Page 2 of Tame Me

I somehow manage to get into my room without being stopped. I go to my bathroom and climb into the tub with my makeup bag. Part of me knows this is it, but I don’t care to find my way out of this dark place. I’m done trying to swim when the current has always been too strong. I can’t find my way out of these rapids, so I give up. As I bring the blade out of its hiding spot, I say goodbye to myself, because that’s all I have in this world.

I can feel the professor’s come leaking out of me, and I refuse to ever feel this way again. I will never have to take care of myself again after an assault I don’t deserve. I hiss as I dig the blade into my wrist, but then relax as I drag it through my flesh toward my elbow. My breathing quickens into bursts, gasping for air, as the crimson liquid pours from my arm, and I drop the razor to the shower floor.

As my eyes begin to flutter and my body weakens, I lay my head back and steady my breathing as a calmness overtakes my body.

This is it. This is the peace I’ve been searching for, and I’ve found it buried deep within my flesh.

One Year Later

I stare at the massive building, not ready to go inside yet. I promised myself I would take this seriously, even if I do think it’s a joke. I’ve spent the last year in a mental health facility, trying to learn how to stop wanting to die. Turns out that if your abusive father dies balls deep inside of you, it’s not very hard to trigger a mental break.

That piece of shit professor, Eddie Chavez, raped me over a letter, and it was the last straw. I slit my arm open from wrist to elbow, and nearly died. I would have if my roommate hadn’t come back to check on me. The whole school saw me walk across campus, clearly looking like I had been hurt, so she was worried. When I woke, I was so fucking mad at her for saving me, but now… I’m glad I didn’t die; I just want to stop being so angry all of the time. I should call her some day and thank her for not letting me die.

I spent a few weeks in the hospital. Between the blood transfusion and me constantly trying to rip the stitches out, they thought it was best to keep me there and mostly sedated until I could heal enough to be moved to a facility. I thought I would just be placed on a seventy-two-hour hold and released so I could try again, but I was very wrong.

Once I was moved to a facility, the treatment began. I worked with several psychiatrists and therapists specializing in sexual trauma. Ultimately, I was diagnosed with Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, and Autism Spectrum Disorder. I feel like a bowl of alphabet soup with all of these acronyms: cPTSD. ODD. ADHD. ASD. All of this should have been identified as a child, but the complex part of the cPTSD means, for me, that no one gave a shit. Mom was dead, and Dad was too drunk and rapey to give a shit about me.

Over the last year, I have been learning a lot about myself. I have horrible anger management problems, but I can at least identify that now. I had a repetitive issue with always blaming others and dragging them into my bullshit because I was projecting my trauma onto others rather than facing it myself. I wanted the world to bend for me, but I wasn’t willing to give anyone even an inch.

My psychiatrist is a man named Reid Holmes. He is the one who introduced me to The Meridian Rehabilitation Institute. It is a BDSM centered in-patient facility for mental health. They use BDSM and consensual kink to help facilitate trauma healing and long-term mental health stability through the dynamic. Reid said that it would provide a safe environment for me to explore my hypersexual tendencies, but also help replace my self-harming urges. When I was first in the inpatient facility, and I was left alone for too long, I'd either fuck someone or hurt myself. Although I have more self-control than that now, I find myself always wanting to have sex.

So, when Reid told me that I get to get fucked for six weeks and all I have to do is some BDSM training, I jumped at the chance. Now that I’m sitting here staring at this building, I’m fully aware that this place is far more than just getting fucked. I know I have to take this seriously if I ever want to live a normal life. I can’t move through the world, slicing myself up every time something happens. I need to learn how to navigate my trauma and move through the world at least somewhat normally.

Eventually, I talk myself into walking to the front entrance and walking inside. The front desk is situated right inside the door with a little red-headed woman sitting behind it. “Hello! Welcome to Meridian!” she says cheerfully.

“I’m here for an intake assessment,” I say simply, trying not to be annoyed by her chipper voice. It’s not her fault she’s annoyingly sweet.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Ayla Justice,” I say.

“Uh… Yes! I see. Okay. Dr. Holmes will be out soon,” she says, gesturing to the seating area with a big smile. “Would you like any water?”

“No, I’m okay. Thanks,” I say before sitting.

The reception area is small. It’s just her desk on one side, a door in the middle, and the seating area off to the left side of the room. Everything is a combination of white and silver with hints of neutral colors to help balance it all out.

“Ayla,” I hear from the door. I look up, and Reid Holmes is smiling at me. He’s the hottest nerd I’ve ever met. I am a short and thick woman with long, curly blonde hair, but he is tall—around six feet—with short black hair and a muscular body. He’s not bulky, but he’s undoubtedly strong.

“Dr. Holmes,” I say as I stand with my bag.

“It’s just Reid, Ayla. Come on back,” he says. For whatever reason, I roll my eyes and walk to him. He simply steps to the side so I can walk past the door. We walk down a slight ways before he presses the button for the elevator.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“The first floor has the living quarters for the participants, visitations, and reception, so we are going to the second floor. This is where the psychiatrist's offices are, as well as therapy rooms, and the main conference room,” he explains.

“Okay,” I say harshly. I don’t get why I am pissed, but I’m afraid that if I ask, then he might think I am a psycho, and I won’t be allowed in. I don’t know why this feels important to me, but it is.

We step into the elevator, and he presses the button for the second floor before looking over at me. “What?” I snap.

“You are either nervous or scared,” he says.

“Is that a question, Doctor?” I ask, almost mockingly.

“No, just an observation,” he says simply, watching me. The door dings before sliding open, allowing us to step out. We walk along the hallway, and each door is labeled differently. Some are therapy rooms or just have a name on them. The last door on the right says Dr. Reid Holmes. The very end of the hallway door just says “Conference room.”

When we get to the office, memories hit me one by one. I can’t bring myself to step past the threshold.