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When I’m settled on the mat, he kneels in front of me. I notice hesitation when he reaches to touch me this time.
It’s comforting to have his hands on me. Every bit of contact so far is professional, but this small moment of intimacy is proof Cy is more than his hard exterior.
It’s probably his apology affecting me.
He guides my body into different positions to help loosen up my muscles, and we settle into a comfortable silence. At one point, he’s leaning over me to add to the stretch, and he turns his face away from me completely. Like it’s too much to look at me while our bodies are so close together. There is a new tension there neither of us want to acknowledge. Or at least there is on my part.
When we finish the warm-up, I remember how alone we are in the room.
He coughs as he helps me up, and our hands linger, entwined together for longer than appropriate.
“Let’s start with combinations,” he says, shaking himself.
We work in silence as we go through all of the patterns and movements he’s taught me. Relaxing into the routine gives my mind time to wander. Never a good thing.
Cy makes a swing, and I fail to block the sharp punch. It connects with my ribs, and a particular memory floods back.
I am back in the room. That feeling of sliding in and out of consciousness brings terror to the front of my mind. All I can see is his face. The man who bound me, gagged me, and gave me all of the scars that mar my skin. His face haunts me at night, but I’m normally able to avoid the memories during the day.
The sudden onslaught of images and sensations drags me into the memory further. Hands reach for me, and I react. Muscle memory from all of Cy’s training kicks in, and I bend the reaching limb behind my attacker’s back. My other hand reaches around to lock their head in place.
I hear them struggling to speak, but I am too deep into my memories of the past to understand. The desire to take back control is overwhelming. I want to hurt him. I want him to feel the same pain he made me go through.
Tapping on the arm wrapped around them brings me back to the present. As soon as I realize who I have in my arms, I let go and back away.
Looking at my hands, I realize what happened. I can feel tears running down my face. I am sobbing. Breathing is difficult. I began gasping for air, but it’s too thick to take any in.
Then Cy is present at my back, and his arms reach to wrap around me. I fight, but he has an unrelenting grip. Struggling until my body gives out, I collapse into his arms. We sit there together, my body cradled in his. I cry while Cy does his best to comfort me.
I feel drained, but eventually my breathing returns to normal, and I find myself able to focus.
Cy’s grip loosens, and he moves out from behind me, still staying in contact with me. His hand rests on my arm and makes small strokes up and down. The motion is soothing, and I need comfort, but I would never admit it to him.
“Look at me.” The softness in his voice makes me look up. “That. That panic? It can’t happen. You know that, right? In here, you’re safe. Out there? You have to push past it.”
The logical side of me understands where he’s coming from, but my anger flashes at his words.
I can’t control my reaction.
Can I?
How on earth am I supposed to prevent something I don’t know is coming?
He must have seen right through me because his words mirror my thoughts.
“If you don’t know when it’s happening, we work on figurin’ out what comes before.” I would laugh at him if I had the energy. “Look, everyone’s got something haunting ’em. We all got a bit of darkness in us. The angel and the devil sit on our shoulders waiting for us to make a decision. No right or wrong one. But you gotta make one. Pick which one you wanna feed. ’ight?”
His words are surprisingly insightful for someone generally standoffish and silently menacing. As I process, he stands and helps me to my feet. He lifts my hand, still engulfed in his, and places the most tender kiss on my inner wrist before he turns to leave.
In the space by myself, I struggle with his words and actions.
I should want to feed the angel, right?
Why does it feel like the devil is calling my name?
After washing away the events and feelings of the morning, I redress in a pair of spandex shorts and a hoodie—Ash did a little shopping for me. I’m still drained, and all I want is to curl up into a ball in my bedroom, but my stomach has other ideas.
Voices grow louder as I make my way towards the kitchen. They aren’t whispering per se, but the conversation is tense and hushed.
