Invisible String Of Love

Fighting Through The Fog

No matter how hard Clementine tried to forget her family, the guilt clung to her like smoke—thick, inescapable, laced with the scent of responsibility. Despite everything that had happened in their childhood, she felt an aching pull to reconnect, especially with her siblings—as if their healing was somehow hers to carry.

Now, Clemmy couldn't focus on a single word Mr. Clayton was saying. Her mind spun, trapped in the echo of her sister’s death, and before she realized it, she’d been staring at Clay’s lips for three straight minutes, lost in the silence between his words.

“Clementine? You still with me?” Clay’s voice was  gentle but grounding, his throat clearing softly as he tried to bring her back to the present.

She blinked herself into reality, cheeks flushing. “Hu-huh? Oh—yeah, yeah,” she muttered, dropping her gaze to her lap, mortified.

“It’s okay,” Clay said, his voice low and calm. “Are you feeling restless?”

She nodded.

Without a word, Clay stood and stretched, then extended a hand toward her with ease. “Come on. Stand with me.”

“Oh… okay,” Clemmy replied hesitantly, rising to join him. This was familiar territory in their sessions—small movement breaks to reel her back when her thoughts started spiraling.

After a few moments, they both sat down again. Clay handed her a small pen—something to fidget with, something to ground her. “Where were we?” he asked, glancing at his notes. His Scottish accent, subtle but distinct, colored his words with warmth.

He looked back at her, focused. “Right… we were talking about your nightmares. You said they’ve changed—your father blaming you for your sister’s death, even suggesting he planned it.”

“Yeah… you’re right…” Clemmy murmured, her breath hitching as the memory slammed back into her chest. Her old nightmares had been brutal but predictable—scenes of her father abusing her, her mother, her siblings. But now, the visions were shifting, growing darker, more manipulative. They felt like new wounds on old scars.

“Can you tell me about the latest one? And how did it make you feel?” Clay asked, journal open, pen poised like a soldier preparing for battle.

Clemmy took a breath. Her fingers trembled around the pen, anchoring herself.

“Two nights ago… I had sleep paralysis,” she began, voice trembling. “I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even breathe…” Her words broke, and her whole body, especially her hands, began to shake.

"During that... um, I—I saw the shadow of a man. He looked just like my dad," her voice catching in her throat, like she was clinging to composure by a thread. Her breathing grew shallow. "He was holding a paddle—the same one he used to hit us with."

The image clawed its way back into her mind: the silhouette raising the paddle, swinging it with the same menace her father had, back when even being a child was enough to warrant punishment.

"I don’t know how to feel about it. I—I just—I'm sorry!" she gasped, her hands trembling as they covered her face. Emotions surged through her in waves—rage, fear, panic, shame, guilt, confusion—all crashing too violently to explain.

"It’s okay not to have the words yet," Clay jotted notes. He offered her a nod of understanding. "Nightmares, sleep paralysis—especially when tied to trauma—can make everything feel tangled. Overwhelming."

He gently closed his journal and leaned forward, voice softening. "There’s no right or wrong way to feel."

Clemmy peeked through her fingers, her face still wet, but her eyes met his. His warmth, his patience—it steadied her. Her lips twitched into the faintest, grateful smile.