Battle Scars

Chapter 6:

Leah

I close my bedroom door and lock it behind me, then turn the handle twice to make sure it's secure. The click of the lock doesn't ease the tension in my chest, but it's a habit now—one I've had for as long as I can remember. It's not because of Jay. He hasn't given me any reason to think he's a threat, but that doesn't matter. Locking the door isn't about him—it's about feeling in control of something, even if it's just a flimsy piece of metal between me and the world.

Maybe it's because I've never felt truly safe, not in any place or with anyone. Growing up, there was never a door I could lock to keep people out, never a place that was just mine. And in the military, safety was always an illusion—something you clung to, knowing full well it could shatter at any moment. Old habits are hard to break.

I let out a slow breath and lean back against the door, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease just a little. The apartment is quiet, and the only sound is the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. I walk over to my bed, where my duffel bag is thrown haphazardly into the corner. I unzip it and reach for the smaller black bag I keep tucked inside. The one with the stuff I can't afford to misplace.

When I open it, the contents look the same as they always do—a neat row of orange prescription bottles, each with its own purpose. My fingers skim over them, reading the labels out of habit even though I know them all by heart.

Sertraline, 50 mg. Morning antidepressant. Keeps the darkness at bay long enough for me to function like a normal person. Or at least close enough to it.

Mirtazapine, 15 mg. Nighttime antidepressant. This one isn't just for the usual stuff—it's supposed to keep the night terrors away. Supposed to. Some nights it works, some nights it doesn't. But it's better than nothing.

Alprazolam, 0.25 mg. Anxiety medication. For those days when everything feels like it's closing in. I take half a tablet in the morning and half in the afternoon, just enough to take the edge off without making me feel like I'm underwater.

Zolpidem, 5 mg. Sleep medicine. For the nights when nothing else works. I don't like relying on it, but sometimes I have to. Sometimes it's the only way to turn my brain off.

And then there's the last one, the bottle that sits in the far corner of the bag like it's waiting for me to give in.

Lorazepam, 0.5 mg. Emergency anti-anxiety medication. For the panic attacks. The ones that come out of nowhere and leave me gasping for air, unable to breathe or think or do anything but ride it out. I don't like this one either, but I've learned to keep it close. Just in case.

I take the sertraline and swallow it dry, not bothering to chase it with water. I don't want to think about why I need all of this, why my brain feels like it's constantly at war with itself. So I focus on the routine—the familiar motions of opening the bottles, counting the pills, and putting them back in their place.

This is what keeps me steady. What keeps me functioning. And some days, just functioning is enough.

When I finish, I close the bag and tuck it back into my duffel, zipping it up and pushing it into the corner. Out of sight, out of mind. I stand up and stretch, feeling the ache in my shoulder flare up, a dull reminder of what I've left behind. I should try to get some sleep, but the idea of lying in bed with nothing but my thoughts isn't appealing. Not after today.

Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed and let out a slow breath, trying to clear my head. I can hear the faint sounds of traffic outside, a reminder that life is still moving, even if I feel like I'm standing still.