Page 17 of In the Air Tonight

“No, that’s okay. I’m sure it won’t take long.”

“Make sure you tell her how instrumental the meds were in making you feel better the first time this happened.”

“I will.”

“Okay. Text me if you need me.”

“Denise?”

No one calls me that, so it’s weird when someone does. I get up to follow the young, male medic into the clinic.

Thankfully, he leaves the door open when he weighs me and takes my blood pressure, otherwise, I would’ve told him to open it. I notice his gaze is trained on my breasts as he takes my pulse.

I’m tempted to tell him that my dad, the navy captain, would end him and his career if he saw him looking at me that way.

That’s a thought I never would’ve had before Ryder raped me. I used to low-key enjoy the attention I got from boys and men. That was before I found out what they’re capable of. Now I don’t want any of them looking at me or imagining me naked or any of the other vile things they might be thinking.

“Dr. Cummings will be in shortly,” he says on his way out the door.

I exhale a sigh of relief that he’s gone and pray that Dr. Cummings is a woman. Military doctors cycle in and out of the clinic, so you never know who you might see.

I don’t want men anywhere near me, even in a place like this, which is supposed to be safe.

Is anywhere safe?

Dr. Cummings is short, blonde and very pregnant. She wears her khaki uniform shirt untucked over her round belly. I glance at the gold insignia on her collar. Lieutenant commander. My dad would be proud. I knew all the ranks by the time I was six.

“Hi there, Denise. I’m Dr. Cummings.” She goes to the sink to wash her hands. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

She uses paper towels to dry her hands and then sits on a stool. “What brings you in today?”

“I’ve been feeling a little low lately.”

“Has this happened before?”

“When I was twelve. I’ve been on meds for it ever since. My dad thought I might need to have the dose adjusted.”

“Let me take a look at what you’re on now.” She clicks around on my chart and recites the name and current dosage for my prescription. “We could try another ten milligrams a day to see if that helps.”

“Okay.”

“Has there been any change in your diet or exercise in the last few weeks or anything else going on?”

I’ve barely eaten or left my room in three weeks, but I can’t tell her that. “No.”

Is she trained to know what happened just by looking at me? I want to run away, but if I do, where will I go? How will I explain my behavior to the doctor or my dad? I’m on the verge of hyperventilating, and all she’s done is type some stuff into a computer.

“Are you all right?” she asks, her brows furrowed with concern.

“I’m just… nervous.”

I want so badly to tell her the truth, but when I think of how evil those girls have been to me, I can’t. No one would believe me, and things would only get worse than they already are.

“Take a few deep breaths and try to relax. We’re just going to talk, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

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