Page 24 of Fighting for Valor
“Showered there this morning. Changed clothes. Grabbed a granola bar and got the hell out. We do this every session, doc. Nothing’s changed. There some point to this?” I don’t want to talk about my feelings. About the fear of locking myself inside my apartment, of the four walls penning me in. Of finding myself somewhere dark and small, unable to get out. But without these appointments, I can’t get the anti-depressants that keep me from wanting to throw myself off the Ship Canal bridge, and I’m too scared to face life without them. I don’t want to die. I just don’t know how to live…free.
“One day, you’re going to trust me,” he says simply. “Until then, it’s my job to make sure you’re safe and not a danger to yourself or anyone else.”
My shoulders stiffen, and I sit up a little straighter. I’m a danger to everyone. Hell, the last time someone tried to grab my arm to tell me my backpack was open, I almost laid them out with a single punch. “I’m controlling it,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Care to try that again without cracking a molar?”
“No.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I arch a brow, daring him to push me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he switches gears completely.
“Any news on the job front? How was your interview with the animal shelter?”
This, I can handle. “I start volunteering tomorrow. Cleaning the kennels, walking the dogs. Six hours a week, after the shelter closes for the day. If it goes well, they’ll start paying me in a month.”
“So, a job where you won’t have to see or talk to anyone.” Neery hides his frustration well most of the time, but when you’ve been trained to read micro-expressions, it’s pretty damn easy to spot when your shrink is disappointed with you.
“Look, doc, this is all I’ve got in me. You want to make me feel like shit for it? That’s your choice. I met your minimum requirements. Ten minutes in the chair twice this week. Get me the damn script and I’m gone.” Pushing to my feet, I sway as a brief wave of dizziness hits me. But Neery is too busy scribbling on his prescription pad to notice.
“I’ll see you next Monday, Jackson.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” Five minutes, and I’m outside in the sun. By the time I reach the pharmacy, I’m shaking. Will this be the day I slip up? Get distracted and give the wrong name?
Breathe. You’re Rick Mercury now.
The day Dax asked me to choose my new name, there was only one I wanted.
“Fred Mercury.” I shove my hands into the pockets of the hoodie. Since we landed in Boston, I haven’t been able to get warm.
Dax chokes on his coffee. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“No. If you’re going to take my name away—” I clear my throat, unwilling to let anyone know how much it kills me to give up the name I just got back, “—then I’m going to be Fred Mercury.”
“Rip, come on,” Ry says as he drops into the chair across from me. “You’ll draw way too much attention to yourself. After the movie…fuck.”
“What movie?” I haven’t seen a movie in more than six years. I’ve missed so much.
Ry’s girl takes his hand, and her engagement ring catches the light. I don’t know her—or Dax’s fiancée, or anyone else in this room. Clive-something-or-other is Dax’s relocation specialist, and he and Wren can get me a fake identity, complete with credit history. She meets my gaze, and her soft voice holds sympathy. “They released a Queen biopic last year. Won all sorts of awards.”
“Fine. Rick Mercury.” Before Dax and Ry can protest again, I hunch my shoulders and stare down at the floor. These are my brothers. I should be able to be straight with them. But all I can hear is Faruk’s voice in my head telling me Jackson Richards is dead, and I’m Isaad now. “I can’t lose anything else,” I whisper. “Please. Richard Jack Mercury. Let me keep…something of who I used to be.”
The pharmacist calls out, “Mercury. Rick Mercury?”
It takes me a minute to remember that’s who I’m supposed to be, and when I approach the counter with my ID and credit card, I want to throw up. But I get through the transaction and leave with a week’s worth of anti-depressants and anxiety pills.
I hate this. Hate my life. Hate what those years of brainwashing and torture did to me. My hands shake as I twist the top off the bottle of anxiety meds and toss back two of them with swig of cold brew coffee I picked up while I was waiting.
I should be better by now. Stronger. But instead, I’m fighting the physical and mental effects of too many traumatic brain injuries, sleeping on the streets, and spending the rest of my days walking. Just so I can be outside, somewhere no one can lock me in again.
By the time I reach my apartment building, Ryker’s sent me two more text messages, both ignored with a quick tap to the screen. I swear under my breath as I check the time. Sunset is in twenty minutes. I can’t be here after dark. Won’t be.
Up three flights of stairs—there’s no fucking way I’m getting into an elevator—and I round the corner and freeze. “Last time I checked,” I say, trying to keep my tone measured and level, “I was two years older than you. I don’t need a babysitter.”
Ryker pushes off the wall, his hands in his pockets, and ambles towards me. “Then return my damn messages.”
“I was busy.”
He arches a brow. “Doing…?”
“None of your fucking business.” Shouldering past him, I don’t miss his flinch—or my own. Neither of us like to be touched. Punching in the fourteen-digit code that saved my life—94820RJT008000—I wait for the secured door to open. “What do you want?”
