Page 126 of King Of Order

I hung up, looking back at her.

This woman—my woman—who had always been so damn strong, so full of life, light, and fire, now reduced to this. It was like drowning, the helplessness wrapping itself around me. I was always in command, fixing problems and keeping life in order.

But this? This was out of my hands.

The doctor would be here soon, but none of that mattered.

This was on me.

My accusatory confession might have been the catalyst that pushed her into the darkness. It shook me, the guilt so overwhelming, my uselessness so damning.

I’d never experienced this lack of control in my life, and it was tearing me apart.

Regret gnawed at me, making it hard to think straight, the remorse unshakable, crippling.

My words were responsible for this shit. I could only pray she’d fought her way out and found her way back.

I rarely lost control or let emotions cloud my judgment, but seeing Chiara like this—her stillness, her blankness—broke something inside me.

I couldn’t fix this. I couldn’t undo my confession nor the truths revealed. And I couldn’t pull her back from wherever she had gone.

Eventually, I heard footsteps in the hallway.

After a soft knock on the door, I let in Mauri, followed by our family therapist, Dr. Rita Scattizzi.

Her husband was our GP, and both practitioners were discreet and trusted.

She immediately set to work.

First, she got a rundown from me while I lifted Chiara from her bed and into a chair.

The doctor moved Chiara with gentle experience, speaking in soothing tones while I looked on, helpless.

I shoved my fists, first in my jeans pockets, then through my hair, even crossing them over my chest. Restless, impatient.

The doctor ignored me and conducted her tests, checking Chiara’s reflexes and responses.

Nothing.

Chiara sat like a statue, unmoving, unfeeling.

She only shifted when the doctor re-positioned her, almost mechanically, like she was following some unseen script.

The doctor checked her iPad, appeared to take notes, and then turned to us after her examination, her face grim. ‘She’s in a state of catatonia,’ she explained, her voice clinical but not unkind.

‘The hell?’ I grunted.

The kind doctor ignored the emotion that accompanied my outburst. ‘It’s often linked to major depressive disorder. The brain shuts down, and the person becomes unresponsive to their surroundings. It’s not acutely life-threatening, but it needs to be treated with care. She’ll need medication and close monitoring.’

‘Will she recover?’ I growled.

‘She will, with the right kind of attention and oversight.’

I swallowed the knot of fear lodged in my throat. ‘What triggered this?’

The Dr Scattizzi glanced at me, understanding in her eyes. ‘Trauma, stress. I’ve examined her past medical records online, and it appears she’s had this happen once before, during a high anxiety period of her earlier life. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what set her off. But whatever it was, it pushed her mind into retreat.’

Trauma. Stress.

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