Roots [Completed]

Chapter 4 - Part 3

\\tw: anxiety attacks, PTSD\\

"I can't stop thinking about it."

"What can't you stop thinking about?"

"Just - him."

My therapist crosses her legs.

"Intrusive thoughts aren't unusual for those with PTSD."

Post-traumatic stress disorder. The official diagnosis. I nod absently, trying to fend off the phantom feeling of Sam's fingers digging painfully into my thighs. It's almost like it's happening, again, sometimes.

"How do they make you feel? These thoughts?"

It's such a stereotypical therapist line I almost laugh. But I try to swallow it and consider the question.

I feel.

Dirty. Stained.

Call to me.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the words inside.

"Jane?"

I shake my head. Etch-a-sketch. Clear it away. Blank canvas.

"Sorry," I say.

She tilts her head.

"Is there one moment, in particular, that keeps coming back to you, Jane?"

I side-step.

"I don't know which parts of it were real," I say. "The police think - it was probably drugs, or something."

But I hadn't eaten anything, when he showed me. When he - changed. I don't know when the drugs could have gotten in my system.

"That doesn't mean these events didn't seem real to you. It's important to process them. Have you shared any of this with your family, your friends?"

Maybe it was in the food I ate, later. Maybe my memories - the ones that I can't seem to swallow, the ones that batter at my vision - maybe they can't be relied upon.

"No. No, no."

That must be it. Drugs. A trick. Not madness.

I'm not crazy.

Eyes burning white. Sharp claws in my hair, saliva on my skin.

I'm not crazy.

The girl. A wolf, then a body. Hair the same shade as her fur.

I'm not crazy.

"What was that, Jane?" Mom asks, sitting on the couch beside me back at home after the session.

I'd said it out loud.

"Oh, nothing. Nothing."

Just talking to myself.

-

My moms made the birthday cake by themselves. The from-the-store white frosting is pretty heavily applied.