Bleeding Hearts: A Dark Captive Romance (Heartbreaker Book 1)

by Stella Hart

  The only place I ever really let my guard down and stopped following my rules was farther out of the city in more spacious areas where the likelihood of getting mugged was somewhere around zero. Like my parents’ old place in Fox Chapel, for instance.

  Now that both my parents were gone, the property was legally mine, but I had no intention of ever living there again. No one wanted to rent it from me, either, given the history of the place. As soon as I got the call from Mom’s lawyer after her passing, I told him to put it up for sale. Perhaps someone who didn’t care too much about the past would buy it and bulldoze it to build a whole new house with a whole new history. Unfortunately, the state was having a major real estate crunch at the moment, so it probably wasn’t going to sell anytime soon.

  As I arrived at the bus stop, a familiar feeling washed over me. I had the strange, skin-crawling sense that I was being watched—something I’d felt many times before. Goosebumps populated my flesh, and I shivered, rubbing my arms with my gloved hands as I glanced around. No one was here but a short, squat old man in a thick brown overcoat waiting for the same bus. He wasn’t looking at me; didn’t even seem to notice I was here.

  As usual, my instincts were wrong. No one was looking at me. It was probably just stress and anxiety affecting me, making my brain go haywire.

  Good thing I was on my way to the therapist.

  The bus pulled up to the stop, and I stepped onto it.

  “So how’s the pain been since our last session?”

  My therapist, Dr. Fitzgibbons, tilted her head to the side, ballpoint pen poised above her notepad. She was a tall, thin brunette with a sharp, prominent nose and big, heavily-mascaraed eyes. She wore wire-rimmed glasses which made her eyes seem even larger.

  I let out a small sigh. “It’s not great. The increased painkiller dosage from Dr. Pompeo is helping a little, but every time I get dressed or carry anything, I still feel it.”

  She nodded slowly. “Sorry to hear that. Healing is a slow process. Have you been doing all your PT exercises, though?”

  “Yes, I’m managing them. The PT said if I build up my upper back strength, it’ll start to help.”

  “Good. And what about the breathing exercises I gave you last time?”

  “They help me sleep a little easier.”

  “Great. Small steps.” She smiled encouragingly. “What about the other suggestion I had, for you to try and take a short amount of time off every day to do something for yourself?”

  I twisted my lips in a guilty manner. “Well… I’ve been trying. My internship has been super busy lately, so it’s not easy to get a spare moment. But I did finish a shift at work early yesterday, so I baked some cookies. I’ve always liked baking.”

  Another nod. “That’s good.” She scribbled something in her notebook, then looked up at me again. “Okay, so we’ve been working on identifying possible major stressors in your life. At our first session, we went over your work, college, and internship. How are you feeling about all that now?”

  “A bit more positive. I’ll receive a small inheritance in just over two weeks, so I think I might be able to quit two of my part-time jobs. I’ll keep the one at the home improvement store, though.”

  “That’ll definitely provide some relief. It’ll free up a lot of time, too. Is the inheritance something you were expecting? I don’t recall you mentioning it before.”

  I picked at a nail, looking down at the swirly black, white and gray pattern on the therapist’s area rug. It was almost hypnotic. “My mother made my father set up a trust fund when I was born. It’s not a huge amount, but it’s enough to make me comfortable for a short period while I get my life together. I couldn’t touch it till this year, though; it was just meant to be a birthday gift once I turned twenty-one. My father was going to pay for college and all that jazz himself. Guess he didn’t exactly foresee an early death, or my mom pissing the rest of his money away.”

  Dr. Fitzgibbons nodded slowly again. “You had to take on a lot of financial responsibility at a young age, I know. But this inheritance should take some of that strain off. I’m glad you have it coming your way, even if it took a long time.”

  “Me too. I know I’m lucky. Most people don’t have anything like that.”

  “Exactly.” She twirled the pen in her hand. “Now, in last week’s session, we went over your parents’ deaths. You mentioned how you think that’s the root of your constant anxiety. I’m actually not so sure about that.”

