Page 17 of The Darkness Within

I can’t swallow.

I can’t breathe.

Panic claws at the walls of my chest, squeezing my heart until it beats too fast and hard, and I race for the door.

Mandy is hot on my heels, tugging at my arm. “Nash, hold up.”

“No, this is too much.”

“Hey, you don’t have to talk. We just want to introduce ourselves to you. Make you feel welcome.”

I have to take two deep breaths before I can speak, swallowing hard past the lump in my throat. “I don’t want to feel welcome. I want to go home.”

Can he hear the desperation in my voice? Doesn’t he know I’m scared shitless? “This is absurd. Men who knit? Get the fuck out.”

“You owe me a favor, and I brought you here, so you might as well sit the fuck down and listen.”

“That’s how he got me here,” the man who was sitting beside me says. “Brandt cashed in a favor, and by the end of the hour, I realized it wasn’t so bad. Mind you, I’m not completely convinced yet, and I’ve been coming for months,” he teases with a twist of his lips.

Ignoring him, I plead my case to Mandy. “I don’t want to talk about my feelings, and I don’t want to listen to them talk about theirs. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Why can’t we just leave?”

“Because you need help, and this is help.” Mandy speaking calmly in the face of my anger only makes me feel more frustrated.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Do you know the shit I’ve seen? Do you think sharing my feelings and knitting a fucking scarf is going to make me forget that I held my best friend’s dead, rotting body in my arms for seven fucking days while rats ate pieces of him?”

The look on Mandy’s face transforms from pissed off to horrified, and I want to bite my fucking tongue off for letting those words past my lips.

“Jesus Christ, Nash. I didn’t…”

“I know, you didn’t know. How could you? This isn’t the kind of therapy I need.”

Instantly, he’s pissed again. “You don’t know what you need! You think you have all the answers, but you don’t. That’s why you look like a goddamn mess. That’s why you live in an empty shell of an apartment that resembles a crack house. In fact, I’ve probably been in nicer crack houses. At least they were furnished. Until you have a better idea of how to help yourself, this is the best idea we’ve got. Sit the fuck down and shut up and listen for the next sixty minutes, and then I’ll take you home.”

Fuck.

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Fuck me.

Reluctantly, I follow him back to our seats and chance a look at Riggs. He’s looking at me patiently, with understanding and a touch of sympathy. But I can tell it’s not pity. Not with Riggs. He doesn’t pity anyone. Why do I feel like crying? My throat is swelling again, and my chest feels heavy. All the shit I haven’t dealt with that I bury deep down is floating up to the surface, in danger of leaking from my eyes. I’ve been surrounded by these people for ten minutes and already my guards are trying to come down, probably screaming out for help like I’m holding my soul hostage, trapped in my nightmare against its will.

I’m no better than my captors.

I’m holding myself hostage, torturing myself.

I don’t want to keep suffering, but I don’t know another way out, and the thought of sharing everything I’ve been through with anyone sickens my stomach and scares me to my core. It’s easier to just stuff it down deep and numb myself with pills and alcohol than it is to face the truth of my trauma.

They treated their dogs better than they did us. My best friend, one of the best guys I’ve ever known, died a horrible death without honor, like he was lower than a rat.

No, he had honor. He fought, and he held on as long as he could. They blew his fucking foot off and still he held on. They cut his fucking ear off. They starved him and beat him, and he held on until his body gave out on him. He died with honor, like a warrior, fighting for his life and his freedom, and I’ll honor his death and his life until my last breath.

With my mind stuck somewhere in the past, I didn’t notice they’d started the meeting until Brandt stands and walks over to me. He hands me a folded up piece of paper from his back pocket. A sheet with a bunch of phone numbers that blur together.

“This is the Bitches with Stitches phone tree. Anytime you need to talk to someone, reach out and call one of us. Start at the top of the list and work your way down.” Then he glances at the list, reading off the names in his head, and his face scrunches. “Actually, McCormick might not answer if he’s on a date. But you can call me. I’ll always answer.”

“Fuck it,” the big redhead complains. “Carly dumped me. I guess I can answer the damn phone.”

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