The doc shakes his head. “No, this appears to be stress-induced. Severe, repeated trauma leads to PTSD, which leads to parts of thebrain that regulate emotions—such as the prefrontal cortex—to shut down and shrink.”
“Can it be fixed?” Max asks, his tone somewhat shrill.
I examine my nails. If parts of my brain shrinking is what keeps me sharp, I have no problem with that. Besides, emotions are overrated, and they get messy. I prefer things to be neat and to the point. If I still had a full range of emotions, I don’t think I’d be able to get out of bed in the mornings.
“It can be repaired, yes, through psychotherapy and, possibly, a regiment of medications. There is no cure to PTSD, but a complete resolution of symptoms and subsequent improvements in the brain are well-documented.” The doctor turns to me. “I have a couple of questions for you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Oh, have you decided to stop speaking about me as if I’mnot in the fucking room?” I bare my teeth at him in a vicious smile. “Please, proceed.”
The doctor’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, looking slightly unnerved. “Er…” he looks down at a chart in his hands. Swallows again, and gives me a jaded glance. “There’s some trauma to the tissues on your cranium. Do you experience migraines?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Weekly. They’re crippling, and they’re usually what finally get me to sleep.” The one that’s been flirting with me is starting to intensify, followed by faint pulses of nausea. That means I have about an hour, maybe less, before I crash.
“You have trouble sleeping?”
“Yes,” Max answers for me.
My jaw tightens, and I slide him a warning look. “You consider yourself an expert on my health?”
He doesn’t throw me a cheery grin. He’s far more serious than I’m used to right now, features taut, brows set in a frown. “Expert? Not yet, but I’m fucking about to be.”
“Could you please describe your troubles sleeping for me?” The doc asks.
“She stays awake three or four days, then crashes and sleeps for a day,” Max pipes up unhelpfully.
Note to self: stop telling him things.He obviously doesn’t know how to keep his fucking mouth shut, or give me the barest decency of answering questions regarding myself.
“I see.” The doctor makes a note. “How long has this cycle been consistent?”
When Max hesitates, I smile again. “Since I have the subject matter expert right next to me, I’ll let him answer.” I’m growing unreasonably irritated; another sign that I’m about to crash. Usually, I know how to hold my temper in check. Just not when I’m literally running on fumes.
The doc looks at Max. Max’s jaw clenches, and he looks at me. I shrug. “What? No response?” I push out my bottom lip in a pout. “How unfortunate.”
“Answer the fucking question,” Max growls.
I tap my lips with my index finger. “Hmmm. Sadly, I seem to have forgotten.” Another shrug. “You know, memory problems and all.”
A vicious, pounding sensation shoots through my skull. I nearly double over and heave, but somehow, I manage to hold myself in check and avoid any embarrassment. It’s a struggle to hide a wince. I can already tell that this crash is going to be nasty.
“Ember,” Max snaps.
“Maximus,” I respond flatly. “If you act like I’m not in a room and have no agency, I willreact accordingly.”
He scoffs with irritation. “Stop being a fucking child, and—”
Sound cuts out. Black spots appear in my vision, and I feel my upper body sway. An unbearable, horrific pain shoots through my head, as though somebody’s stuck a knife into the left side of my skull and is twisting it, trying to dig out my brain piece by piece. Kind of like the ancient Egyptians scooping someone’s grey matter out through their nose.
I hunch over and heave bile onto the doctor’s shoes. Then, I pass out.
Ember: 14, Max: 18.
It’s the worst day in distant memory. Not because I know my dad is out, getting drunk and gambling—that’s become the norm.
It’s the worst day I can remember because my closest friend, favorite person, and biggest crush is leaving.
