𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 ﾒ 𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘺

☼ chapter one

TATUM WAS NAMED AFTER A DEAD PERSON. After her dead aunt she never even met, to be more exact.

She often wondered whether that made her cursed from the beginning. It had to be a bad omen, right?

She also caught herself thinking about what her aunt was like, what her interests were, and what her life could have been, sometimes. Her dad used to say she was fun, witty, adventurous. He kept some faded photographs around the trailer, and Tate could be commonly found staring at them.

I am you, you are me.

Tatum sat in the dimly lit room, her fingers nervously tapping against the armrests of the chair. She had been coming to this psychiatrist for nearly a year now, but she still felt uncomfortable in this room. The sterile smell of disinfectant and the plain white walls made her feel like she was trapped in some kind of prison. She shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but nothing felt right.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with a gentle smile and kind eyes, sat across from her, patiently waiting for her to speak. He had been trying to get Tatum to open up about her trauma for months now, but every time they met, she would clam up and refuse to talk about anything. But what did they expect? She didn't need some random stranger trying to fix her problems, she needed some fucking sleep.

"So, Tatum, how have you been feeling this week?" the doctor asked, flipping through his notes. Tate couldn't remember his name, she never could. "Any improvements at all?"

Tatum shrugged. "Same as always. Can't sleep. Nightmares. Anxiety. You know, the usual."

The doctor nodded sympathetically. "I know it's been tough for you, Tatum. But I'm here to help you work through your pain and move forward. We can't change what happened in the past, but we can work on making things better in the present."

Tatum rolled her eyes. She had heard all of this before. She knew what the doctor was trying to do, and she wasn't going to fall for it. "Yeah, I know. You're here to help me. Blah, blah, blah. Look, can we just cut to the chase? My pills don't do shit anymore. I need something stronger."

The doctor frowned. "We've talked about this before. I'm not comfortable prescribing you more medication until we've addressed the root of the problem. You can't just keep relying on pills to help you sleep. We need to figure out why you're having these nightmares in the first place."

Tatum scoffed. "Like you care about my issues. You just want to bill me for more sessions."

The doctor sighed. "That's not true, Tatum. I genuinely want to help you."

"Sure you do," Tatum muttered, scratching her wrist absentmindedly. It was red and irritated from doing it so much, even though she tried to take turns with both her wrists.

Doc noticed, because of course he did, and Tatum tugged at the sleeve of her plaid shirt to cover it up. Her wrist would have to wait. She went on to chew on her nails and the tips of her fingers, instead.

"Let's try something different today. Tell me about your childhood."

Tatum rolled her eyes again. "What's the point?"

"It could help us understand where some of your trauma is coming from. You don't have to go into too much detail if you don't want to, but just give me a general idea of what it was like growing up."

Tatum let out a deep breath. "Fine. My parents got divorced when I was 11, and I chose to stay with my dad. It's home, you know? Well, it was, until my childhood best friend and her psycho boyfriend killed my dad and a bunch of my friends. My mom wrote a book about my trauma experience in Woodsboro, and she called me naive and childish, which is another way to stay I was fucking stupid, right?"

Sometimes, Tatum couldn't help but wonder what her life would have been like if she had chosen to go with her mother to NYC instead. Would they be closer now? Would Gale understand her better? God, probably not.

Gale was always too ambitious. It was her dad who was her rock, her protector, her best friend.

It was her dad who was dead.

The doctor nodded. "That's a lot to process, Tatum. And it's understandable that you're still struggling with it. But it's important to remember that you're not alone. There are people who care about you and want to help you."

Tatum scoffed again. "Yeah, right. The only person who ever cared about me is dead, and the rest of them are probably just waiting for their turn to stab me in the back."

The doctor leaned forward. "I understand it's hard to trust people after what you've been through. But shutting everyone out isn't the answer. You need to find a way to let people in and let them help you."

Tatum laughed bitterly. "I don't need anyone's help. I just need more pills, I need some sleep."

The doctor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing in concern. "Tatum, I know this is hard for you, but it's important that you talk about these things. We can't heal if we don't confront the pain."

Tatum glared at him. "I don't need to heal. I'm fine. I just need some damn pills so I can sleep."

The doctor sighs and takes a moment to compose himself. "I'm sorry, Tatum, but I can't give you any more sleeping pills. You've been taking them for far too long, and they're not helping you heal. They're just masking the pain."

Tatum narrows her eyes, feeling anger boiling inside her. "What do you know about pain?"

The doctor leans back in his chair, assessing Tatum for a moment. "You're struggling, that much is obvious. But what you're asking for isn't the solution. We need to find a way to address the root cause of your sleeping troubles, not just numb the symptoms with medication."

Tatum's eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms over her chest defensively. "And what's the root cause, huh? That I watched all my friends die in front of me and got stabbed in the back? That my dad's dead, and my mom's a washed-up journalist who threw me under the bus in her book? That I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone else to jump out and try to kill me?"

The doctor nods sympathetically. "Yes, those are all significant factors in your trauma. But we can't keep ignoring them or pretending they don't exist. We need to confront them and work through them, even if it's painful."

Tatum scoffs. "You think talking to you once a week is going to fix everything? It's not. Nothing can fix what's broken inside me."

The doctor leans forward, their expression softening. "I don't believe that, Tatum. I believe you have the strength to heal, but it's going to take time and effort. And it's not something you have to do alone. There are people who care about you and want to help you. You just have to be willing to let them in."

Tatum shakes her head, standing up from the couch. "Thanks for the pep talk, doc. But I don't need your help. And I don't need your pity."

As she heads for the door, the doctor calls after her. "Tatum, wait. I know this is hard, but please, think about what we talked about today. I'll see you next week."

But Tatum doesn't respond, slamming the door behind her as she leaves the office. She knows the doctor means well, but she's not ready to face her trauma head-on. Not yet. Maybe not ever. For now, all she can do is keep trying to survive, one day at a time.