And once I started to cry, I couldn’t stop. I cried and cried and cried, the dam inside me bursting with months of emotions I’d been holding onto. I cried in the uncertainty of what I’d done. I clutched tighter at the fabric, fisting it and pulling it closer to me at the same time the embrace around me loosened. Two large hands gripped my cheeks with a firmness I knew I could trust as my face was tilted upward.
And still all I saw was red.
Red eyes.
Red hair.
It’s terrifying. I hate it. I hate all of it.
And yet, it might just be my favourite colour.
“Sterling.”
I allowed my head to sag as one hand moved from my face to my shoulder to steady me as I continued to teeter in the haze of my own shock.
“Sterling.” A name.My name.Unmarred. Untainted. “Hey, I think you’re in shock. I’m going to get you home, but we need to sort this out.”
Can a thing like this ever be fixed? Can a thing like this trulybe sorted out? The whole situation was absurd. Ridiculous. Insane. And for a moment, all I could do was laugh or let out a huff of air. I felt crazed and chaotic, and before I knew it, my tears had returned with a vengeance, painting my face with my own shame and guilt.
My head lulled again as I struggled to withstand my own fatigue, the adrenaline finally leaving my body. My knees buckled beneath me, and I felt myself drop momentarily before being steadied again. “This might get me into hell.”
“Jesus,hey, look at me.”
I looked up into the deep pools of claret wine, forgetting how to breathe in the process. Or maybe I’d already forgotten because my breath was ragged, choked, and uneven. I stared up into his eyes, trying to understand the vulnerability and pain I saw. I wanted to lose myself in them. I wanted to let them drown me. I wanted his eyes to wash away the scary, terrifying thoughts, and if they couldn’t do that, well, I wanted them to be the last thing I ever saw.
“I need to fix this, okay?” the voice said softly. “Are you able to make a wish for me? I’ll need help from the book for this.”
I nodded. “I wish…” I struggled to get the words out, afraid that if I opened my mouth, I’d let slip every emotion I’d spent too long fighting to hide. “I wish this would all go away.”
He pressed another lingering kiss to my forehead before pulling me closer. “Good girl.”
No. I was meant…meant to be more…specific.And then the blur of greys and blues and white and red.So much red;itwent black.
My emotions creptthrough the dark cracks of myself before I’d even noticed they were gone. And all I was left with was a feeling of numbness that was both overwhelming and exhausting. They say it’s a survival mechanism some people experience—a dissociative response to trauma. But for me, this was exactly who I’d always been.
My body had an innate ability to protect itself from emotions that were too distressing to deal with. It compartmentalised everything until I struggled to link my feelings to my own triggers. A part of me always knew that those feelings were there. I knew they were swirling around inside me. But they were buried deep, buried in that long-forgotten part of myself, I hoped I would never have to visit again.
And as the frantic memories of that night faded into my subconscious, I knew in that moment, in the hollowed-out version of myself, that I would never fully be able to process this. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I couldn’t. Because that wasn’t howIworked. Like everything else, I would push this into one of the deep corners of myself until it simply became a part of me.
A part of me that hated hair gel.
A part of me that hated pinstriped suits.
A part of me that had a fear of walking in the dark or feeling trapped.
And the tears I would shed in the aftermath of this would be for triggers, I couldn’t quite rationalise. For things, I couldn’t quite understand.
The kitchen felt dimly lit,illuminated by a solitary orange lamp–the colour so at odds with the cool, lingering feeling that calcified in my chest. I dropped my gaze to the palms of my hands, which were clean. Spotless.Normal.The back of my head was searing and bruised when I brought my hand to it but there was not a lump or scab or hair out of place.
That one scene inThe Shiningalways felt so unrealistic. But every time I closed my eyes, a torrent of deep, crimson liquid poured into the forefront of my mind. I choked out a sob as I clutched at my knees, needing something to steady me. To anchor me. Thallor stalked out of my bedroom not even a second later with a clean set of pyjamas and a fisherman sweater I’d thrifted years ago. His expression was unreadable–where it was usually blank or stony–he now seemed to be experiencing a whole spectrum of emotions. Concern? Anger? Relief? I saw it all when I looked at him.
Is that all for me?
He lifted one hand to gently stroke away the tears streaming down my face. My heart thrummed against my chest as I did everything in my power not to lean into it. “You’re safe,” was all he said as he dropped the clothes from his other arm onto the table.
“Arms up,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a command. Just a statement. Something that would be good to do, but ultimately, it was my choice if I wanted to do it. My eyes dropped down to my clothes again, each and every breath pulling from my chest in ragged, laboured gasps. “Eyes here, Sterling.” And he pointed to where his gaze was locked on mine.
I held up my arms tentatively before he pulled up the black long-sleeve top plastered to my body. Half damp, half covered in trash and grime, and half covered in…
