Candace

Keys rattled at the door. I froze in my spot on the couch, the corner where I’d spent most of my time. I did shower. I loved the strawberry-scented shampoo, the makeup, and the clothes. It was nice to feel clean, even though the feeling faded quickly after it arrived.

I couldn’t breathe as the doorknob turned, and I watched the lock click open with such intensity it made my joints ache.

A gasp escaped my throat as the door opened, Luke’s boots were the first things I noticed as he entered. Knowing it was him didn’t provide me any comfort, even though I knew it should.

His face was pale as he stared in my direction, like he’d seen a ghost.

“It’s just me,” he assured me with an obvious comment that made me feel foolish.

Still, I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe.

“You look nice,” he smiled softly in my direction.

I’d brushed my hair after washing it twice. I used a small amount of the makeup, just enough to give me color, but the covers hid the pink sweatsuit he’d bought me.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer.

“I’m starved,” he smiled warmly.

I was held prisoner in my own mind, my own body, unable to escape even to answer the simplest of questions.

He moved towards me, his boots clanking on the hardwood floor, a familiar sound. The keys, the doorknob, the clickity-clack of the hard soles taking steps across the floor were all reminding me of Damien.

Luke knelt down beside me, his eyes lost in confusion. He reached out, his hand brushing my wrist. I let out a scream, a noise so ear-shredding that even I was in pain from the screech. I jerked, pulling my hand away, shoving it under the blanket, and started to gasp for air. I was having a panic attack, something I was used to, something that Luke obviously was not expecting.

His eyes widened. I felt bad that I’d reacted so poorly to his kindness, his comfort. My body shook, and my eyes closed tightly, trying to erase what was in my mind, the images of the pain, of Damien, of what he’d done, what I’d done.

“I’m sorry. You’re safe. I d-didn’t mean to upset you,” Luke stammered.

He shouldn’t be sorry. It was my fault. It was me. I was broken.

“I’m going to make something to eat. You need to eat,” he said, quickly removing himself from in front of me.

My eyes stayed closed. I could hear the clanking of pans and the opening and closing of drawers in the other room where he’d gone to prepare food. I couldn’t eat. I wanted to throw up, my stomach flopping so badly that felt as though it would jump from my throat onto the floor.

Soon, Luke reappeared with a plate in his right hand and a glass of soda in his left.

I watched as he set the items down on the coffee table in front of me, his eyes scanning mine for any reaction.

“It’s just a frozen meal. I’m not much of a cook,” he admitted, his cheeks starting to blush as he smiled in my direction.

I glanced at the plate of noodles, a white sauce with slices of mushrooms surrounding sliced grilled chicken. Even for a microwave meal, it looked better than anything I’d grown accustomed to. I wished I could eat, say thank you, be normal. I was still frozen.

Luke walked away, then reappeared with a plate and a cup of his own. He sat down in the chair near the couch where I was imprisoned and started to eat.

“I promise it’s not that bad. You should eat,” he encouraged.

My throat was so dry that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I wanted to reach out, to at least grab the glass and take a drink of the icy beverage, but I couldn’t move.

It had been so quiet there the past few hours with him gone, almost too quiet to think straight. Now, there was a scraping of the metal fork against the china plate and the rattling of ice in his drink as he took sip after sip.

Finally, he set his food down, staring in my direction. I was gazing somewhere, not towards him, but I could see as he steadied himself in the chair.

“Candace, you have to tell me what’s going on so I can help you,” he said softly.

No. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t tell anyone, ever. I was ashamed, dirty, unworthy of his kindness. I should’ve never pulled him into my mess.

I turned my head towards the door and thought about running away, but to where? I had nowhere good or safe to go.

Luke stood, let out a deep sigh, and then headed towards the kitchen with his plate in hand.

