Page 27 of Save Me

“Wow, that’s macabre,” I mumble out loud to myself.

I guess a part of me is relieved that there is some proof of what I went through and that if I ever decide to acknowledge it, the scars will be there to remind me that I didn’t make it up.

When the doctor came back to check on me earlier this week, he told me that I waslucky, that most of my wounds were superficial and that any resulting scars could be covered by ashirt easily. Jax was ready to add another body to the pile he was leaving in the wake of this mess, the doctor’s comment causing a feral growl to slip from his lips as my stitches were checked. The doctor rattled off a bunch of information about the treatments that were given to me once I woke up and could agree to such care—mostly preventatives for pregnancy and STIs, reminding me of the possible side effects, as well as the proper wound care for my stitches. I was also told I could report what happened to me, but the idea of telling strangers what happened made me feel like throwing up, so I quickly declined that suggestion.

I felt so uncomfortable as he was speaking that Jax’s hand on mine was the only thing keeping me from bolting from the room. I didn’t want to remember—I still don’t want to remember. I close my eyes, willing myself to see nothing except the darkness behind my eyelids, locking everything I experienced away in a box, somewhere deep enough in my memory that even I can’t stumble upon it by accident.

I hate that I’ve fallen into old habits, denial once again my go-to coping strategy, but I refuse to entertain the idea that I’m anything but fine.

I take a shaky breath as I try to figure out how to move forward.

How do I come back from this?

While I’m physically healing well, my bodyfeelslike it’s no longer my own, like I’m no longer beneath the skin that surrounds my soul. I feel distanced from everything around me. I know I should be crying, I know I should be devastated by everything that has happened, but I feel as though I have nothing left to give. My tears have dried up and there’s no sign of the fire within me, as if it has been reduced to nothing more than ash. Yet, in addition to a familiar numbness, my chest feels as though it has been cracked open, the emotional pain a constantstate. I try to remember what it feels like to be happy, to be excited, to be hopeful.

But I can’t.

Those feelings all seem like long-forgotten memories, the recent trauma refusing to let anything else surface within me.

At least feeling something is better than nothing—isn’t that how the saying goes?

My breathing starts to increase, shallow breaths taking over, and I can feel myself on the verge of panic at the realization that I’m unable to feel anything except hurt.

“Lock it up, Evi,” I whisper to myself.

I try to take a deep breath but the pain in my back prevents my ribs from expanding fully.

Instead, I do the only thing I know will help me find a sense of calm within me: I run my nail over my thumb, counting as it bites into my skin. The pain and the motion are soothing against the storm that rages within me.

The water continues to run over me and I let it wash away everything I’m feeling. But no matter how hot I make the water, no matter how many times I pass the soap over my body, I can’t get rid of the dirt I feel on my skin, the crawling sensation that hasn’t gone away since Tanner touched me.

“This was not real. This did not happen. I am fine. None of this happened.” The words surprise me as they pass through my lips as I scrub harder.

This is not real. This cannot be real. I am fine. None of this happened.

My new mantra.

I stay in the shower until the water runs cold, and only then does it feel like my skin starts to settle, the invisible filth quieting under my touch.

I step out of the shower and wrap a familiar towel around me, gently drying myself off.

I avoid looking in the mirror, unwilling to see a reflection that might suggest I am anything but fine, and instead get dressed slowly, my body still bruised, the skin that I can see now red and raw from the heat of the shower and the scrubbing.

Wearing my own clothes suddenly feels like a luxury, and the soft silk pants and shirt feel like butter against my skin.

I step out into the bedroom to find Jax awake and sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, looking like grief personified. I know he is struggling with everything that has happened, and like me, he’s unable to fall asleep until the early hours of the morning. Since I’ve been back it seems he spends all his energy tracking down Rhett, Tanner, and Winston while making sure I’m okay.

He doesn’t hear me as I walk towards him, my footsteps quiet against the cold floor and my skin prickling against the cool air, my silk pajamas doing nothing to keep me warm.

I stand in front of him before brushing my fingers through his hair.

Green eyes find mine, filled with a darkness I haven’t seen before and a sorrow deeper than any ocean.

His hands wrap around my waist gently, pulling me into him, and I wonder if he can feel the battle that wages inside me—half of me wanting to be near him, the other half barely able to tolerate being touched, even by him.

“I want to know about it,” I start quietly. “I know it’s a lot, but it’s been a week and I think I’m ready to hear it. I need to hear it. Please,” I say.

They haven’t told me anything about what happened when I went missing, nothing except that they tried to find me. I had been too upset to hear much more than that, and I could barely stomach any conversation around the events that took place. So for the past week, I agreed that prioritizing rest and giving my body—and mind—time to heal was the priority, and Jaxpromised to catch me up to speed when the time was right. And now I’m ready to hear it all. Ineedto hear it all, to fill in the missing pieces of what happened.

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