Perspective

PTSD

I was given permission to go home after spending the night in the hospital. My parents came to pick me up in the morning, thankfully I got to go home but I couldn't go back to school. I had to be watched because I still had the symptoms of a concussion and the doctors didn't want to take a chance.

When I got home, I spent most of my time in bed. I don't think I could be able to move on for a long time from this. I was already astounded by so many things in my past, this was taking it too far. I can't believe I had gotten involved with drug dealers and bought heroin. I could have put a lot of people in danger if there was anyone else with me when Desmond showed up. Everytime I closed my eyes, he was there pointing a gun at me. I couldn't sleep. It was a bad idea with my concussion anyway but the nightmares were there anyway.

My parents didn't want to leave my side, but all I wanted to do was be by myself in my bedroom. They were worried but at the same time, they understood.

My friends had sent me texts during the day as I laid in bed. I didn't send them anything back. I just didn't feel like talking to anyone.

I sat in the living room, flipping through the channels on our TV. I had a bag of potato chips at my side and a can of pepsi on the coffee table. I was watching some weird cartoons and yet laughing at them.

"Danielle!" My dad suddenly called through the house. "Where's my money? I had a wad of twenties on the counter that I had for grocery shopping! Damn it, I shouldn't have left it there."

"I thought I put it in the drawer?" Mom called from upstairs. I heard the sound of a drawer being yanked open.

"Well, it's not there! Where's my money? Damn it!" He cried. All I could hear from his words were 'where's my money' I dropped the remote and it fell to the floor.

"Where's my money Charly? Where's my fucking money?!" I could hear Desmond's voice again. "You have until tomorrow morning to tell me a place where I can get my money. Or it's goodbye to the prom queen... Tick tock goes the clock, princess." I saw the gun in front of my face again.

I was hyperventilating and pacing back and forth in the living room.

"Charly, what's wrong honey?" My father asked me as he entered the living room.

"I don't have the money," I said through my tears. "I swear."

"Sweetheart, I wasn't accusing you of taking the money." He said gently.

"I don't have it! I don't have it!" I cried out.

"Charly, stop it! What's wrong with you?" He questioned. I covered my ears and I started to cry harder than I already was and I felt him tightly grasp my wrists. He ripped my hands away from my ears. "Charly! It's okay, it's me!" I looked up into my fathers' icy blue eyes and I sighed, my tears stopped flowing.

"I'm sorry." I breathed. "I'm sorry, dad."

"It's okay, you're safe." He told me. I swallowed hard.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm- I'm fine." I said, pulling away from him.

"Charly, I know that's a lie." I walked back into the living room and sat on the couch.

"Dad, I'll be fine. I just had a memory. I swear, I'll be okay."

"You don't have to be fine, honey."

"Well, I am." I said quickly, unable to look him in the eye. "I just need some time."

"It's called post traumatic stress disorder." He exclaimed.

"I'm fine." I repeated sharply. "Don't worry."

"You expect me not to worry? Charly, I think you need to talk to someone."