Someone is always there, keeping me company.
Luca or Maeve, I think they have their own rotation going.
Noah comes too, though it seems that he's been tasked with keepingtrack of Jace. I can't blame them. I don't even know how I feel about Jace yet.
My thoughts are slippery, like I'm trying to hold onto a fish. They slip away before I can really grab them, but I'm getting there.
The following week is better. Not good. But better.
I'm finally able to get out of bed. First with nurses or Luca lifting most of my weight. Then with a walker.
Luca laughs and makes jokes about me being an old lady. I barely manage to throw a cup at him.
After the walker, I keep a shaky grip on Luca's arm, walking short distances. Maybe the length of the room, or down the hall. It wipes me out, but I'm determined to get better as fast as possible. I often push myself till I'm ready to collapse, sometimes I do and Luca has to carry me back to my room.
My eyes stay open longer.
The bruises fade from violent purple to muted yellow.
My stomach stops rejecting food, and I start eating soft foods, then whatever they'll let me have. My appetite creeps back in small waves.
Noise is still a problem.
A dropped tray, the door shutting too hard, someone walking too heavily in the hallway. Any sudden sound sends a shock through me, dropping me right back into that basement. Heart pounding, breath trapped, body frozen.
We're…working on it. At least that's what the shrink says.
She says I have PTSD, not only from this but from Daniel too.
Great.
And the memories—God, the memories.
More and more of them are coming back, like bubbles floating up to the surface. Popping up at the most random of times.
Sometimes I wish they'd stay buried. I’d rather not remember.
I don't look as thin anymore. My cheeks are filling out, my arms are not as skeletal. But filling back in will take time. Everything takes time.
My therapist says healing isn't linear. It's messy and slow.
But I'm still here.
Still standing… Well, sometimes.
By the one-month mark, my body isn't the fragile, trembling thing it was when they first brought me in. I can finally stand without swaying like a reed.
I can walk without clutching the wall; my legs don't feel like they'll fold under me every time I take a step.
My strength comes back in small, stubborn increments. A little more muscle. A little more color in my face. A little less trembling in my hands.
Eating isn't a battle anymore. I can finish full meals. Sometimes, even asking for more. The nurses track my weight, nodding approvingly when the numbers rise. I don't look, though, I don't want to fixate.
My nightmares still come, but not every night.
Luca stays with me most nights. I'll scoot over, and he lets me lie on his chest, telling me he's here to keep watch.
Some nights I sleep through. Some nights, I wake up sweating but not screaming. Some nights I stretch out and realize I'm not in the basement anymore.