  I raised my brows. “Really?”

  “Really. As traumatic as the events surrounding your father’s death were—you were only six, after all—I think you coped solidly. Same with your mother’s passing. It was only seven months ago, and you’re coping well.”

  “But I don’t think I am. I still think about it all the time. I feel… guilty.”

  Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows. “Guilty? You didn’t mention that last session. Over which death?”

  “Both. I was the one who found my father after he died, like I told you last week. But….”

  “Yes?” She arched an expectant eyebrow.

  My lower lip trembled for a second, and I lowered my eyes to the mesmerizing rug. “I didn’t tell you this part last week, but when I saw him, I just stood and stared at first. I didn’t scream for anyone. I didn’t even think. I just… looked. For twenty whole minutes, until Mom came looking for us.”

  She nodded. “You were a very young child. You didn’t know how to process it,” she said gently. “There’s no need to feel guilty, and it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, believe me. You have to forgive yourself for things like that.”

  “Maybe. But there’s my mom, too. I didn’t speak to her for a whole year when I was a teenager. It was only when she got sick that I let her back into my life.”

  “Yes, by caring for her.” Dr. Fitzgibbons leaned forward. “Celeste, your mother was an alcoholic. She made your childhood very hard. You had to be self-sufficient from a very young age. That’s not your fault. It was hers. I understand that’s difficult to hear, but it’s the blunt truth. There’s no need for guilt there, either.”

  “I guess.”

  “That’s actually what I mean when I talk about how well you’ve coped. Losing your father at such an early age and then losing your mother to alcoholism for so many years could have seriously devastated you. Could’ve led you down a very dark path. But you pulled yourself together despite it all. You’re a very accomplished young woman. You get good grades, you work more than one job despite near-constant back pain, and from what I understand, you’re one of only two students selected from your college for the FBI internship.”

  “That’s true. But I didn’t have a choice other than to pull myself together,” I said softly.

  Her forehead crinkled. “Actually, you did. You could’ve made other choices. Could’ve really messed your life up and let yourself fall apart.”

  I shrugged. A twinge of pain immediately shot through my upper back. “Maybe.”

  She was silent for a moment, eyebrows drawn together as she looked at me. Then she looked down at her notebook and flipped back a couple of pages. “You said something last week that interested me. It’s why I’m not sure your parents’ deaths are the primary source of your stress.”

  “Oh?”

  “You said that you remember always feeling anxious as a child. Even before your father died.”

  “Mm. I guess some people are just like that,” I replied. It was true—as long as I could remember, I’d been a naturally anxious person. My stomach always felt like it was filled with butterflies, and my mind was always on high alert. I’d gotten used to it over the years, and I just assumed I’d been like that from birth for no particular reason.

  “Perhaps, but it’s terrible for your stress levels—and subsequently your current nerve pain—to always be anxious. If there’s anything from your early childhood that might’ve caused this perpetual state of anxiety, I think we need to get to the bot
tom of it.”

  I frowned and picked at another nail. “Nothing bad happened to me as a kid. Other than finding my father dead, that is, and my mother drinking herself to sleep every day afterwards,” I said in a small voice.

  Dr. Fitzgibbons pressed her lips together in a sympathetic half-smile. “I know that was extremely traumatizing for you.” Her voice was softer now, soothing and warm. “And I’m sorry that we had to discuss the events of your father’s passing so… deeply… in our last session. But I’m glad you’re opening up to me. Sometimes I get patients who just lie on that sofa and refuse to say a word.”

  “Well, I need to get better, and Dr. Pompeo said therapy could help. So I’m willing to answer any questions or discuss any subject,” I said with a faint wry smile.

  She gave me a brisk nod. “Good.” Then she cocked her head to the side. “So you don’t recall anything negative from your early childhood, other than your father’s passing?”

