It’s a lie. But a convincing one, judging from the sullen look she gives me.
“It helps to talk it through,” I say.
“Why bother? Just check your socials tomorrow. I’m sure there’ll be a hundred videos online.”
“I’m talking about the flashback.” Even out of the corner of my eye, I can see her stiffening up. She’s resisting me again.
Bad girl.
“You know what’s interesting about flashbacks?” I continue, voice measured and calm. “The brain doesn’t store trauma the same way it stores regular memories. Normal memories fade. Details blur. But traumatic memories?” I glance at her. “Those are encoded with every sensory detail. The smell, the temperature, the exact words spoken. It’s why something as simple as a scent or a sound can transport you back completely.”
She’s listening, despite her reservations. I can see it in the way her breathing has steadied, the way she’s turned slightly toward me.
“The brain attaches emotions to sensory data as a survival mechanism,” I turn onto Earl Avenue. “It’s trying to protect youfrom experiencing the same trauma again. But the thing about emotions is, they bleed into each other. One memory triggers another, and suddenly you’re not just reliving a single moment. You’re reliving every moment that made you feel the same way.”
Haven pulls my jacket tighter around her legs. She seems to realize where we are and turns to face out the window, staring at the view as we ascend Agony Hollow’s tallest hill.
“It was the collar, wasn’t it?”
She flinches a little, silent.
“What did it feel like against your neck?” I keep my voice casual, like I’m discussing the pouring rain, or the dim lights barely visible through the pouring rain.
“Fuck off,” she mutters.
“Understanding the trigger helps you control it.”
Another lie, of course. I just want to know every sordid detail.
“ What specifically about the collar triggered your flashback? The pressure around your throat? The texture of the leather?”
Her jaw works. For a moment I think she won’t answer until I hear her whisper, “The sound.”
“Which sound?”
“The click of the metal. It sounded like—” She cuts off with a shake of her head.
“Like what, Haven?” Not pressing, just interested.
“Like his belt when he’d pull it through the loops,” she murmurs.
“Who?”
She faces forward, eyes squeezed shut. “He said—he said I needed to learn to come when he called. Like a…like the bitch I was.”
“How old were you?”
“Does it matter?” she scoffs.
“Context matters. The younger you were, the more deeply embedded the neural pathways.”
She shakes her head, voice bitter. “Old enough to know better.”
“Better than what? To be abused?” I shake my head. “That’s not how trauma works, Haven. You didn’t choose what happened to you.”
“I stayed,” she mutters angrily. “I could have left, but I fucking stayed. I should have?—”
“Where would you have gone?” I cut in.
