Page 11 of Heart So Hollow

God, Barrett, you had to bring that up, didn’t you…

CHAPTER FOUR

Brett

Present

Some days, I love going into Judy’s office because I feel like I’m getting somewhere, like I’m making real progress and I can conquer the world. Other days, like today, I feel like I can’t stop thinking about what happened.

The flashbacks are rampant and the memories are crushing me to the point that I can’t breathe. There’s a cinder block attached to my ankle and I’m drowning, sinking to the bottom of the ocean when I’m just trying to make some goddamn toast for breakfast.

But today even Judy can’t put me in a good mood. Whenever someone walks into her office, she looks at them like they’re her best friend who she hasn’t seen in 15 years. Her bright smile takes up most of her tanned face framed by her sandy pixie cut, all the laugh lines a testament to how she lives her life. And she does so while hearing about the most depressing, fucked up shit every single day.

She reminds me of Barrett in that way.

“Tell me what’s been going on,” she smiles as if I’m not sitting on her cloud-like sofa with my eyes bugging out, hands shaking, and looking like I’m tweaking out.

But she probably knew this would be bad since I called her this morning, frantic, asking if she could see me today. It’s 7:00 in the evening—afterhours—but she let me come anyway.

“I had a nightmare last night,” I’m out of breath only after six words, “and it was the worst one yet.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“I was trapped, running around, trying to find a way out. I was screaming, but no sound was coming out, like I was on mute. But I was screaming in real life,” I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, “and when I woke up, I was on the floor and he was holding me down, talking to me and trying to bring me back.” Judy can’t see the bandages up and down my arms. “And then I started freaking out all over again because there was blood everywhere—on my hands, on the floor, on the walls, on him…”

“Where did the blood come from?”

“Me,” I pause to take a deep breath, “because I smashed the window with the side table…trying to escape that room again.”

???

At least four times a week, I take my bike to one of the trailheads and disappear by myself for an hour or so. It’s part of my treatment—my part of my treatment. I immerse myself in the dirt and rocks, ride fast, fight the terrain, and get a little bit stronger every time. Maybe I come back bloody, maybe I don’t, but it’s fewer and farther between, now.

Today, I only bring back a thin film of dust and a head of hair soaked in sweat. After loading my neon yellow bike onto its rack, I unlock the driver’s side door and tug it open, but not before confirming it’s still locked when I return. Some routines aren’t so easy to shake, like glancing around the entire cabin and making sure nothing is missing—and nothing has appeared—since I left.

As soon as I pull onto the road, a call rings over the Bluetooth of my 4Runner.

I tap the dashboard screen as soon as I see the caller ID, “Hey, Tyler,” I call through the speakers.

“Brett!” The pitch of her voice is so high, it comes out as distorted fuzz. “Are we still on for next week?”

“Yes, absolutely! I was hoping you weren’t going to cancel.”

Tyler is insane if she thinks I’m going to miss this. Hers and Sydney’s podcast has quickly become one of my favorites, chatting about nothing but thrillers and horror. And now I’m going to be on one of their episodes. Because this is who I am now.

“No way, I’m not going to be responsible for wrecking plans,” Tyler laughs, “are you still OK with recording live?”

“Yeah, totally!” I was apprehensive at first because I’ve never been officially recorded before.

For anything public, anyway…I laugh to myself. OK, stay serious.

“It’ll be nice sitting next to someone in the studio since Sydney lives so far away,” Tyler laments, “I just confirmed the schedule with her due to the time difference. But, more importantly, have you been inundated yet?” Tyler asks, her voice hitching in excitement, “You’ve gone viral, the bookfluencers love it.”

“Yeah, I know,” I’m still not used to this kind of exposure, “it’s pretty wild.”

Tyler’s right, there are a lot of people who love my book. But there are also a lot of people who don’t. I used to think people only got fired up and talked about books they like on social media. Apparently, there are also people who devote copious amounts of time and effort to talking about books they hate.

“It’s a lot, you know?” I continue, “I’m not used to this many people liking what I have to say, or not liking it…”

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