🖤BUD🖤

Chapter 2

Aunt Amalia takes over Dad's office like she's preparing for battle-purposeful, calm, in full command of the space. She settles into his chair with a quiet authority, crossing one leg over the other as the leather creaks beneath her. Her eyes-those sharp, perceptive eyes that always saw right through me-lock onto mine.

"Okay, Alex. Nightmares... How are they? Do they still keep you up at night? Are you still having them?"

The question slices through the air, and suddenly I'm not in the office anymore.

I'm back there.

The acrid scent of burning metal clogs my throat. Dad's face-bloodied, bruised, battered-flashes before me in a sickening loop. His voice-raw and desperate-cut through the fog of mind control like shattering glass. I still hear it. I still feel it. The blood-the warm spray of it-splattering onto my cheek, clinging to my skin like a brand. My fingers twitch involuntarily in my lap as if to wipe it away.

I force a laugh that doesn't sound even remotely human and shake my head. "No... I've been sleeping like a baby, guess the NyQuil is working like a charm."

Amaila narrows her eyes. There's no amusement on her face. No judgement either-just that unwavering empathy that makes it harder to lie to her. 

"You're such a bad liar, Alexandria," she says softly, but her voice carries weight. "You're going to have nightmares, especially after what happened. You and your father have suffered severe trauma. I know you've been through a lot, but talking about it can really help me have a better understanding of what happened and how we-as in your father and I-can help you."

I drop my gaze to the rug beneath my shoes. The threads blur and warp, tears threatening but refusing to fall. Talking. How do I talk about something that still feels like it's choking the air out of my lungs?

"I know," I murmur. "It's just hard trying to figure out what to say... everything that's happened doesn't seem real. I don't know how to talk about it because of that."

There's a pause, and then I hear her chair creak as she rises. Her footsteps are soft but firm as she leaves the room, the door swinging silently shut behind her. I take the moment to steady myself, my chest rising and falling like it's too exhausted to continue.

When she returns, she's holding an old book. Its leather cover is cracked with age, and the fading gold leafing on the edges glint faintly in the light. She offers it to me like it's something sacred. "Here. Let's start journaling."

I stare at it like it might explode in my hands. "Journaling? What am I, twelve, writing about my crush? How will this help?"

She clears her throat, giving me that look that means just hear me out.

 "Well, it's a starting point, and if this doesn't work, we can try something else, okay Alex? You can write about how the day was-normal day things. You can carry this around with you too. If you're feeling anxious, jot down your thoughts on why. And if you have a vivid dream, write it down and how it made you feel. Just write something everyday and we'll go over everything in about a week so you can get some stuff down."

I run my hand along the cover. The texture is rough, grounding. Something about it feels... safe. 

"Do you really think it'll help, Aunt Amalia?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper. She nods, her gaze unwavering. "Okay," I say quietly. "I'll try."

* * *

Warm air blasted against my face, the hum of the engine beneath me familiar yet foreign. I blinked, disoriented, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel as I looked around in confusion. How did I end up here? When did I start driving?