Page 1 of Psyop Kings

Romy

Present Time

I’m an unreliable narrator.

If my life story were a book, that’s what they’d say about me.

That’s what my therapist, Maura, often says. Same with Dad.

Sometimes I almost believe that too.

Almost.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

Oh my God, I can’t breathe.

Hot, thick air settles on top of me like a wool blanket, smothering the last bit of breathable oxygen. My lungs ache and my head throbs.

I’m going to die.

Just a dream, Romy.

Just a dream.

The pounding inside my skull clouds my thoughts. I’m unsure if I’m drowning or floating in space—either one a terrible situation concocted deep in the fragmented recesses of my mind.

It’s not real, though.

It never is.

Not anymore.

I try to think about the grounding techniques Maura taught me. Deep breathing is out of the question. It’ll only make me fixate on how much oxygen I have available to me and how long it will take me to pass out without adequate air.

Why can’t I remember what she said to do?

I’m catapulted back to when I was six and I’d rub my pinky in a small line along the side seam of my nightgown. The little balls on the fabric from being washed a thousand times were comforting and distracting. The dark and all the monsters who lurked there terrified me back then, but the small action soothed me in unimaginable ways.

When I focused on the movement—up, down, up, down, up, down—and counted all the ups and all the downs, the terrible nightmares would eventually end. And, before I knew it, the sun would come up.

I was always safe and free in the daylight.

A trickle of sweat races down my temple, rousing me from my erratic thoughts.

I’m not a child.

I’m a freaking grown-ass woman now.

So why am I so frightened of the dark still?

My hand shakes as I slide it down to my side. The fabric isn’t soft and worn out. It’s thick and durable. Blue jeans? Since when do I wear jeans to bed?

A thrill skitters down my spine.

It’s just a dream.

---