Page 19 of When Hearts Awaken

“Charles?” Sir Ian murmurs.

Charles stares at me, the fire burning hot in his eyes. His head dips into the barest of nods.

My lips tremble as I finally take in the rest of the room—my colleagues whispering furtively to each other, Ainsley and the other trainees’ faces crumbling with obvious concern. My skin heats and I swivel my attention to Madame Renoir, who looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm.

Hanging my head, I whisper again, “I’m sorry.”

I flee from the room.

Half an hour later, I trap myself in the bathroom of my tiny studio apartment in the Theater District. Murky steam from the shower fogs up the mirror. I watch as the vapors swirl and slither, foreboding, much like the darkness that has tainted my soul that fateful night.

A sentient being intent on ruining me.

My pulse is rioting in my veins as I rake in deep inhales.It was a flashback, the worst flashback I’ve had in years. It’s not reality. I’m safe now. No one will hurt me anymore.

I repeat my affirmations. All the self-help books recommend this. But I still feel like a thousand ants are crawling on my body.

I need pain. I need control. The past is in the past. Not the present.I’m calm. I’m in control.

With trembling hands, I pull open the top drawer of the bathroom counter and grab an unassuming plastic box—my lifesaving kit for sanity. Flicking the lid open, I pull out a large-gauge needle. Just the needle, no syringe, no illegal substances. I haven’t sunk to that level yet. I glance at my reflection under the florescent lights again.

Bloodless, pale skin—lifeless like my soul. Messy, black strands I’ve tugged again and again on my subway ride back home. Red-rimmed eyes that look haunted.

Everything is okay, Taylor. Pain. You need pain to ground you. We’ve been through this before. Regression is okay. It’s normal.

Holding my breath, I slide the needle underneath my skin on my inner thigh, away from the veins, and flinch from the searing pain as I twist it inside my wound. I watch my blood drip out slowly.

One drop. Two drops. Three drops.

The darkness spreading on the white floor.

The initial gutting pain calms the jitters in my body.Focus on the pain, Taylor. Control it. Everything else doesn’t matter.

Closing my eyes, the muscles in my shoulders slowly loosen and I take in my first real breath since my outburst at the studio.

I shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t healthy.

Logic beckons me to listen to it. Imploring me to let the past go. Hurting myself now won’t ever erase my trauma—it just prolongs the agony. But I don’t know any alternative. It’s the only thing keeping me going. It’s my ritual when flashbacks get this bad.

After that horrible night, I tried the cops, who took one look at me and said I had no evidence because I washed everything away. I tried therapy, but I couldn’t make the words come out. I remember sitting in the tiny room, staring at the annoying fly buzzing near the ceiling, the therapist latching onto the fact I couldn’t remember everything. And I couldn’t afford anything out of pocket—too fucking expensive.

I was mute. Silenced.

You’re better than this, Taylor. You’re stronger. A fighter. Plenty of women have suffered worse and they have their shit together.

My mind refuses to listen, and instead, those voices barge into my mind again.

“Fly, Harriet.”

“Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

More unwanted memories barrel in, crashing through the uneasy calm. The needle isn’t enough. I need more.I got this.I breathe in and out for a count of five.

Tossing the needle to the floor, I scramble inside the shower, wincing as the piping hot water singes my skin. My mind on autopilot, I reach for the body wash and rub it over myself, then I grab my loofah and scrub. My ritual.I can do this.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

My pale skin turns flushed, then pink. Raw. I still feel disgusting. Dirty.

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