It doesn’t. It’s rare.
Triggered by extreme trauma.
That must be what’s happening now. I’ve got that same feeling. Like I’ve stepped a few feet outside my body and left it behind. Like I’m floating, watching from above. Untouched by the reality of what’s happening below.
I’m aware of movement, of my hand wrapped around Becky’s arm as I drag her outside after dinner, but it doesn’t feel like mine. Given her cry of pain, I must be holding her too hard but that knowledge is distant, happening to someone else. I’m too distracted to pay much attention to it, how her feet drag through the tall grass behind Ashford House as I pull her around the side of the building.
The moon is low and pale overhead, the noise from the dining hall already fading behind us. Everything feels distant. Muted. Like it’s happening underwater.
Because I’m not here. Not really.
I’m somewhere else, listening to the noise, all the terrible words, inside my head. It’s my voice, but younger, and it’s twisted, intertwined with his.
It doesn’t stop. It never stops.
Stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.
To believe someone might care about me.
That someone might want me.
Love me.
It’s like my father said.
I’m unlovable. Not worth the effort.
Becky’s talking. Saying my name along with words likepleaseandexplain. They fall on deaf ears.
What’s there to explain? Jackson already showed it.
All those articles. The photos. The truth.
I stop so abruptly she stumbles past, the pull on her wrist snaps her back to me.
“You set me up,” I say, though I don’t remember deciding to speak.
“I didn’t—I mean—I did,” she stammers, “but it wasn’t to hurt you—"
“Too late for that,” I smile but it’s wrong. A slash instead of a curve.
Somewhere deep inside I’m screaming. None of that reaches me here.
“It was all a lie,” I say, “Every word. Every touch.”
“No, no, Carrson—” Tears well in her eyes. They overflow, spilling down her cheeks, unchecked. “That’s not true.”
She steps closer. Puts her hand on my chest.
My hands lift, aching to drag her closer. To hold her.
I shove her away instead. A small push, but she staggers backward, her heel catching on a clump of weeds in the grass. Her arms windmill, as she falls and hits the ground hard.
The sound of it, bone against packed earth, cracks through the night.
She folds in on herself, buries her face in her hands. Her narrow shoulders heave.
I should help her up, but I can’t touch her.
