Page 77 of Ethereally Redeemed

“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been, especially at such a young age,” she pauses, and I feel the first tear trickling down my cheek that I quickly wipe away, somehow feeling embarrassed that she’s seeing me like this. “I want you to know that we don’t have to go any further unless you’re ready. But we will need to address it eventually, whether it be today or in a future session. Healing from trauma involves revisiting it and developing new, healthy coping mechanisms to support your daily life.”

My heart constricts, and I feel myself spiraling, continuing to hastily pick at my heel and wishing I could be anywhere but here.

“I don’t want to talk more,” I say, my voice steady, yet feel like it’s quivering.

She hums softly, folding her hands in front of her. “That’s perfectly okay. Would you like to talk about your self-harm?”

“My w-what?” I stutter, eyes growing twice the size.

She pointedly looks at my foot, and I quickly drag it under the blanket, hiding it from her view, once again ashamed.

“What you’re doing is a way to cope with your mental pain by creating physical pain. It’s not a healthy strategy,” she explains, her tone compassionate yet firm.

I shrink away from her watchful gaze, refusing to meet her eyes.

“How about, instead of picking at your skin, you try to squeeze a soft ball to keep your hands busy? See if it works instead,” she suggests, offering a small ball that I hesitantly take.

“Your road to recovery will be long and painful. It might even feel impossible at times, but it’s not. I’ll be here to guide you every step of the way, using cognitive-behavioral therapy and other methods.”

I listen, nodding absentmindedly, lost in my own thoughts and the nightmares taking root there.

“I think it’s best if we continue this discussion with Grey. I need to talk to you both regarding something,” Camila says gently as she waits for my approval.

Uncertainty fills me, but I follow her into the kitchen, where Draven and Everlee are making lunch together. Watching them with each other fills my heart with warmth, yet I can’t help but feel ashamed that they know I’m seeing a psychiatrist. I don’t think it ever will be easier—that raw vulnerability while baring your soul open for someone else to prod and inspect.

“We’ll be in your office,” Camila informs Draven before calling for Grey.

We enter Draven’s office, which is as dark as the rest of the house, including the furniture. Grey immediately pulls me into his embrace, his eyes asking if I’m okay. I give him a faint nod before settling into the leather armchair in front of the desk. Camila sits down across from me, while Grey takes a seat beside me.

“You’ve both endured more than any person should, violations of your human rights. With that in mind, I have a proposal for you that I believe you should consider very seriously.”

The look in her eyes tells me that whatever she’s about to say will impact everything, as if she’ll drop a bomb over the room that will shatter everything—including its inhabitants.

The urge to rip off my sock and pick at the skin beneath it is overwhelming—a voice in my head begging me to obey. Instead, I dig my nails as hard as I can into my palms, desperately trying to focus on something else. Without drawing too much attention to myself, I grab the ball I got from Camila, squeezing it tightly. My toes fidget, yearning for the physical pain that the ball can’t quite give. It’s milder, but it’s at least something—healthier, yes.

“Both your childhoods and the start of adulthood have affected you deeply,” Camila says. “And I know you feel as if you have lost the sense of what is real and what isn’t. At Rosewood Psychiatry, we are fully equipped to guide you toward recovery.”

“Wait, what are you saying?” I ask out loud, but it’s as if no one in the room can hear me.

Adrenaline shoots through my body, causing my bones to grind together as confusion washes over me. I look at Grey for support, but his gaze is fixed on Camila, asking questions that neither of us has the answers to.

“How do you know it will work?” His tone is full of disbelief, fists clenched hard—he’s not happy about her suggestion, either.

A piercing ringing takes hold deep in my eardrums, evolving into a high-pitched whine that refuses to shut up. Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead as I struggle to breathe and maintain my composure.

“I once had a patient who was so traumatized by his past that he lost control of himself,” Camila explains. “He tried to fight against it on his own without seeking help, but things only worsened. He ended up hurting the people he loved, even if that was the last thing he wanted to. He stayed in my care for two years, and today, he’s finally able to live a normal life, managing his emotions. If he can do it, so can you.”

A hopeful look crosses her expression, her eyes nearly shining with the belief that healing is possible.

Yet, in my eyes, she looks like a perpetrator, poised to ruin ourlives and never let us out.

“What’s going on?” I quip, a shiver rolling through my body as I wrestle with the onslaught of emotions. The ringing persists, only increasing, but I focus on steadying my breath.

Camila keeps her hands folded, elbows resting on the desk for support, as she leans her chin against them, looking at me when she speaks.

“I want you to stay at Rosewood Psychiatry in the women’s ward. You’ve had difficult relationships with men over the years, and we will help you learn to cope and heal from that.”

I turn to Grey, whose eyes meet mine, though his face has taken on an ashen hue. “Does that imply me as well?” he asks Camila, his voice trembling slightly, making it deeper, more hesitant.

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