Why do I feel like such a failure?
For so long, Collins had been acting so oddly normal after everything we went through, and it was a little terrifying and awfully concerning, to say the least. I knew that what had happened to her tonight was always a possibility, but anticipating it and watching it play out before your eyes are two completely different and horrifying things.
Something about seeing her bleeding and helpless on the floor sent my body into shutdown mode. My brain tried to protect itself from the memories and nightmares that I sufferfrom on a daily basis, but they quickly became reality right before my eyes. Just as Collins was lost in her own mind, I could feel the restraints digging into the flesh of my wrists. Holding me down. Keeping me from helping Collins the way she truly needed.
I did my best to shove the choking fear down and push the onslaught of emotions away so that I could help. It felt like my soul was digging and clawing just beneath the surface of my skin, trying like hell to rid itself from my body with every breath I took.
I really tried to keep it all inside because Collins needed us.But Creed saw me. Not just with his eyes, but with his heart. As if his own soul had reached out and tenderly brushed against mine and saw the pain I was so desperately burying. He came to me. Hesawme. He stepped away from Collins, and I selfishly let him because in that moment, I needed him, too. I never would’ve admitted it or asked for it, but he came to me anyway.
The moment he wrapped his arms around me in that closet, I hated myself for pulling him away. For clinging to him when the beautiful, broken girl whom our very souls revolved around needed him more.
By the time we exited the closet, Blair had taken Collins to his room for popcorn and movies while he tended to her hand and the various cuts and scrapes on her legs. We were hesitant to leave, but just as we stepped into the garage and uncovered Creed’s bike, a text came from Asher.
It simply read:
ASHER: Take your time. She’s all good.
There wasa picture attached of her curled up on her side, watching a movie with her head in Blair’s lap while eating gummy worms. That reassurance propelled Creed to secure our helmets.
“Ri?” Creed’s voice inside the speakers of my helmet makes me jump, and I realize I’ve just been standing here blankly, staring at him for God knows how long. “You good?”
His question is punctuated when he lifts the visor of my helmet, and his ice blue eyes meet mine. I can’t see his nose or mouth, but the furrow of his brow and the intensity of his gaze are telling.
He’s already climbed onto his bike, and his thighs straddle the seat while I’m still standing here. I force a stiff nod and gesture behind him with a raised brow, silently asking if I’m good to climb on behind him. My mouth can’t seem to form words tonight, because I just don’t know what to say after my panic attack and breakdown.
I feel awful.
Ashamed.
Selfish.
Numb.
Why do I feel numb?
Creed simply braces the bike and holds it steady as I swing my leg over. I could hold my weight back and away from him, but I still need him close, so I let the curve of the seat force our bodies closer together.
My arms band tightly around his abdomen, and his hum of appreciation vibrates through me, setting little nerve endings alight with energy. It’s been months since I’ve ridden with Creed, but this time feels different. This time, I’m more aware of him. The strength of his body to hold the bike upright, the flex of his muscles as he takes off down the driveway. Every shift. Everyflex. Every breath he takes is observed and catalogued within my mind.
I cling to him as he takes off into the night. Our home is situated deep within the rolling hills of Northern California; the end of his driveway leads to a fork in the road. One takes you right into the city, while the other winds and curves all over the peaks and valleys of the hills until it eventually spits us out along the coastal highway.
The ride is quiet for the first several minutes. I keep my face side-turned to rest just between his shoulder blades while my hands grip his abdomen. I bend and lean with him around every corner, letting myself melt into his body. I become one with him as we navigate the backroads on this cool, early autumn night.
The crackling in the speaker of my helmet grabs my attention just before Creed’s deep, crisp voice filters through.
“You wanna talk?” he asks before downshifting his bike, slowing the ride as the road levels out. The low hum of the motor settles into my bones. “Or do you just want to ride?”
The thought of telling anyone my problems sets my nerves on fire in a not-so-great way. It’s fucking awful, actually. I haven’t spoken about what happened to me outside of when I told Creed in the hospital. Sure, I talked to a therapist, too, but even then it was only a drop in the endless sea of trauma I’ve been wading through.
While I feel like things have been good with me, I still feel adrift sometimes. The darkness and nightmares are always there, lurking just out of sight until one moment of weakness allows them to slip through the cracks and break down my confidence. On nights like tonight, those demons send me careening right back into the deep.
It was merely minutes, but my drowning felt eternal in the small space of time. I was suffocating. I had tried desperately tobury my trauma so deep that only I would bear the burden of seeing and feeling it.
Or so I thought.
I’ve really have to stop assuming Creed is blind to my demons, because I swear he reads my mind faster than I can hide my thoughts. Heseesme.
I take a deep breath and hold Creed a little tighter.
