His Little Heart

You're Not Him

Trigger Warnings: The following involves reference to the main character's past dealing with severe trauma. Her trauma involves and discusses heavily on the mature and horrifying topic of physical and sexual abuse.

Please, read at your discretion.

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I followed the white coat of Dr. Hiddleston, my stomach swishing with dread and unease to the end of the corridor where the elevators sat. He pressed for it, ushering me in kindly when it arrived, the doors opening. I got in, my stomach dropping as we started moving. 

As we rode up to the floor, I tried quickly to douse the flame of anxiety suddenly ignited in me. It was hot, this small flame, burning. Choking, perfect for keeping my mouth (desperate to scream and beg we turn around) clamped together. Completely silent, I stood there, burning and nervous, unable to question Dr. Hiddleston on just where this field trip was going to take us.

Nowhere good, I told myself.

Nowhere comfortable.

I eyed Dr. Hiddleston next to me. He said nothing, quietly oblivious (or maybe not) to my discomfort I hoped, desperately so, he wasn't purposefully ignoring. Maybe, after this field trip, he'd notice, apologize. Or, better yet, notice sooner, and abandon it altogether. Turn this bus around, steer me back to a realm of safety, and promise to never do anything like this again.

That, unfortunately, didn't happen, and a minute later, he was gesturing me out the elevator. When the doors opened, I half-hoped we'd actually been taken to my floor with my room, that by some miracle this field trip was just him returning me back to my room for a much needed break. For some alone time to reflect on what I'd shared with him, the apologies I said and hoped could be accepted.

We got off on a floor I didn't recognize. It was new, different, one I hadn't been on yet. He encouraged me forward, and I followed him, unsure as we came, following down a curving hallway, to a wide open lobby-looking space.

Right away, I noticed how minimalistic everything appeared: simple white clean walls, grey-and-green hard carpet floors, a pretty set-up of white chair seating with wooden side tables.  We came to a curved desk – the receptionist desk - and Dr. Hiddleston  gave the nurse sitting behind it a kind smile.

"Hello there," he greeted her.

The nurse returned the smile. "Dr. Hiddleston! Hello." She looked at me, smiling kindly.

"Is Dr. Cumberbatch in?"

Oh shit.

"He is," she said. "Would you like me to go fetch him for you?"

"That would be amazing."

The nurse nodded, getting up from her chair before disappearing behind a door. Dr. Hiddleston glanced at me. "Luna?"

"Y-Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm cool," I lied.

I felt ready to die.

I felt like running. Screaming. Crying. I felt so many things, too many things, not at all cool. I wasn't cool, hadn't been for a long while. I said I was, but in reality, actually losing my cool.

The door opened again, the nurse reappearing. She poked her head out, saying, "He'll be just a minute."

"Thanks," Dr. Hiddleston gave a thumbs up. "There's no rush."

Oh yes there was!

Most definitely. I needed to rush. To get out, away. Before Dr. Cumberbatch appeared, before I faced his disappointment. Before he snarled at me, told me how ill-behaved I was. Before I apologized to him, but he wouldn't accept my apologies. Before he doled out his punishment for my slip-up, before bruises appeared, marked me again. I needed to get away. Run. Hide.