(Formerly known as "When Our Paths Crossed")
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A tale of two lost souls brought together by pain, grief and trauma.
Atlas tries to find a place in a world he's worked so hard to escape. Elijah struggles to balance the life he's building and the...
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"SO, ATLAS, READ anymore Shakespeare?"
I'm lying on the table as Gina bends. I roll my eyes as my eyes drift to the window beside us. Snow is falling heavily; a blinding white veil is thrown over a dull, gray, chilly city. Winter is unfurling with all her fury, and there's no stopping the dry, painful cold.
"Haven't had the chance," I reply.
Gina sets my leg down and moves to block my view with a sigh.
"Your sister says your nightmares haven't been so aggressive. Are you sleeping well?"
I shrug again. "They're not, no." When did she start acting like a therapist?
They're not the same nightmares I've had before, though, and I've learned how to hide how terrified I am of them. June has been on me like a wet blanket since I was cleared from the hospital. I didn't think her smothering could get any worse, but, boy, was I wrong. I can't even go to the bathroom without her standing outside the door, making sure I'm alright. I'm pretty sure she checks on me periodically throughout the night, too, although I can't prove that yet. I bought a camera, though. It's in the mail.
The nightmares, though, aren't centred around my mom anymore. I still have those, but surprisingly, therapy has proven to be a good resource in working through my trauma. Who would have thought?
No, the nightmares now are more current. Being held hostage, threatened, shot at. And seeing Elijah fall, over and over and over again, his blood pooling out around him. He dies in my arms, and when I wake up, my body drenched in sweat, a painful ache building in my chest.
"But your sister also said that you were facing a different kind of nightmare," Gina continues.
I roll my eyes again. So much for hiding those nightmares. "Isn't this supposed to be a physical therapy session? Since when did you become a shrink?"
"Since June told me you don't want to see an actual shrink. I also happen to be a shrink." She gives me a small, sympathetic smile, which makes me cringe. "What happened to you is traumatic, Atlas. And, since you've been working through childhood trauma, you can't deal with this current trauma. You can't keep running from the pain you feel, or it will manifest into something terrible." She taps my legs. "And it slows down your recovery."
"I'm not thinking about using if that's what you're insinuating," I snap. My blood starts to simmer as I glare at her. I push myself onto my elbows and smack her hands away. "I've put an end to that life after everything that's happened. I don't want anything to do with it. Not that that's any of your business. You're supposed to help me walk, not pick at my brain."
It's a half-truth. I do think about it every day. It's a constant itch that I can't seem to scratch, although it has been getting easier to manage. I take it one day at a time, as my group meetings suggest.
