BOUND BY DESTINY

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I'm thinking about posting two chapters per week. it gives time to focus on other works in progress and my actual job because, well.... living means money...:///

Megan.

Wed, 15 May 2019

A loud shout startled me out of my deep slumber and I frantically scanned my surroundings with frightened eyes, only to realize that I had let out the sound. I was seated on my king-sized bed in my room, sweating and panting like someone who'd just ran a marathon. I felt like I was oxygen deprived, like all the air had been sucked out of the large room, making each inhale ragged and literally a battle. I was having a panic attack.

The burning heat on my spine was what pulled me out of bed though, like someone had poured boiling water on my back. I tumbled out of bed and ran to my attached bathroom, pulling off my boxers and shirt in the process.

Once in the shower, I began doing breathing exercises as the cold water cascading down my body helped cool my burning skin. After about an hour of just standing there, inhaling and exhaling, I was finally able to regain my composure and relax my muscles.

I exited the shower dripping wet and moved to examined myself on the bathroom mirror. I twisted so that my left side was facing the mirror. My eyes trailed down the contours of the tattoo on my back. It was a dark-inked tattoo of a flying phoenix, which covered majority of my back, from the corner of my left breast to my spine and ending at the side of my left buttock cheek.

I'd survived the explosion that happened all those years ago, but the injuries I'd suffered were extremely severe, especially the burn on my spine. I'd escaped the infection and the skin of on back managed to regenerate itself, but the yellowish burn mark it left, only succeeded in reminding me of that day over and over.

After my recovery, our Colonel along with my superiors imposed a one-hour session with a designated psychiatrist on camp - for a total of two sessions per week - as a requirement for my rehabilitation in a reformed unit.

Our interactions were heated and rocky at first because I was not willing to make any effort, but going on, she was able to help me acknowledge what had happened that day. She was the one who suggested I cover the burn mark. She even suggested the drawing I could use.

The pain never dissipated, because that was something I'd carry forever, but at least when I looked at the tattoo on my back, it reminded me that I had survived that trauma and that I was alive. It reminded me that I was not a victim anymore but a survivor.

I tried tracing the scar with the tip of my finger, but the sudden sting caused me to flinch and pulled my hand away. I sighed. The mark didn't hurt anymore, seeing as I was pretty much healed, but on the nights where I'd have a nightmare about the explosion or Miranda, I'll always wake the next morning in pain - not as excruciating as that day, but pain nonetheless.

The psychiatrist called it the ghost pain, which was as a result of my PTSD, but there was nothing ghostly about it because to me, the pain was pretty much real. I opened the medical cabinet, pulled out two pills of ibuprofen and down them with tap water.

Back to the bedroom, I checked the time on my phone and noted I had less than an hour to get ready and head down to the dining room for breakfast with my family. I had missed those moments when I was away, where I could just be with my family without the pressure of deployments or far away missions or whatever. The life of a soldier and an activist is never a stable one.