Page 80 of Shadows Within
The only person I can be mad at is myself. She somehow received a written threat, and I didn’t know. It slipped through the cracks on one of the only days I didn’t wait for her when she was done class.
“From now on, you don’t go anywhere alone.”
“Pft, yeah right. That isn’t happening, I—” Her face scrunches as she tries to finish her sentence.
“You don’t have an option anymore, Angel. I won’t follow you to classes, but if you’re at school, I’ll be on campus. If you’re at the gym, I will be waiting outside. And if you’re at your house, I’ll be staying the night. And when I can’t, someone I trust willsit outside your house down the street. Do you understand?” She needs to understand the severity.
She gulps and nods, sensing that none of this is a joke.
I rub her face with my thumb, finally giving her the comfort she wants.
“Your safety is my main priority.”
She closes her eyes and moves her cheek against my palm.
For a moment, we stay there. The softness of her skin against my tainted flesh reminds me of what I have, and that I’ll do everything in my power not to lose it.
Trauma
Scarlett
I was fourteen when I feel in love with psychology. It started with abandonment and progressed into more. It’s fascinating to learn about how the brain responds to the different decisions we make. I sit in my favourite class, ‘The Psychology of Trauma,’ and remind myself of the memories and flashbacks that have been speaking to me lately.
I’m torn on how to feel about them. Part of me feels like a weight is slowly being lifted from my chest, while the other part feels anxious to learn the truth. I’ve been trying to relate to our lectures and case studies. Basically, the brain becomes overwhelmed when it experiences something traumatic, and our emotional part takes over. When this happens, if we block out or forget about trauma, we often lose those memories completely or struggle to put them back together. Sometimes, specific sights, scents, or textures trigger certain memories.Great. More things thatcouldbring the feelings back.
I’ve been searching for a logical explanation of what could be triggering my memories. So far, I know that when I walked into my room, something about the lighting and the way I looked at my bed triggered the flashbacks from the party. Although I’ve encountered the sight of my bed a million times, that one time, it got me. It’s all circumstantial. Another trigger was that damn citrus and cinnamon smell in the parking lot. I’ve smelt that so many times that it doesn’t make sense.Why is it reoccurring things that are triggering me.
I focus back on the screen in front of me. Professor Elliot speaks about trauma responses and attachment. I think aboutmom. She hasn’t texted me much lately, and when she has, I’ve ignored it. I pack away the feelings and save them for another day.Look at the screen. Focus.
Professor Elliot feels like a broken record today. I’ve already finished this week’s readings and know about everything he talks about. I try to avoid his eye contact, so he doesn’t call on me. But no matter how hard I try, I can never avert his gaze. I always look like a teacher’s pet whenever he calls on me. Which is at least once per class. I hate it.
Once the lecture is over, I gather my laptop and place it in my bag. I throw the strap over my shoulder and head up the stairs, toward the door.
“Scarlett, can I see you a minute?” I turn around to notice Professor Elliot.
I hesitate before I walk down the stairs, toward him.
“Yeah?” I try not to seem uneasy and look around at my peers who leave the lecture hall. Usually, I wouldn’t care about being left alone with him, but today has been unsettling.
“I noticed that you were a little off today in class. Is everything okay?” He studies me.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. I’m just tired today.”
“Troubles at home?” His head tilts to one side and his lips slightly purse.
“No, not really. Just didn’t get a good sleep.”
In second year, I thought Professor Elliot was cute—everyone did. But I’ve never had a crush on him like some other girls in his classes. He loves the attention and carries himself differently when he knows that someone notices him. Since we’re only eight years apart, if I wasn’t his student, we’d probably be friends. We share a lot of the same interests.
“Okay, I just wanted to check in.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
A strong hand pulls on the back of my arm as I turn to leave.
“You could tell me, you know. If things weren’t okay at home.” I look down at his cold hand then back up at him.
Even under my long-sleeved shirt, the chill of his fingers washes over me. He doesn’t let go. I take a step back and try to pull away. With a subtle jolt, he lets go.
