Page 161 of Requiem
Rain taps steadily against the windows of Dr. Mercer’s office on this gray Oregon afternoon. My brain keeps trying to map the sound into patterns. Footsteps. Always fucking footsteps in that godforsaken basement.
I notice myself doing it halfway through and force my jaw to unclench. The room smells like coffee, which is a smell that would make most people probably relax here. There’s a bookshelf against the far wall packed with psychology texts and worn novels, a lamp glowing softly beside it, and a knitted blanket folded neatly over the arm of the couch I’m sitting on. I suppose it’s to make people feel safer.
I haven’t touched it once.
My knee bounces relentlessly where I sit leaning forward, elbows braced against my thighs, fingers laced tightly together.
Dr. Mercer notices everything, but he doesn’t always call attention to it. “That’s the third time you’ve checked the window in the last minute,” he says calmly from the chair across from me.
My gaze flicks away from the rain-streaked glass. “I know.”
“You expecting someone?”
“No.” I exhale through my nose, rubbing my thumb absently against the scar near my palm. “My brain just…searches for exits a lot. Everywhere I go, I look for the exits.”
He nods once, like that makes perfect sense.
That’s the weird thing about therapy so far. I keep expecting him to be shocked whenever I open my mouth. Maybe even some judgment, horror, or a visible shift where he realizesexactlywhat kind of person he’s sitting across from.
But Dr. Mercer never looks shocked.
“And how have the nightmares been this week?” he asks.
I lean back into the couch cushions. “Better.”
“Different kind of better oractualbetter?”
I huff quietly despite myself. “Different kind.”
“Explain.”
I stare down at my hands for several seconds before answering. “I sleeplongernow.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “But when I wake up, sometimes I don’t know where I am.” I swallow hard. “Emma says I panic before I’m fully awake. She tries her best to calm me down.”
His expression remains steady. “Do you remember the episodes afterward?”
“Pieces.” I shrug slightly. “Usually I think someone’s in the house.” My jaw tightens. “Or I think she’s gone.”
“And the cravings?”
There it is. The bane of my fucking existence.
I drag a hand down my face slowly before answering. “Still there.”
“How strong?”
“Depends on the day.”
“That’s not an answer.”
My mouth twitches faintly. “If it’s a harder day, I’ll find myself wantingto escape.”
“But you’re still on Suboxone,” he supplies.
I nod once before staring back down at my hands again. The bandages are gone now, but sometimes I still swear I can feel Alexei’s blood drying beneath my fingernails all over again. His and Emma’s. Hate and love trapped together on my skin.
“It’s worse after nightmares,” I admit eventually. “Or when things are too quiet.”
“Why quiet?”
