Page 27 of Ice Queen

“And one to ten, what about when you bring up the memory of the flight and the belief ‘I don’t deserve to be happy,’ how unsettling does that feel?”

“Ten,” My voice cracks. “Definitely ten.”

“Okay.” He shifts, picking up the remote. “Bring up the image that represents the worst part.”

My stomach roils. “Her seatbelt,” I whisper.

“Notice that. Feel the belief ‘I don’t deserve to be happy.’ Take note of what you feel in your body.”

“My chest is tight.” I rub at my sternum. “Too tight.”

“Lead with that.”

I take one deep breath before I follow the light. Left. Right. Left. Right.

“M-markus.” Her wide eyes dart around the cabin of the plane, and the sound of her parents' screams has her nails digging into my arm.

“Take note,” Dr. Williams says softly.

“I need you to hold me. Please. Please hold me,” she cries. My head moves rapidly back and forth, telling her no. But she reaches for her seatbelt anyway.

“No, Emilia. You have to keep that on. It’s not safe.” But she doesn’t listen.

“I told her no,” I whisper. “I told her to keep it on.”

“Just notice.”

Her hands fumble with her seat belt, and out of panic, my arms open to her. “Ven aquí.⁠*” But the second it releases, the plane plummets. The click was loud, the drop was sudden.

I gasp, stomach lurching.

“Take a breath,” he says as the set ends. “What do you notice now?”

“I didn’t tell her to come here first. She took her seatbelt off, and I told her not to.” My brows pull together. “I tried. I.”

I fall forward, burying my head in my hands as I lie flat across my thighs. Maggie licks my cheek once before putting her head over the back of my neck. This whole time. No, maybe my mind’s playing tricks on me. Maybe I want to be free from this guilt, maybe now I’m making things up.

“Go with that,” he says, hitting the button on the remote to send the light back and forth again.

I see it now, clearer this time. My head shakes. I hear my voice telling her it isn’t safe. My hands clench. Maggie presses her snout against my thigh. Another set ends.

“What do you get now?”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore, doc. How could I forget that?” I ask into my hands.

He pauses with his hand midair. “Because you’ve blocked it out. You’ve replayed it through the same lens for thirteen years. Lean into it. Okay?”

The light runs its course once again. There are more eye movements. More clarity, and then the guilt shifts slightly. Still present, but not crushing in the same way.

After another set, he lowers the remote.

“Where’s the feeling of being unsettled now?” He asks in that soft, soothing voice of his.

“Six,” I say quietly.

“Okay. Stay with it.”

More sets. The screaming fades to background noise. What stays, though, is her face. And mine. I see myself trying.