Page 92 of Unbound
"Different how?"
"He might be hyper-vigilant, unable to trust anyone. He might dissociate—mentally disconnect from reality when stressed. He could have panic attacks triggered by seemingly innocent things. Touch might terrify him. Loud noises, bright lights, being alone, being crowded—any of these could send him into flashbacks."
She paused, studying my face. "Mr. Costas, I'm telling you this because I can see how much you care about him. But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that the relationship you had before may not be possible now. Trauma survivors often struggle with intimacy, trust, even basic human connection."
"I don't care," I said immediately. "Whatever he needs, however long it takes. I'm not going anywhere."
Dr. Faraday's expression softened slightly. "That's good to hear. Because recovery from this level of trauma isn't linear. There will be good days and terrible days. Progress and setbacks. He'll need a strong support system."
"He has one. We all came here for him."
"I've noticed. That kind of chosen family support is crucial for recovery." She closed the file. "We'll start reducing sedation slowly. But Mr. Costas, when he wakes up, he may not know where he is. He may think he's still at that facility. If that happens, don't take it personally. His mind is trying to protect itself the only way it knows how."
After she left, I sat in that sterile room for a long time, trying to process everything. Seventeen burn scars. Heart damage. Nerve damage. Malnutrition. The clinical terms couldn't capture the reality of what Jesse had endured, but they painted a picture of deliberate cruelty that made me want to destroy something.
I thought about his parents, convinced they'd been doing God's work. The staff at Restoration Ridge, going home to their families after a day of torturing young people. The system that allowed this to happen, that called torture "therapy" and abuse "healing."
My phone buzzed. A text from Diana:
How is he?
I stared at the screen, trying to figure out how to answer. How do you explain that the person you love has been broken down to nothing and rebuilt as a stranger? That every touch, every word, every moment of connection you'd shared might be gone forever?
Alive, That's something.
My friends took shifts in the waiting room, creating a constant presence that the hospital staff initially tried to regulate but eventually accepted. Diana brought food I couldn't eat, her homemade sandwiches growing stale on the table beside me. She'd made Jesse's favourites—turkey and Swiss with that honey mustard he liked—and had to keep throwing them away when he remained unconscious.
Phoenix managed social media with surprising restraint, sharing updates about Jesse's condition while building public outrage over Restoration Ridge. They'd created a hashtag—#JusticeForJesse—that was trending nationally. News outlets were picking up the story. Useless politicians were making statements. The facility was under federal investigation.
"The public pressure is working," Phoenix reported during one of their evening updates. "Three more states are introducing legislation to ban conversion therapy for adults. Jesse's case is becoming a catalyst."
Sam coordinated with other Restoration Ridge survivors who were coming forward to testify. Each story they shared was a fresh horror—ice baths, electroshock, psychological torture disguised as therapy. Jesse wasn't alone in what he'd endured, which somehow made it both better and worse.
Andrew worked with Professor Okonkwo on the legal strategy. Jesse's parents were facing federal charges for conspiracy, extortion, and civil rights violations. The facility itself was under investigation by multiple agencies. There would be justice, eventually.
Elijah just sat with me in silence, which was the best support he could offer. He'd bring coffee and books I couldn't concentrate on, crossword puzzles that remained blank. Sometimes he'd talk about random things—movies, campus gossip, anything to fill the oppressive quiet. But mostly he just sat, solid and present, reminding me I wasn't alone in this vigil.
Diana handled all the logistics that kept our lives functioning—hotel rooms for everyone, the rental car, coordinating with our professors about missed classes, managing the small army of people who wanted to help. She'd appointed herself our operations manager, making sure we could focus on Jesse without worrying about mundane details.
Rebecca became part of our family seamlessly. She'd lost everything too—her family, her church, her entire support system—but she never complained. Instead, she threw herself into helping however she could. She brought Jesse's favourite books from home, photos from before everything went wrong, small tokens of the life he'd had to abandon.
"He'll want these when he wakes up," she'd say, arranging items on his bedside table like talismans. "Reminders that he had a life before. That he can have one again."
We all waited for Jesse to come back to us. If he could.
The uncertainty was the worst part. Not knowing if the Jesse who'd argued passionately for love and dignity would survive what they'd done to him. Not knowing if the person who'd kissed me with such desperate honesty would remember why it had mattered.
Not knowing if I'd lost him before I'd even really had him.
I was at his bedside when his eyes fluttered open for the first time on the third day. The doctors had reduced the sedation low enough that morning, and I'd been waiting, hoping, praying for any sign that Jesse was still in there somewhere.
"Jesse? Can you hear me?"
His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the harsh hospital lights. For a moment, hope bloomed in my chest—he was awake, he was conscious, maybe he'd be okay.
But his eyes were unfocused, looking through me like I wasn't there. Like I was a ghost, or he was. The blue I'd fallen in love with was clouded, distant, seeing something I couldn't see.
"Jesse, it's me. It's Adrian. You're safe now."
