Page 6 of A New Days Don

My therapist is a woman less than a decade older than me, yet she is wiser than anyone I have ever met. As much as it bothers me that I was singled out to attend weekly psych meetings, I will never admit to Vicek that this woman has been fundamental to my success in the field and that the chokehold panic has on me while working cases.

“Mila,” Annalese smiles sweetly at me, her deep brown eyes shining with delight. Her dark brown hair is braided into dozens of cornrows, pulling it back from her mocha complexion. Her voice is always so warm and welcoming, “C’mon to the back.”

I pop up from the sofa and follow her to her office, the back room. Much like the waiting room, her office has a homey vibe, with options to sit in hanging cocoon-esk chairs or to relax back on a sofa while she sits in a loveseat. I’m not particularly fond of the cocoon chairs. We tried sitting there once, but I spent more time spinning around anxiously as my thoughts spiralled than focusing on what she was saying. That was the first time Annalese watched me panic. We didn’t speak much during that session, but she taught me a dozen coping mechanisms, and we tried each one until visualization and analytical meditation, and cognitive reassurance worked.

“How was your last week?” Annalese asks as she sits in her loveseat while I do my ritual. She has been trying to get me to wean off the compulsion to check my surroundings for even the slightest disarray. For the most part, I don’t do it at home anymore, but I won’t stop in public. I don’t think I can.

“It has been okay. We have all but locked up another pedophile. I may have to take the stand and testify at some point for that.” I tell her, semi-distracted as I brush the back of the sofa, the cool leather grounding me to the room. I walk around to the front, about to check under the sofa, but Annalese stops me. Her delicate hand brushes, but not holding, mine.

“Try to sit down without continuing the compulsion.” I look over at her incredulously, and she gives me a reassuring smile. A knot begins to form in my throat as I look between her and the sofa. I could do it. She won’t stop me. But then, where will I be?

A squeak leaves me throat as I fall into the sofa, all my muscles feeling as if they are about to rip into shreds with how hard they are clenched. Annalese smiles at me, that beautiful, white, proud smile that always makes me feel like I am a whole lot better than reality. I tap my hand on the arm of the sofa, trying to relax the tense muscles, but my vision begins to tunnel, and my skin starts to itch.

“What are you feeling?” Annalese asks.

“Itchy. Tense. I can’t breathe.” The whimper that escapes makes my cheeks warm. I only ever allow myself to feel the fear when I am with Annalese. She is safe. She doesn’t judge.

“Remember our techniques?” Annalese asks, and I nod, but my mind runs black. Our techniques? Yes right. I’m safe. I’m in this office.

Deep breath in, one, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Annalese breathes with me, but all I can focus on is under the couch. I feel a breeze against my ankles and stiffen. My pulse becomes hard and heavy against my head, and all I can hear is its wild thrumming.

I look up to Annalese, and she smiles at me, “Tell me, when was the last time you had an attack or nightmare?”

“It has been months since the last attack. Nightmares come and go, but there isn’t enough time between them to make a difference or to start keeping track.” I admit, my eyes darting around the room. I know there is nobody else here, but the compulsion to check the space prickles against my skin. I can do this. I need to do this, to prove to myself that what happened six years ago does not control me.

“That’s amazing. Don’t discredit yourself either. Whether it’s one night or one week without a nightmare, that’s still better than where you started.” Annalese replies. Her answers are always so logical and positive. I wish I could argue it, but I suppose every time I push my boundary further, I will be met with that response, “I want you to try to come to therapy and stop your checks. If you are going to stop the compulsion, it will start here in our safe space.”

I nod, my body becoming heavy as the adrenaline slowly reduces in my system. I take a seat back on the sofa and sigh. I look up to the spackled ceiling, rubbing the tears from my eyes.

The rest of the session is spent discussing how I am doing off my medicine and what new tasks I have coming up. We discuss the new case, and Annalese gives me some tips to keep the panic at bay when I am with Vicek at various locations—including potential clubs. After all, most of these women were picked up on street corners and at sex and strip clubs.

Chapter 2

Mila

I walk through the precinct. The new recruits look up from their computers in the bullpen as my heels click by. Each of the men narrows their eyes on my strategically worn shoe choice as if it insults them, which it probably does, knowing the new lineup of recruits. But I don’t pay them any mind.

Wearing heels is a power move. When I am out in the field investigating crime scenes or conducting interviews with less-than-trustworthy witnesses, I always wear my black runners. Here, however, I dress to ensure that my femininity is always smeared across any room I walk into. My shoulders back and my head held high.

There was a time I would cower and conform. I would try my best to blend into the crowd and not stand out, but after proving myself several hundred times to be the best officer hired onto the force in the last decade, I make sure they know just who did that. Not a man. Not some masculine figure. No.

A woman. A woman who has been left for dead by the very people who now rely on me to help them succeed with their investigations.

Hear me roar, assholes.

I roll my eyes as I walk into Vicek’s office. His back turned from the door as he speaks into his phone, “As I told you, we don’t need her. The investigation is going as planned, but like any serial killer case, it is a little more complex. This one is particularly tricky. Clean. Cunning.”

I scrunch my nose in disgust at the way Vicek starts to praise the killer’s skills. The way he says it almost sounds as if he is gloating. As if this case is the biggest and most impressive case of his career.

Disgusting.

This is why officers get a bad rap and are called ‘pigs.’ While women are being raped and dying, he is here in his office gloating about the case. About the rapist and murderer, and not all the brave women who continue to show up for their jobs to feed themselves and their families despite the threat. As if the killer should be praised for his impressive nature.

I clear my throat, making my presence known, but Vicek doesn’t make any move to acknowledge me.

“She’s late.” Vicek emphasizes that point as if I wasn’t seeing the therapist he required of me during the timeslot I had long booked off, while still keeping his back to me, “Otherwise, we would be getting her caught up.”