Page 7 of Property of Chaos

I feel as though I want to crawl out of my goddamn body and find somewhere safer to hide.

Fuck.Fuck that letter. Fuck his goddamn name having this power over me. Seven printed letters spelling out the sum of all my issues. It was ink on a goddamn page, and yet, it may as well have been a loaded gun to my head for how my nervous system reacted.

“You okay?”

“Huh?” I jerk upright.When the hell did she come in?

Theresa drops to her haunches before me. “They’re gone.” She extends a hand toward me to touch my arm yet thinks better of it. “What do you need?”

I draw a deep breath and drop my arms on either side of the seat to shake out the jitters. Why the fuck I have a goddamn panic attack over being bullied into believing I made a mistake, I don’t know. But if I’ve learned anything over the past decade or more, it’s that trauma doesn’t need a reason to trigger fight or flight.

It does it for funsies on the daily.

“Grab a cold juice from the fridge and pop outside for a bit, huh? Get some sunshine on your skin.” Theresa offers a small smile.

You’re failing already.“I’m okay. Honestly, I just need five to let this pass. I’m sorry I messed up.”

She sighs as though frustrated at trying to reason with a child. “Vanessa.” My name is a whip crack off her lips. “You told me you had an anxiety disorder when I hired you, sweetheart. Don’t feel as though you have to hide your struggles. I wouldn’t have given you the job if I figured it’d be a problem.”

I don’t deserve her kindness.“Thank you.”I haven’t done enough to earn it.

The broken record of criticism echoes through my head as I rub the lingering heat from my arm. Swear to God, I made that rude woman her damn drink how she ordered. I lift my hands before me as Theresa pushes to her feet with a groan, her knees popping. My fingers tremble, arms like lead.It was just a letter. It shouldn’t have this effect on you.

Just an invitation to re-enter the hell I spent half my lifetime escaping.

He only has the power you give him.I draw a deep breath, rubbing the heel of my hand to my sternum.

I shouldn’t feel like this. I’m thirty-fucking-six, and yet, my brain is stuck somewhere around nineteen. I look to the adults around me, navigating life with such poise and resilience, and I feel like a child. Immature. As though I’m yet to bloom. As though I’m frozen in time despite how my body ages.

I feel disadvantaged. And all because of what some sadistic fuck did to me. All because of something that was totally out of my control.

So why don’t I have control now?Because it’s a practiced skill, you dumbass.I know the answers, yet I continue making the same mistakes.Maybe this is all I’ll ever be?The thought threatens to make me cry.

I will not break further. Not when Theresa is still watching me as though she doesn’t know what the fuck to do to fix me.Newsflash: neither do I.

“Maybe some sun would be good.” I rise from the seat and force a smile.

“Take one of these.” Theresa turns and collects a muffin off the counter, sliding a paper napkin beneath it. “Chocolate fixes everything.”

“Thank you.” I accept the gift into my trembling hands.I will not cry.“I really appreciate your understanding.”

She opts not to say anything—likely because my shaky words show her just how close to a complete meltdown I am—and gives a gentle nod before leaving to man the counter again.

Her voice cuts through the door when she greets a customer.An audience, more like.I dab the side of my finger beneath my eyes, use the dark glass of the oven door to check my faint reflection, and draw a deep breath.You’ve got this.I can do it.

I’ve done harder things.

Head down, I slip through the door and veer right toward the swing door. My hip bunts the wooden panel open, and I let out a startled yip when it rebounds against me with force.The fuck?Lifting my head, I come face-to-face with a middle-aged guy sporting what can only be called a lion’s mane of riotous sun-bleached blond waves.

He tilts his head and smiles, looking at me with kind brown eyes. “Could we get a cloth to wipe the table? Got some papers that are sticking to it.” He gestures toward the garden annex tucked to my right, behind the room I was just in.

“Sure. Just a moment.” I set my muffin down on the nearest clear section of the counter and duck down to get the spray bottle and cloth.

I take the opportunity to sniff away any lingering emotions while I’m hidden behind the cupboard door.

Theresa glances down at me from where she serves a customer to my left. “What you doing?”

“A customer asked if I can clean their table.”

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