Page 15 of Strange Lad

“Do I frighten you?” he asks gently, smoothing some of my hackles.

“Of course not.”

“Why is that?”

I think about it, calming down more. “I trust you.”

“Do you not trust Jorge? Themanwho’s become something of a best friend despite your romantic feelings for him?”

I swallow hard.

The question is sitting funny on my chest.

“I don’t know.”

That session left me more exhausted and emotionally twisted than I was before I went in.

Sometimes, life just weighs on my shoulders, and my feet feel too heavy, like I’m walking through endless sand.

Shouldering into my little studio, I check on the boys, put water in their bottles, and then strip. Crawling into bed, I clutch my phone tightly and blink at the ceiling. My heart races, my mouth feels dry, and I’m shaky.

The urge to numb myself is strong, but I don’t have any of my old dealers' numbers anymore. And Jorge helped me find the ones I’d had written down, stashed away in the boxes Mom had put in storage. We burned them all. I’d been so scared to, but his presence gave me strength, and I lit the match. He gives me strength most of the time.

But in moments like these, I just want to disappear.

I want to cease to exist.

If I close my eyes, I still see everything so clearly. The excruciating pain, the grout, the trickle of water down myforehead. That insidious voice in my ear. Firm, angry hands on my waist.

My breaths come in faster and faster while adrenaline shoots through my veins.

I grip my sheet, peeling it off the mattress with my fist. My eyes are shut, but the visions don’t stop. It’s like I’m there all over again. I’m fucking frozen, stuck in this loop of viciousness with no way out.

And all because I thought it might be okay to let Jorge touch me.

To try and trust him with the most fragile part of me—the part no one even knows is damaged.

The hours tick by while I stay paralyzed. Tears stain my cheeks, and small puddles form on my pillow. There’s nothing to be done. I have nothing to get rid of this.

When I’m triggered, no amount of breathing techniques or sense work will help. I don’t give a fuck what I can see, touch, or feel. I don’t want to see, touch, or feelanything.

At some point, the tension slowly leaves me as I crawl back inside myself, the nightmare over for the moment. My body whole once more.

I suck in a deep breath and lift my phone.

Jorge texted two hours ago…

Hey.

What you doing?

Want to hang out?

Either I’m too tired to panic, or I simply lack emotion. But we never leave each other on read, so I push through the murk. I push through for him because he stayed. He continues to stay.

Give me an hour?

He writes back instantly. Like he’s been waiting for me.

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