Dr. Jones smiled. “Not at first but, eventually, yes. Sometimes talking through the trauma is the only way to heal.”
The man’s question hung in the air between them, unanswered. Instead, Ever looked around the office as if his surroundings could offer some insight into the man across from him. It was as clean and tidy as the man himself, but a little shabby. Another contradiction.
The building itself was old, and the exposed brick was more from disrepair than an attempt at decor. The hardwood floors were marred by water stains, and the furniture all seemed second-hand, but Ever couldn’t shake the feeling it was all…fake. All designed to make people think he was one of them. Whatever that meant.
“Dr. Jones—”
“Jeremiah, please.”
Ever squirmed, not really comfortable using the man’s first name for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on.
“Jeremiah,” he conceded. “What if I don’t have any trauma?”
Jeremiah tapped his pen against his chin. “Do you think you don’t have trauma?”
Ever shrugged. “Everything I read tells me I’m supposed to be…spiraling. That I should be having nightmares and panic attacks. That I should be afraid of the dark or going outside. That certain sounds or smells should trigger me. I don’t have any of that.”
Jeremiah nodded. “When you think about your time before—before you were rescued—how does it make you feel?”
Ever shrugged once more. “It doesn’t.”
“Can you expand on that?”
Could he? Other than the initial fear he’d felt in the spare room the night he arrived, there’d been nothing. “It feels like it happened to someone else. Or maybe a different version of me. It’s not like I don’t remember or that I’ve blocked it out. It’s almost like I’m watching a movie. It just… I don’t feel anything when I think about it. There’s just before and after. Is that weird?”
“Have you ever heard of the term dissociation?” Jeremiah asked.
Ever shook his head, picking at a stray thread on the back of the sofa cushion.
“Sometimes, immediately after a traumatic experience, or sometimes even during years of prolonged abuse, your brain will…wall off the bad things. It’s a sort of self-preservation technique.”
“Okay?” Ever prompted, hoping the man would explain further.
“Did you ever feel like you were outside your own body? When you said it was like watching a movie, did you mean it was like watching bad things happen to another version of yourself?”
“Yeah,” Ever mumbled.
“Do you feel numb or detached when you think about it now?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Dissociation is common, but when that dissociation disappears,thatis when you can experience the effects of chronic PTSD. Right now, your brain is just protecting itself while you get your bearings, but it can also leave you with a sense of not knowing who you are.”
Ever gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t know who I am, Dr. Jo—Jeremiah. I don’t even have a name.”
He frowned. The first real crack in his cool facade. “Ever isn’t your name?”
“It is now,” Ever said, cheeks flushing.
Jeremiah twirled the pen over his knuckles. “What was it before?”
Ever watched, transfixed as the pen moved, spinning through his fingers almost like magic. “I didn’t have one.”
“No?”
Ever corrected himself. “I mean, I’m sure I had one when I was born. At least, I hope I did. It would suck if my mom didn’t even care enough about me to name me before she sold me or gave me up for adoption or let me get kidnapped…or whatever.”
Jeremiah nodded. “And the woman who held you captive? What did she call you?”
