Rhea Thurman has always been goal-driven despite the tragedies of her past. Her obsession with criminal law leads her to the most prestigious internship in the city, working under up-and-coming lawyer, Davina Jenkins.
But Rhea never prepared to meet...
I almost stumble at the sound of his voice. My hand lands against the white polish of his Mercedes. A bloody hand print is left behind in my wake. I don't stare at it long enough to be truly horrified.
Everything burns, but I focus on the adrenaline that is coursing through what remains of my blood. What isn't already flowing from the large gash across my thigh.
"Rhea," he sighs, like I've forgotten to do the dishes. Like I'd gotten a bad grade on an assignment. Like I'm the one he's disappointed in.
I can't even look at him now. Betrayal has cracked my heart in two, leaving the remnants behind in my childhood home.
I thought my life was perfect. What a foul I was.
I gasp awake, sweat gliding down my back and I sit up. The room is dark; a sliver of early morning light creeping through Sofía's curtains.
My lip quivers and I close my eyes, feeling the tears as they wet my lashes. I move slowly off the mattress, grabbing a jumper and throwing it over my pyjamas. I step out into the chilly hallway, my breath faltering.
The early morning sunlight catches at my feet as it moves in through the glass door, leading to the garden. I step out slowly, stretching my arms as I let the warmth invade me.
My phone sits heavy in the pocket of my jumper, weighting me down like a brick. I sit on the steps, reaching for my phone. It rings twice before my therapist picks up.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I'm glad you're here today, Rhea."
In the space of my entire life, I haven't missed many sessions with Heather Blackwood. But for her, not seeing a patient for a few weeks in a row is never a good sign.
I smile, despite the dark feeling coiling in my chest. "I've been so busy. With the internship and work. Reconnecting with my brother."
She nods, clicking a pen as I focus on the blank pages of her notebook. She knows what I'm doing; highlighting the good to diverge from the bad.
"What made you come back today?"
I clear my throat, sitting forward in the armchair. "Everything's been really good, you know? But these silly little nightmares," I laugh, trying to diffuse the tension, "they just won't go away."
"Last time I saw you, you mentioned the nightmares," she nods. "Have they gotten any worse?"
I shrug, picking at my nail. "It's hard to define whether it's worse or the same. But I can't sleep anymore. Not without interruption."
Heather makes a small noise in the back of her throat as she begins to take notes. "How many hours of sleep would you say you've been getting?"
"Um," I think back to every night this week. I hadn't slept through the night once. "Four or five hours, I think."
She nods, scribbling down some more notes. "Have you been journaling?"
I don't bother lying because I notice how she blinks once, seeing the change in my expression. "No," I admit.
"Okay. That's okay. I think you should focus more on detailing your nightmares for me. Keep a log of everything you can remember when you wake up and at what time you wake."
"Okay," I whisper.
"I'd also like to see a sleep log of how many hours you're getting and how well you fell on a scale of one to ten when you wake up in the morning."
I nod, entwining my hands. "I, um— I was hoping to see if I could get a prescription of Prazosin."
Heather's eyes soften as she lowers her notebook to the coffee table. A sure sign things are not good when she stops taking notes.
"I want that to be our last resort," she says. "I think that the medication may have suspended your PTSD and nightmares whilst taking it but, Rhea, it doesn't seem like it helped in the long run."
"It's because I stopped taking them at eighteen," I defend. "I was told that I shouldn't be mixing so many pills, so I focused on those awful anti-depressants. But I'm not taking anything anymore, so I'm sure it—"
"The source of your nightmares, from what I believe, are coming from the stress in you life right now. That's totally normal for anyone. I think that—"
"Shouldn't that be a reason why I need the medication?" I urge, frustrated.
She closes her notebook on the table. I feel my heart sink, knowing that she isn't choosing to help me.
"I want you to start with the journal," she says quietly. "See how you go from there and come back to me next week, alright?"
But I already know that next week will be the same. So will the week after. Despite what I'd promised Maia, I feel the sudden uselessness of the situation.
At fifteen, I'd tried to journal. It's not that it didn't help to get everything out on paper, but the medication was better. It saturated my nightmares until they were just numb feelings. Sometimes I would sleep through the entire night. Heather hadn't wanted to give me the prescription back then, believing in a more methodical approach. She thought it would only harm my adolescent mind. She only gave in when I called her in the middle of the night, woken by the feeling that blood was coating my hands.
I stare at her now, wondering if she's suppressed the memory. Wondering if she sees so many patients that I'm just an afterthought. Something of significance for me, is likely just a small occurrence that she deals with weekly.
Does she not see that it's killing me? That this pain is more dangerous than anything I'd ever done to myself?
She smiles warmly and I feel my heart sink.
She no longer feels like the safe space I'd encountered years ago. It feels like she believes she's analysed all there is to know about me and that she knows better.
