Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“Fenn!” I scream.
I claw at him. Fighting even as he again forces the door closed with me inside. The water rushes up my neck, overcoming my mouth and nose. I take one last gulp of air and watch Fenn rise to the surface, leaving me trapped inside the car descending deeper into pure darkness.
Then I’m floating free in the endless black void. Released from the car but inescapably pulled deeper, my limbs exhausted and too heavy to swim for the surface. The silver light of the moon is an unreachable point, growing smaller, far above my head. I stare up at it as I sink, aware of every second of my journey toward death.
I don’t know what finally tears my eyes open. I wake screaming with the blankets tangled tight around my legs, encased and thrashing inside the cocoon of knotted sheets.
It’s seconds before I notice the sun pouring into my room and take several gasping breaths. I feel my phone under my pillow and my first instinct is to text Fenn. The person I’ve turned to when the nightmares leave me shaken and licking the taste of blood from my mouth.
Only this time, he’s the reason I’m drenched in sweat and my chest is on fire.
“Is that what it felt like when you knew you weren’t coming back up?” I whisper to Mom.
I don’t get an answer before Dad bursts into the room looking pale. He’s tailed by the dogs, who jump onto the mattress to investigate the commotion.
“Are you all right?” He sits on the edge of my bed as I push up against my headboard. “What happened? Another nightmare?”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, ducking away from his attempt to wipe my hair from my face. Then I shove Bo’s snout away when he tries to lick my cheek. All this hovering is too much. “You know you don’t have to come charging in here every time like I’m being eaten by the monster under my bed.”
“If you’d heard you scream,” he says, somewhat offended.
“I’m fine.”
“Maybe it’s time to talk to someone again, sweetheart.”
Why do people always say “someone” like they can hide the pill in a rolled-up piece of bologna?
“You mean another shrink?” I scoff. “Pass.”
“I’m not sure it was a good idea to stop seeing the therapist,” he tells me.
“I tried it. It didn’t help. I haven’t remembered anything new about the accident at all.”
“That wasn’t the sole reason for going to therapy, Case. We can’t just ignore your diagnosis and hope it goes away on its own.”
My diagnosis can fuck right off. I have PTSD, I get it. But talking about it hasn’t alleviated any of the symptoms. I still get the flashbacks. The nightmares. The sheer panic that grips me at random moments of the day. My psychiatrist, Dr. Anthony, prescribed medication to try to help me, but I didn’t feel like myself when I was on the meds, so she took me off them. It’s ironic—they pumped me full of pills to ease the post-trauma symptoms, those bouts of crippling, emotional numbness, and the pills just made me even more emotionally numb.
“I’m not going back on meds,” I say flatly.
“That’s not what I’m suggesting. I just think you need to keep talking about the trauma,” he presses with the look he gets when he’s trying to psychically change my mind. “Ignoring PTSD symptoms can lead to other issues. Depression. Substance abuse. Eating dis—”
“Disorders,” I finish. “Yes, I remember.” I throw the blanket off and climb out of bed. “I’m fine, Dad. I’m not depressed. And I’m not doing drugs or starving myself. So please, drop it. I need to get ready for school.”
At breakfast, Sloane sneaks worried peeks my way as I force myself to eat the omelet Dad prepared. It tastes fine, but it’s a struggle to finish it. Not because I’m succumbing to an eating disorder as he fears, but because my appetite is nonexistent. My stomach is too unsettled, twisted into knots after the shock I received last night.
Fenn has been lying to me for months.
Months.
He’s held my hand and hugged me and let me cry in his arms. He let me go on and on about how devastating the accident was. How it ruined my life. I lost my friends. My school. My reputation.
Yes, I get that Fenn wasn’t responsible for the accident itself—Sloane said the security video made it clear he wasn’t the driver. But that doesn’t change the fact that he lied. And I could have died while I was lying there on the bank of the lake, unconscious, bleeding from a head wound.
I could have died.
I feel Sloane watching me again and shove the last bite of omelet into my mouth. I need this breakfast to be over. I can’t deal with any of this right now. The vicious cycle of overprotection and aggressive mothering that engages every time Dad tells my sister I’m off my rocker again.