  I shrugged. “Nope. All I really have are super vague memories of normal stuff. Playing in the garden, first day of pre-school, walks in the park with Mom, and Dad taking me along to his friends’ dinner parties sometimes. Stuff like that. But I barely even remember any of it, to be honest. It’s all a blur. I was so young.”

  Dr. Fitzgibbons arched an eyebrow. “Your dad took you to dinner parties with friends, and your mother didn’t go?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but that wasn’t a negative thing. My parents weren’t fighting. It was just that Mom was busy with her own stuff a lot, so if she couldn’t go to events, Dad would take me along as like, his cute little ‘date’.” I put the word in air quotes. “He had a lot of fancy friends, considering his job, so there were a lot of events to attend.”

  She crossed her legs. “So you don’t recall your parents fighting or arguing when you were young?”

  I shrugged. “If they did, I never saw it. Except the day Dad died—I heard them arguing that day. But I never found out why, because… well, he died. Mom probably totally forgot about the argument. I guess petty fights suddenly seem really small when big, horrible stuff occurs out of the blue.”

  “That’s true. And that was the only time they ever seemed to argue or disagree on anything?”

  “Yes.” I raised my brows. I could tell she still wasn’t convinced that my life was actually pretty normal as a child. “I swear, I really don’t remember having any negative experiences in my childhood before that day.”

  “Hm. All right. I’d like to try something, if it’s okay with you.” She crossed one leg over the other and pushed her glasses up her nose. “It’s slightly controversial, but I’ve found it to be an effective aid with a few previous patients, if you’re open to it.”

  My forehead crinkled. “I guess it depends what ‘it’ is.”

  “It’s called hypnosis-enhanced therapy.”

  I sat up straight. Pain pricked between my shoulder blades, but I ignored it. “Sorry, what? I thought that stuff was all bullcrap.”

  Dr. Fitzgibbons smiled patiently and held up one hand. “Don’t confuse it with those silly stage shows where they pretend to use a swinging pocket watch to make people cluck like chickens. That’s not real. You don’t actually go into a trance during hypnosis, and you never say or do anything you don’t want to. It’s more like meditation.”

  “Okay. But for what?”

  “It puts you in a relaxed state where anything going on around you is blocked out. This makes it easier for you to focus your attention on specific thoughts, so you can explore painful thoughts and feelings that may have been hidden from your conscious mind. Moreover, we can explore possible psychological root causes of anxiety disorders, such as traumatic events that you may have hidden in their unconscious memory.”

  “Er… right.” I was still skeptical.

  She held up one finger. “Now, one issue. The reliability of information recalled by some patients under hypnosis is not always good. There’s also a minor risk of false memory creation. But like I said, I’ve found it useful on occasion.”

  “Hm.” I was reluctant yet intrigued. “How does it work?”

  “You’ll lie down and close your eyes, and I’ll use guided imagery to make your mind slow down and relax. Once you get into this relaxed state, I’ll try and guide your mind toward particular issues.”

  “Um. Okay.” I chewed on my bottom lip for a second. “I guess it’s worth a try, if you really think there’s something hidden in my mind that I don’t remember.”

  “I do. I believe there’s a root cause for all that anxiety, and I want to help you get better.”

  “Okay. I guess I’m open to it, then. Like I said, I’m here to get better, so….” I let my voice trail off as I lay down on the wide dove-gray sectional sofa.

  “Good.” Dr. Fitzgibbons stood and briskly stepped over to the window, snapping the blinds shut to dim the room. “Start breathing deeply, just like I taught you at our first session. The same exercise you’ve been doing every night before bed.”

  I put one hand on my stomach, making sure my diaphragm filled with air every time I took a breath, ensuring I wasn’t breathing too shallowly. Then I closed my eyes and began to breathe deeply, slowly.

  “Picture yourself as a child. You’re standing by the edge of a lake. It looks calm, serene. Can you see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Step into it. The water is warm; the perfect temperature. Keep picturing yourself wading in. Then slowly, very slowly, dip down. Let the water cover every inch of you.”

