「 The Professor & I 」VOLUME II

(284) PTSD

Lynn's POV

It was the last thing I imagined to see, Charles just standing there staring at me.

Even when I yearned so dearly to be cuddled in his safe embrace, the undermining anxieties that had been flushed away with soapy foam and tepid waters rapidly resurfaced.

I truly strived to overcome the fear, the invisible barrier that mysteriously frustrated my every attempt to be intimate, but without sleep to help me evade like when I was in bed, everything ended just like a fruitless debate.

Unstoppably, I shoved him off and slammed shut the glass door, retreating into a makeshift private haven. The panel separating us was inherently transparent but specked bountifully by tiny droplets, it was effectively frosted and provided a kind relief that I did not have to actually watch how he was hurting again.

The pain that struck him might have only appeared on his face for a transient span of time but I knew, better than any unaffected expression he could muster, just exactly how much I had wrenched his heart when I initially recoiled from his arms. The brutal stabbing could only worsen with my second blunder and my heart cringed, shuddering in unpardonable pangs of guilt, yet, the only things that spilled from him were words of utter graciousness.

Obviously reluctant to peg him under repeated torture, I basically nodded to his generous request, diligently straining to curb my sobs, speedily developing, from rampantly exploding.

Irrefutably, he was equally if not more unwilling, but almost as always, he conceded to me. The minute he trudged through those doors, I frantically flipped the tap on, deliberately masking my no longer suppressible wails under the energetic flow.

Eventually collecting myself after thoroughly reveling in the luxuriously soothing cleansing process, I tiredly propelled my chair out from the shower stall. Tediously, I unbuttoned Charles' soggy night shirt that cloaked my comparatively small body baggily and readily lugged off the conveniently oversized apparel specially selected to facilitate wearing over my wounded joint.

Randomly chucking the satin material back into the drenched cubicle, I attempted to levitate myself onto the vanity, only to realize I was pathetically drained of telekinetic energy to perform my newly acquired routine.

For the past week, after each of my direly necessitated midnight baths, I would usually float myself onto the marble top to dry off, simultaneously allowing the water from my chair to dissipate, while I meticulously tidied up the washroom.

Unable to accomplish my desired task in familiar ways yet stubbornly refraining from seeking assistance, I spontaneously concocted an improvised method.

Gently unstrapping the Velcro belts of my wrist brace, I placed the dripping acrylic piece to the side of the low counter that rose to just a couple of inches taller than my chair. Boldly, I judged the moderate difference in height to be rather manageable and merely heaved several deep breaths to mentally prepare before I manually dragged myself off my squishy cushioned seat.

The seemingly simple transfer was more complicated in reality and my shaky landing clumsily knocked over the plastic accessory. It crashed to the floor, bouncing away just once, but it was enough to render itself way out of my outstretched arm's reach and I sighed in defeat.

Immediately, the doors burst open and I nervously jerked my head up from the littered floor, expectedly discovering Charles once again gawking at me.

Typically, his virtually permanent stares would create pleasant butterflies in my stomach but ever since that first night of return, instead of housing a corresponding enchanting flutter, my heart pounded in a vigorous manner.