He pulls away from me, holding me at arm’s length. “This isn’t up for discussion.”
I shrug out of his grasp. “Don’t pretend you care about me if you’re so willing to kick me out.” I stand and grab my backpack, tossing in any of my stuff I can find. I sweep the room for anything I’ve forgotten.
Kevin drops his head in his hands. I throw the backpack over my shoulder and leave the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I reach the front door and turn the knob, but Kevin's hand rushes forward and keeps the door closed.
“You can’t leave now. It’s dark out. Where would you go?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”
Kevin grabs my shoulder and gets between me and the door. “Figure out where you want to go, and I’ll bring you tomorrow.”
“Fuck off. Get out of my way.”
I fight back the heat behind my eyes, grab the doorknob, and strain to pull it open despite his weight against it. I scream as I shake it. Kevin’s body morphs into the large, overbearing body of my abuser, and I’m once again the small child trying futilely to get the door open as he leans against it. His hand wraps around my wrist, and I slap it.
We’re not done in here, Skye.
You don’t want to let me down, do you?
Why don’t you go back to the bed?
I fall to the floor and break down, sobbing until my body shudders. I can’t see a thing in front of me through the tears. My heart thumps against my tight chest, and I worry I'm going to vomit it onto the floor. A panic attack grips me from within. I grab my hair, tugging at it. I crawl toward a dark corner of the room and put my back against the wall as I cry. Voices float around me.
Do you want to make me happy?
Show me that you love me.
Hands grab at me, and I fight against them, digging my nails into the flesh of the powerful wrists.
“Stop, Skye. Stop! You need to breathe. Stop holding your breath.”
The words transform around me. I try to take a deep breath like the voice said, but the air catches in my throat until I’m dizzy and breathless.
“Breathe. In . . .”
I suck in a breath.
“Out . . .”
I blow out the air.
“In . . .”
I inhale.
“Out.”
I exhale.
My heartbeat slows. My vision clears. I’m in Kevin’s kitchen instead of my childhood bedroom. My hands grip Kevin’s wrists, making my knuckles white. My nails drive into his skin. His face comes into view instead of the wrinkled one with hardened eyes. His expression is awash with concern.
“What happened?” he asks, his arms still outstretched.
I loosen my grasp on his wrists. White indentions remain where my nails sank into him.
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I don’t—” My words come out in a flurry.
“Shhh,” he comforts me. He hesitates for a moment before grabbing my shoulders and pulling me into his chest. His heartbeat flutters as I bury my face into him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He brushes the hair from my face. “Do you want to tell me what you had a panic attack about?”
I shake my head.
“What did you see?” he asks.
“I can’t.”
“I need to understand what happened. This isn’t the first time. I wake up in a similar panic sometimes. I have for years now. If I tell you what mine is about, will you tell me yours?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“I’ve never told anyone this story,” he says with a nervous wipe of his hand through his hair. “I was overseas. We were on a mission to find a suspected leader of a terrorist cell.” He chokes up.
“It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it.” I tell him when I see the twist in his features that shows how much he’s struggling to tell me his secrets. I’m familiar with that look.
“No, it’s okay. I have to.” After a moment of hesitation, he speaks again. “We barged into the home, and I ended up in a gunfight with the man. He shot from another room, and I just mag dumped into it. When the gunfire stopped and I went into the room, I realized I—” The words catch in his throat. His eyes lock ahead of him, somewhere behind and beyond me. He swallows hard. “I . . . I shot a baby in a crib. I killed a fucking infant.” Kevin’s voice wavers.
So much silence fills the space between us. My heart breaks for him. I can’t imagine living with that on my conscience. He continues to hold me, with his chin on the top of my head.
“I was sexually abused.” I take a deep breath.
Kevin’s arms squeeze me tighter. “It wasn’t your father, was it?”
I shake my head. I can’t ever say who it was. I’m too embarrassed to admit the person who did the things they did. The word—his relation—can’t form in my throat to tell him.
Kevin runs his hand through his hair. “You didn’t think I was going to hit you? Did you?”
“No, but when you stood in front of the door, it triggered a panic attack. Trying to leave and someone in front of it. Blocking it.”
Kevin’s shoulders fall forward, as if weighed down with guilt. It’s not his fault. He didn’t mean to trigger me. It happens sometimes. I get lost in the memory as if I’m there, living it all over again. It feels so real. The panic is legitimate.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he says.
My body feels heavy as he helps me to my feet. He picks me up and carries me to the bedroom. I wrap my arms around his neck, feeling safe within his grasp. He lays me down in the bed and covers me with the blanket before turning to leave.
“Will you stay with me?” I say, barely above a whisper.
He looks down at me with a frown. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please?” I beg. I fear what I’ll do if he leaves—when I’m alone.
He smiles at me with tight lips, as if going against his better judgment. He walks around the bed and climbs in beside me. I turn over and rest my head on his chest, falling asleep to the sound of his beating heart.