I could always throw it away later.
Warmth washed over me as I descended the staircase. I hadn’t realized how cold I’d become out in the winter air. Feeling returned to my limbs with each step I took, and by the time I reached the main floor my blood was flowing normally again.
Unfortunately, along with the warmth came pain. My palms and fingers had been scraped bloody raw. The injury had been easy to ignore when everything was numb from the cold, but now they were starting to sting pretty badly.
Staring down at my abused hands, I debated what to do.
I could just go back to my graduation party and pretend like nothing happened. Eventually, these injuries would heal on their own, and then I could forget I’d ever seen Clay or Logan.
However, it looked like the party was already winding down. A handful of people still hung around the rec room to continue enjoying the decorations and finish off the last few pieces of cake, but the majority had already wandered off. Returning now would just feel depressing.
Not to mention, I couldn’t stand the sight of the “Congratulations” banner hanging over the door. Just seeing it made my stomach churn and stopped me from setting foot in the room.
I no longer felt so deserving of such praise.
In the end, I turned away from the remains of my party and headed to the nurse’s office. I told myself that it was just because my wounds needed treatment. The roof was an unsanitary place, and the scrapes on my hands could easily get infected if not treated right away.
But I knew it was a lie. I would have taken any excuse to avoid the remnants of my celebration.
There was always a nurse on staff at the facility. Even in the middle of the night, the lights remained on in the nurse’s office, and there was always at least one person to greet you.
So, I was surprised to find it open but empty.
Well, now what?
I stood in the empty nurse’s office, looking at the bare white cot and the multitude of locked medicine cabinets, wondering what to do next.
The nurse must have been called away for something. They would probably be back soon, since the nurse’s office was never left unmanned for long, but I didn’t want to wait. My hands were really starting to hurt.
Maybe I could find another member of staff to help me. After all, my injuries weren’t complicated. Anyone could apply some disinfectant and a bandage. Hell, I could easily do it myself, but the medical supplies were all locked up tight.
Leaving the nurse’s office behind, I looked up and down the hall for another room with a light on.
There. Not far away, the therapist’s office was brightly lit. Along with a nurse, there was almost always a therapist on shift at the facility as well. Considering the nature of the patients that stayed here, both were equally necessary.
Cradling my injured hands against my chest, I shouldered open the therapist’s door. The first thing that met me was the familiar scent of bergamot and orange. Candles and incense were prohibited in the recovery center for safety reasons, so instead the therapist brought a portable air-freshener with her to help provide an extra calming effect. The scent of bergamot and orange was better than an “open” sign, letting me know the therapist was present.
My plea for help died on my lips the moment I stepped inside the room. The therapist was there, but she wasn’t alone. The girl I’d spoken to earlier sat in one of the comfortable armchairs scattered around the room, clutching her own arms as she hunched over herself.
I recognized that defensive pose. It was the same one I adopted every time I had a panic attack. Like I was trying to shield myself from the world and claw my own brain out at the same time.
“Jordy?” the therapist asked in surprise as she looked up at me from her own chair. “I thought I locked that door. Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no,” I declined automatically, before I even realized what I was saying. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were with anyone.”
“It was an emergency meeting. I’m sure you understand how stressful large gatherings can be, especially for new guests.”
After ensuring that the girl was okay, and comfortable to wait for a moment, the therapist joined me over by the door.
“Are you okay, Jordy? You look like you’ve been crying. Was the party too much for you?”
“Oh, no,” I shook my head, though I couldn’t seem to take my eyes away from the young girl practically curled up in her chair on the other side of the room. At the party, she’d been shy and nervous but otherwise fine. She’d even been brave enough to approach me on her own.
How had she gone from that to this terrified creature in such a short amount of time?
As soon as the question occurred to me, I instantly knew the answer. I’d lived through it plenty of times myself. One moment I’d be fine, and then someone would bump into my shoulder in just the wrong way, or say just the wrong word, and suddenly, I was thrown right back into my worst memories. When I first arrived at the recovery center, panic attacks had been an almost daily occurrence for me. It had taken two years to get the attacks under control, and while I hadn’t had an episode in several months, that fear wasn’t easily forgotten.
What was I doing?