  I did as she said, trying to picture myself submerging my body in the peaceful blue lake. It was difficult to imagine myself as a little girl, but I tried as hard as I could.

  “Now, slowly lift yourself up and out of the water. Keep your eyes closed, but in your mind, open them. What do you immediately picture in your mind’s eye now that you’re out of the water?”

  I took a deep breath and imagined myself rising out of the lake and opening my eyes. The first thing I pictured after that was a set of double doors in an oddly-familiar hall.

  “It’s a ballroom, I think. It’s the doors leading into one, anyway.”

  “A ballroom? Why do you think that?”

  “The doors are huge. Ornate. They look just like all those double doors you see in fairytale movies, where they open them with a flourish to allow the prince or princess a grand entrance. Only they’re closed, and I’m on the outside.”

  “I see. Can you describe them some more?”

  “There’s two of them. Dark wood. Paneled and framed with a semi-circular arch above each one. Fancy golden handles. They look old, but not in a bad way. More like… classic. There’s also a little vestibule just before the doors, and that’s framed with carved wood, just like the doors.”

  “Anything else?”

  I took in a deep breath, concentrating harder. “The wooden arches on the top are decorated with a pattern that’s been carved into the wood.”

  “What sort of pattern?”

  “Just an old-fashioned ornamental sort of one, I guess. Like, swirly engraved leaves. Also, in the middle of each pattern, there’s a carved circle.”

  “A circle?”

  “Uh-huh. Two of them, because there’s two arches.” I exhaled deeply. “That’s all I can see.”

  “What about the rest of the room where the doors sit?”

  I concentrated harder. “Um. It’s a hall. I’ve never noticed this before today, but there’s a little table sitting to the right of one of the doors. Kind of like an accent table, made from the same wood. It has a vase of flowers on it. Pink peonies. Then to the left of the other door, there’s a painting. It’s a landscape with a couple of horses.”

  “Sounds like a nice place. But you just said that you’ve never noticed the table and painting before today. Does that mean this is a place you’ve been before? Or seen somewhere?”

  “Um….” I frowned, trying to think harder, pressing my mind for more. “I just realized a minute ago that I’ve h
ad quite a few dreams about these doors before. Two just last week, actually. But I don’t know if I’ve ever seen them in person.”

  “I see. What do you feel when you picture them?”

  “I guess… happy? Because it’s such a nice place. But also afraid, because I don’t know why I keep going there. I think… there’s a sort of male presence near me, but I don’t know why or how to describe it other than that.”

  Dr. Fitzgibbons was silent for a moment. I could hear her scribbling notes in her book. “I want you to try something now,” she finally said. “I want you to try and open the doors.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you see now?”

  “Nothing.” I strained, but I couldn’t do it. Something stabbed at my guts as I tried, chilling me from the inside out. The pain in my shoulders intensified, and I could feel my hands and arms turning numb. I sat up and opened my eyes. “Sorry. The mental image is just… gone. All I see is black. I can’t look behind the doors. I also got a weird nervous feeling when I tried, and I think it somehow made my nerve pain worse.”

  “All right. We won’t do any more of that today.” She slowly tapped her pen on her book. “But the painting, the table… you said that’s more than you remember seeing before, when you’ve dreamed about the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s a start. I’d say you’ll start to remember more about this particular scene soon.”

  Her tone sounded positive, but her expression was troubled. I swallowed hard, hoping the doors didn’t signify some awful psychological condition. There had to be a reason why mentally trying to open them made my pain worse, right? The sports doctor told me a few weeks ago that stress could make nerves more sensitive, after all. So obviously, my brain found it stressful to go there.

  “Am I okay?” I said shakily.

  “Yes, you’re fine. You did really well, Celeste,” she replied, closing her notebook. “We’re out of time now, but we’ll pick up where we left off next week. I have some homework for you: keep doing your breathing exercises every night, and write down anything new that comes to you if you dream about the doors again. Any images, any feelings. It’s all helpful.”