I heard his voice and the clank of his boots as he walked back and forth against the tile floor of the kitchen. His words were muffled, but I heard him say Theo. He was talking to that doctor, telling him about me, probably telling him I was crazy, making plans to turn me over to the authorities. I couldn’t blame him.

Luke returned to the living room. His face was different. I stared at the door, wishing my body would move so I could run.

I thought of Damien, how he told me I was worthless, holding the knife at my wrist, telling me to do the world a favor and just do it already. The blade was sharp, poking into my thin flesh as he pressed harder and harder, finally drawing blood. He grinned, a strange wild grin that showed how much pleasure he got from torturing me. I didn’t understand why he enjoyed it, then or now.

I was worthless. That was one thing Damien had gotten right. I should have done it; at least then Luke wouldn’t have been involved.

“The doctor’s on his way,” Luke said.

His eyes were locked on mine, and even though I tried to pull mine away, I couldn’t. Tears started to stream down my cheeks, hot and fast. Luke moved towards me. I tensed. He situated my blanket, covering the leg I’d let fall from under it. I flinched, pushing myself back into the corner of the couch as hard as I could.

“You’re safe. You’re safe,” he repeated.

I wasn’t safe. I would never be safe.

“I won’t touch you again. I’m sorry,” Luke said, taking a seat on his chair.

My body felt as though it was made of lead, so heavy that it wouldn’t move. I tightened with every glance Luke gave me, and with every tick of the clock.

I waited, unable to move, with Luke’s eyes pressing into my brain, trying hard to see inside I was certain. That was a place he’d never recover from if he’d made it to inside the eerie walls of my mind.

Theo, Doc, was kneeling in front of me. I’d been so out of it, I hadn’t even heard him come inside.

“This is a bad panic attack. A form of PTSD,” he says.

“You’d think I would’ve picked up on that,” Luke spat, his eyes filled with disappointment and shame.

I didn’t want him to feel pain, especially not because of me.

Theo looked me in the eyes. They were kind but serious and strong-willed.

“I’m telling you this as much as him. Whatever happened to you, it was bad, really bad. You’re having these attacks because there are triggers tricking your brain into feeling that same fear again, even though you’re safe, and you are safe, Candace,” Theo said sternly.

“Do you know what triggered this attack?” Theo asked softly, his eyes still burning into mine.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move my head. I was stiff as a body twelve hours dead.

He turned his direction to Luke, whose face was bright red, his eyes wild, and his lips parted.

“I came in and found her like this. I made food. I touched her wrist, she screamed, but she was already tense and frigid,” Luke explained.

My wrist. The trigger. Yes. Damien held a knife there so many times, telling me how worthless I was, how no one would come looking for me if I was gone. He was right. No one would miss me.

The keys. The boots. The quiet, the too much quiet. Being there, not knowing what would happen to me and when. It was all triggers. My life was a giant series of triggers for the bad times I’d endured.

“Will you talk to us?” Theo asked softly, his eyes warm and filled with concern.

I barely shook my head, but it was enough for him to see my answer. No. I couldn’t talk to them. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.

“She was doing really well earlier. I shouldn’t have left her,” Luke blamed himself.

It wasn’t his fault. He was the only one who’d ever loved me. He didn’t do this to me.

“She’ll come back around,” Theo assured him, and then smiled in my direction.

I wasn’t sure I would.

Luke got up, quickly moving from the living room into his bedroom. I cringed at the sound of the clickity-clack of his boots on the hard floor. I was certain the doctor noticed as he stared at me with consternation.

He returned, pushing a white board and dry erase marker towards me. I gripped the marker with the whiteboard in my lap. Luke’s eyes were filled with desperation.

“If you can’t speak, can you write?” he questioned.

I shook my head with the same limited movement as before.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I stared up at him, looking right through him to my own demons that battled in my head.

“Please,” he pleaded.

My hand shook as I gripped the marker, pushing it towards the whiteboard. I wrote ‘no’ and dropped the board to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as the two men were left helpless in my presence.