Page 29 of Claiming Sarah

“You look like shit, my boy,” Dr. Shaw remarks, not opening the door further.

“I need help,” I confess, sinking to my knees. Twenty-four hours. It took twenty-four hours for the house to burn, roof caving in and burying my sins. I’d read once that the mind can’t function well during sleep deprivation. Mine rarely functions when I am sleeping.

A slippered foot enters my vision before the rest of the kneeling older man does. Weathered hands land on my shoulders, and a clinical gaze runs over me. I let him, accustomed to the same unspoken assessment from the facilities. Even my Sarah did it, unaware that I could see her mind working through my symptoms.

Finally, he nods after a moment, groaning as he stands and motions me up.

“Come on in,” he says, walking ahead of me. I follow him inside, sliding the locks into place.

“By the way, I’m retired. So, you better find a hell of a way to make this up to me. I’ve got a guest room you can sleep in and maybe some old clothes you can squeeze into,” the old man says, moving further into the house.

Shock immobilizes my limbs. He let me in. He’s offering help. Blood stains my hands, and I’m not sure if it’s real or imagined.

“Dr. Shaw,” I whisper, tears clinging to my lashes. He pokes his head around the corner, white hair sticking up. A sly smile curls his lips, reminding me of my time as his patient. He taught me the meaning of the term “as clever as a fox.” He hadn’t changed, capable of talking me into the most complex circles. I’d never met another mind like his, except for maybe my raven.

Fingernails bite into my palms. I’m doing this for her.

Dr. Shaw’s shoulder leans against the frame of the doorway he’d entered.

“Everyone needs help at some point, Zaiden.” A faraway look enters his eyes, staring unseeing past a point beyond my head.

“People forget to treat the person instead of the illness, forgetting that patients are people at the end of the day. I imagine that if someone other than myself took that approach, your treatment might have reaped more success.”

Emerald pools shift and ripple with a multitude of emotions, and I’m no longer certain Dr. Shaw is looking at me or past patients he’d failed to save.

“Take the olive branch, Zaiden, and get help. Real help this time. You don’t have to walk this road alone.” His stooped frame straightens. “And I’m sorry about your mother. I saw the news report about a fire at your childhood home.” His gaze locks meaningfully on the soot decorating my clothing, showcasing my guilt.

A white brow cocks. “I don’t have to worry about my golden years going up in a puff of smoke, do I?” I bark a choked laugh, shaking my head. My mother’s ghost lands a hand on my shoulder, also silently urging me to trust Dr. Shaw, to take his offer of help. I wasn’t sure I was chasing a dream or an apparition through the streets, screaming her name, until I came upon a car I recognized.

Through barred windows with eyes heavily lidded from drugs, I used to watch Dr. Shaw scramble into the beat-up green Toyota. I’d recognize his car anywhere. Sarah’s smile flashes in my mind, along with flickering images of her body writhing beneath me.

I want that again. I want her, and I can’t have her as I am, unmedicated and unable to discern what’s real.

My head nods before I give the command, errant tearsstreaking down my face. For my raven, I’d burn the damn world to ruins, spelling out her name in the ashes, whistling over the crackle of buildings collapsing.

“For Sarah,” I whisper in a voice too soft for Dr. Shaw to hear, shuffling closer so he could show me to the guest bedroom.

23

LITTLE RAVEN

ZAIDEN

AWeek Later

My fist connects with the cushioned glove sheathing Dr. Benji Shaw’s hands. A left jab strikes the right glove. Another hook hits the other glove, the sound of the impact bouncing off the walls of the basement. I extend my arm again, putting force behind the punch. And again. And again. Unsatisfied, blood rushing to my head, I raise my leg impulsively, striking out. The top of my foot collides with the glove, sending Dr. Shaw flying off his feet, breath whooshing out of him.

Panting, forcing my breathing to slow, I battle with the guilt swirling through my dilated veins. My feet slap the mats decorating the concrete floor, striding to help Dr. Shaw to his feet. Parting my lips to apologize, a liver-spotted hand waves me off.

“This is why we have mats,” Benji wheezes, one hand pressing to his lower back. Shit.Can I do nothing right?

“How do you feel?” he asks me, shrewd eyes narrowingslightly. Raking a hand through my hair, I close my eyes, slowing my breathing as he taught me.

“We are here.”

“Go to her.”

“Angry,” I answer honestly, eyelids popping open. He nods, walking toward one of the couches pushed against the cement walls. His butt sinks into the stiff cushions, dust floating up into the air, irritating our noses. He waves a hand, coughing slightly.

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