Page 143 of Heart of The Night

He was my sole confidant of the deep impact the assault had on me – the feelings of vulnerability, inferiority, and powerlessness that followed. The incident had underscored a harsh truth: unforeseen events could shatter my sense of control at any moment, a realisation that had haunted me for months. Rather than seeking revenge on Oliver, my true battle had been to reclaim autonomy over my life.

Beyond Dr Fielder, I had shielded the full extent of my ordeal from everyone, including Cara. I refrained from disclosing too much, not wanting to burden them with unnecessary worry. My recovery didn’t necessitate their anguish. Revealing the true depth of my struggles seemed pointless; their sympathy, while well-intentioned, would not alleviate my load but might instead heighten theirs. Conversely, maintaining a façade of improvement proved beneficial, allowing me fleeting moments of respite from my ongoing torment. If Cara, Jason, or my parents truly understood what I endured, our interactions would likely change, laden with concern rather than the casual banter I desperately needed to feel normal. Their anxious questions would only intensify my awareness of my lingering issues.

However, as the months passed, I found strength in gradual and consistent healing. Dr Fielder’s guidance and my own resolve had fostered a newfound stability. I could now genuinely say that, although the memories of the assault occasionally resurfaced, they no longer governed my existence. The support from those around me, albeit shielded from the darkest realities, had empowered me to overcome the most challenging barriers. I was no longer merely acting as if I were doing better – I was better, more whole than I had been since before the assault.

Yet, during today’s session, my responses were less forthcoming, but not by design. The scant sleep I managed last night fogged my mind.

‘Was there anything in particular that kept you up?’ Dr Fielder asked after a moment of silence, the black pen in his grip pausing on a page in his open notebook.

‘Nightmares,’ I murmured.

‘You mentioned last month that they had become less frequent. Has that changed?’ His tone was both clinical and concerned.

I sighed, my brows furrowing as I reached for the glass of water on the table between us and took a sip. ‘Yes, I’ve been having more of them lately.’

‘Really?’ Dr Fielder adjusted his glasses, his keen gaze not missing a beat. ‘How often are they occurring now?’

‘Every night the past week.’ I set the glass back.

‘More than once per night?’

I met his brown eyes. ‘I had six just last night.’

His brows lifted, revealing that he found this notable. He was quick to dribble the information down. ‘Six is a lot. Have you had that many in one night before?’

‘No, I’m exhausted.’

‘Did you experience night sweats, too?’

I nodded. ‘Had to change the sheets this morning.’

‘I see. And are the events still the same? In your dreams?’ He referred to them as dreams right then, but we both knew they were actually memories – I was reliving what had happened that night at the charity gala. Oliver’s account, as he had told it to the detectives and the courts, confirmed as much.

A tightness gripped my throat; I struggled to clear it. ‘They’re… similar.’

‘Similar how?’ Dr Fielder asked gently.

My heartbeat thudded louder in my ears, the familiar edge of discomfort creeping in. But I reminded myself of the necessity of this process for my healing. Initially, I had tried to suppress these memories, but that only fuelled my nightmares, making them more violent and frequent. I knew that confronting them, as painful as it was, remained essential to mitigating their power over me.

‘They start the same way each time.’ I shifted, removing my legs from the rest, leaning forward as my hands clasped tightly between my knees.

‘You’re in the toilets,’ Dr Fielder prompted softly.

‘Yes, at the basin, my back to the door. Someone enters – I glance over my shoulder and see Oliver. He greets me, and I nod, turning back as we exchange small talk. I’m focusing on washing my hands, not noticing his reflection in the mirror until a sudden movement from him catches my eye.’ The words choked off as the images resurfaced with shocking clarity, overwhelming my senses until the room around me seemed to dissolve, leaving me standing once again in that toilet.

A raw, visceral fear surged through me, stark and primal. This fear wasn’t like the complex social fears of losing someone I loved – like the fear of losing Cara. This was more fundamental, more basic.

It was the fear of death.

It spread through my veins, tightening every muscle of my body and seizing my breath.

‘William, concentrate on my voice,’ Dr Fielder commanded, sounding far away. ‘You’re safe here. Look at the table, feel the sofa beneath you,’ he urged, his voice growing more distinct as the room gradually came back into focus.

I clutched the edge of the sofa, the soft fabric slowly grounding me in the here and now.

‘Oliver is in prison, William,’ Dr Fielder reminded me, his voice imbued with calm reassurance. ‘He’s serving a fifteen-year sentence.’

I nodded slowly, repeating his words in my mind like a mantra. I breathed deeply, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, using the technique he had taught me to manage my panic attacks.

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