things will get. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow, when you’ve had some time to sit with it.”
“I won’t…I won’t talk to you again.”
Ignoring my statement, she addresses the orderly. “Please take her back to her room.”
“Don’t touch me!” I snap at the orderly. “I know how to walk.” Why would I resist getting away from this bitch? I knew I shouldn’t have told anyone. How dare she try to convince me he wasn’t real?
By the time I’m left alone in my room, I can’t stop the sobs. My Reeve, I miss him so much. My head spins with everything Dr. Childers said, but I don’t believe it. I won’t.
The wall feels cool against my back, and I draw my legs up, laying my head on my knees. It’s so hard to think straight. Images and memories flash through my mind faster and faster. The universe trapped in a tunnel, the scent of wood smoke, blood splattered metal, a deep chuckle in my ear, shoes crunching on gravel, the cry of a train whistle. All flying by like pages being flipped by a violent wind. So vicious and lovely. Sweet and wretched.
Reeve once told me there are always things ahead of me if I look for them, and that I should leave the past to rot. I’ll leave this to rot.
I’ll shove it away, clear it from my memory. That doctor had so much wrong, but one thing correct. Reeve wasn’t on the tracks that night. It was only me.
Leave the rest to rot.
Done.
Gone.
Darkness steals my sight, and I’m falling, falling.
It never happened. He didn’t get hit by a train, that’s ridiculous.
How could I have ever thought that?