Page 332 of Mad Girl

“This is something I really want, Casey.”

Your gaze dipped to my throat a second before returning to my face. “You want me to choke you?”

“Don’t choke me. Just…apply a little pressure. Make it hurt a little bit.”

“You asked Willoughby for this?”

Among other things. “Yes.”

You studied me, eyes narrowed. “Can we talk about why you want it?”

My heart sank. Of course you couldn’t handle this. I should’ve known better. “Does it matter?”

“Well, are you asking because you want to hurt yourself with it? Or are you asking because you think it might give you back some of the power and control you lost with Greer?”

“Look, if I wanted to analyze all the twisted reasons I’m asking for this, I’d bring it up with my therapist, okay? Forget it.”

I tried to lift up.

But you nudged me back down, your palm heavy against my chest. I tried speaking again, but my voice stuttered to a halt as you climbed on top of me until your body hovered above mine, knees astride my hips.

My heart thrashed uncontrollably—from the anticipation of what came next, the memory of Greer doing the same thing, or the proximity of you, I’m not sure. Probably all three.

Painfully slow, your hand drifted up my chest to my throat. I felt a slight tremor in my own hand when I reached up between us to grasp your wrist, my fingers fluttering over your bracelets. Our gazes remained locked, yours deep but devastatingly soft. No malice, no deadness, no darkness at all. Just you. Just there. Just binding us together. Assurance—that’s what it felt like. A promise: I won’t hurt you. I’m here.

My breath hitched as your fingers curled tenderly around my neck—and again when your palm settled over my windpipe. For one breathless second, you lightly traced my jaw with your thumb. And then, with no warning at all, that thumb dug into bone, you tilted my head back into the mattress, and your grip tightened. Not so much that it hurt, exactly, just felt uncomfortable and tight—too tight—like being wedged in a hard place. Like being held down. There’s no way you could’ve known, but it felt exactly like that initial grip of Greer’s, when I’d first begun to panic.

With you, though, I knew not to panic, not to fear. I lay perfectly still, taking solace in the discomfort, in the firmness of your grip, in your strength.

Could you feel it?

My pulse hammering? The extra effort it took me to swallow? All the fight seeping out? Me letting go?

This was me, giving the darkest piece of myself to you. Not just letting you see it, letting you hold it. Reshape it. Mold it into something brand new. A different moment, a less scary one, where I didn’t feel stripped of all power—I chose to let you take it. Where I didn’t feel humiliated or trapped or hated, but held and seen and safe.

You gave me so much more than power or control. You replaced the memory of that night with a better one so the old memory couldn’t hurt me anymore. In the end, that’s all I really wanted. Not to be hurt. Not to take it too far. Not to traumatize myself all over again.

To be set free of the pain.

Some wounds cut too deep.

The tears you saw in my eyes weren’t tears of sadness, Casey. They were tears of relief.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, and maybe I wanted that more—to hear those words. To hear it wasn’t messed up for me to need this. To know someone got me. Someone finally understood.

You pressed your forehead to mine.

I squeezed your wrist.

“It’s okay,” you whispered again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Maybe you understood something the other two never did. That, sometimes, we need to recreate our trauma because it’s the only way we can truly begin to heal.