I turned and bolted into the bathroom, slamming the door.
I didn’t turn on the light. I turned on the shower, cranking it to hot. I stripped off my clothes, fumbling with the buttons, ripping the fabric in my haste. I stepped into the spray.
I slid down the wall. I pulled my knees to my chest.
I couldn’t breathe. The air was too thin.
My body screamed, recalling memories I didn’t want to think of.
Rico’s knee in my back.
Julian’s scream.
The snap of bone.
It wasn’t March in Texas. It was seven years ago in Charlotte. I was back in the arena. I was watching my life end.
“Cal,” I croaked. It was barely a whisper.
I tried again, louder, desperation clawing at my throat. “Cal!”
The door handle jiggled instantly. A second later, the lock clicked. The door flew open.
Cal rushed in. He saw me on the floor, curled in a ball, shaking violently.
“What the hell,” Cal breathed.
He didn’t hesitate. He was in the shower with me in a second, fully clothed. He dropped to his knees, the water soaking his shirt instantly.
“Silas? Hey, baby, look at me,” Cal demanded, grabbing my face gently. “Breathe.”
“I—I can’t—” I choked. “It’s happening again.”
“What’s happening? Talk to me,” Cal urged, pulling me into his chest.
“No,” I sobbed into his neck. “It’s my head. I can’t—”
Cal held me tighter. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got you. Just breathe with me.”
He rocked me. He sat there in the pouring water, holding me while I fell apart.
It took me twenty minutes to finally come down enough to form sentences that didn’t sound like a clusterfuck of words.
I took a shaky breath. “I have CPTSD,” I said.
The acronym hung in the steam filled air.
“Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” I clarified. “I got diagnosed a few years ago. After the botch.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, the memories flooding back.
“I went home to heal. But I went home to the same house where I learned to be afraid. I was trapped there with my dad and my uncle. They didn’t understand. My grandfather would tell them I’d wake up screaming, or I’d freeze up for hours, and they would just look at me like I was weak.”
I sobbed, a harsh, broken sound.
“Maverick told me it was all in my head. He told me to ‘man up.’ He said Reeds don’t cry. So I had to learn how to survive it alone. I had to learn how to hide in my room and fall apart quietly so they wouldn’t see.”
Cal’s chest hitched. I looked up. He was crying.
