Worth Fighting For - PUBLISHED

Prologue

Nova

I feel like I live in this office. I've been here enough over the past four years to know all its secrets. I know that one bulb flickers because there's a short in the wiring, and that the paneling is cracked by the door. The window creaks when you open it because it's been neglected over the years and I know that no matter the season, the heating and air system never fully works.

"How are you doing, Nova?" My therapist, Penelope, says.

I've been coming to see Penelope ever since I moved to New Haven. The therapist I had back in Texas recommended her, and although I was skeptical at first, I've really enjoyed seeing her.

"I've been better," I admit. "I've been having nightmares lately."

"Tell me about those nightmares."

"They're all the same really. It's a constant replay of what happened that day. But..." I stop myself, unsure of whether I should say it or not. I feel crazy.

"It's okay, Nova. You can tell me anything."

I know that I can. I know that Penelope won't judge or laugh or think I'm crazy. She'll be able to see where it's coming from and how we can deal with it.

"It's not just happening in my sleep," I mutter under my breath.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that? I couldn't hear what you said."

"I said it's not just happening in my sleep, okay?" My voice is raised and although Penelope doesn't deserve that, I can't help but react this way. I'm no stranger to nightmares, but I've never had it happen in the middle of the day while I'm in class and I had to leave in a full-blown panic.

"What's wrong with me?" I laugh, but a tear still manages to slip from my eye. I think I'm becoming delirious.

"Nothing is wrong with you, Nova. You're coming up on four years since your father's death. It's perfectly normal for patients who have suffered a trauma to struggle with reliving it on special anniversaries."

"So, it doesn't just happen to me?"

"Absolutely not," she reassures me. "It happens more often than you think. Most people just don't make it known."

"How do I get past this?" My voice is strained and breathy as I talk about it.

"I know it's hard, but sometimes there are developments in our memories each time we relive them. What do you see when this happens to you?"

I see anger, malice, tragedy, and a version of me that was weak. But mostly... I see red.

I open the door to the house and set my stuff down on the counter. I have enough time to grab food and shower before I go help my dad teach the younger kid's sessions at the gym for the evening.

After finishing up in the bathroom, I get dressed and go to grab my gym bag from the closet when my heart stops in my chest.

The memories in between are spotty, but it always skips and picks back up when he.... When he's hurting me.

"Stop it! You're hurting me!" I scream and yell, thrashing underneath the weight of his body, desperately fighting to escape.

"Shut up, bitch. Stop moving and quit fighting me! This is happening whether you like it or not."

I'm starting to lose feeling, but I don't know why. All I know is that I'm not about to give into this sadistic piece of shit. I can't breathe well, evidence of his cold, callused hands wrapped tightly around my throat. I feel my consciousness begin to slip away, but maybe that's a good thing. Never again. This will never happen again. Not if I have any say in it.

I reach as far as my hand will go, searching for the gun I have hidden between my bed and dresser. Once I locate the familiar object, the one gifted to me by my father when it all started, I place it right between me and the person I once loved, and I pull the trigger.

The sinister look on his face quickly morphs to something I've never seen him express before...fear. He looks down between where our bodies are pressed together, eyebrows scrunching and mouth turning up in a smirk. I feel the warm liquid begin to slowly leak onto my abdomen, and I take one last look at the monster in front of me.

"You will never be anything! You hear me? Nothing! You may have shot me, but you will never be rid of me, little bean. I'll haunt every one of your dreams from now until the day you die. You hear me bitch? I'm fucking everlasting."

He starts to choke on his blood, the contents pouring out of his mouth onto my body. The sticky substance runs over my forehead and down to my neck. I muster up every bit of strength I have to roll him off me as his strength slips even further away from him. Using my arms and the little strength I have to prop myself up, I look at his pale face and dark eyes, and I speak, refusing to give him the last word.

"Have a nice time in hell, fucker."

My strength slips away from me as I fall back against the floor. My head is heavy and buzzing, and the faint lull of sirens in the distance accompanies me as the darkness takes over.

Never again...

"Is the memory the same every time?"

"Yeah, it is. How do I get rid of it?"

"I'm afraid you're not going to like my answer."

"Give it to me anyway, Penelope. I can take it. I've handled worse, trust me."

Penelope closes the notepad folder in her lap and uncrosses her legs, placing her heel on the floor with a clink.

"You're not going to just get rid of it, Nova. Hopefully, in time, it will go away. But I want you to try something. Whenever you feel yourself reliving your PTSD, try to find something to ground yourself. An object, a person, sing a song. Anything to help distract yourself from reliving the memory. Small steps, okay? Change doesn't happen overnight."

"If only it would," I sigh. "I promise I'll try it."

"That's all I ask of you, Nova. I'm on vacation next week, but I'll see you the week after that."

"Same time, same day?"

"Yes. Enjoy the rest of your day."

I gather my things and leave. Once I'm in my car, I let the floodgates open. I may be strong for others, but I need my moments of weakness to myself.

I feel broken. No, I am broken; I know that. I wish I could snap my fingers and make it all go away, but sadly, that's not the reality.

I know that he can't come after me. My actions made sure of that. I just...I fucking wish he would stop haunting me even more than he already has.

Moving on in life without the people you love is hard, but it's even harder when your mind forces you to relive something for no fucking reason. Or is there a reason? One that's sick and twisted, purely to torture you. The mind is a finicky thing that I wish I had an off switch to.

I need to stop letting my past define me and my decisions. I need to start living like every other twenty-one-year-old does: going out more often, having one-night stands, trying new things.

I'm officially unchaining myself from the anchor of my past.

I may never forget it, but I don't have to let it dictate how I live anymore.

The past can disrespectfully go fuck itself.