AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He doesn’t seem to have an answer.
“Like I said,” I say with a shrug. “We don’t know each other very well.”
“I’d like to, though.” He smiles a little, his blue eyes bright with a new hope. “Get to know you, I mean.”
“So I’ll tell you my secrets?”
“No, because I think you’re a man that’s damn worth getting to know. Because you’re the first person I’ve ever admitted any of that stuff to. Because when I sat by the fire with you last night, the world didn’t feel so fucking heavy on my shoulders.” His smile warms, becoming just shy of playful. “And also because I totally want to know your secrets.”
I grin, the expression feeling foreign but good. I turn back to the pancakes to hide my reaction. The lightness in my chest from the moment lingers though, making it impossibly easy to say, “Then I suppose we’ll have to meet by the fire tonight. To get to know each other some more.”
He makes a soft sound, like a hum of agreement or pleasure. Or both. “I suppose we will.”
Dr. Singh starts our group therapy session by passing around a stack of paper, having everyone take one from the pile before passing it along. There are boxes of colored pencils on each side table, the coffee table, and on the floor beside the colorful cushions that are set out for people to sit on. We’re almost down to such a small number of survivors that the cushions won’t be necessary. I haven’t decided how I feel about that yet. Why are they all leaving so quickly? So easily? How are they so ready to face reality? What if I’m the last one left here? What if I’m never ready?
“Today, we’re going to focus on safety,” Dr. Singh begins once everyone has a paper. “I want you to draw me your idea of a safe space. It can be somewhere real, like your childhood home or a vacation spot you’ve been to before, or a made-up location like a fictional beach or even a magical forest. It can be the moon, if you’d like. Or your bedroom here in the house. Draw me a space where you would feel safe.”
An image flashes in my mind. It’s me naked and kneeling on sickeningly familiar hardwood floors, a warm light washing over the room. I can practically smell the food. Can feel the weight of the collar around my neck. Can taste a cock on my tongue.
I flinch at the sound of paper crinkling, blinking rapidly to bring myself back to the present. Dr. Singh is standing in front of me with a kind smile. His hand is holding a fresh piece of paper for me to take.
“Do you want to talk about what just went through your head, Nolan?”
I know it’s a genuine question. He never forces us to talk about anything. Usually, I want to talk. To the point where I think I annoy everyone else in group therapy. It’s just that I never got along all that well with the other slaves because they all wanted to claw their way free of that life, and I had found peace in remaining wrapped in the sick safety of it all. Did I hope for things to get better? Yeah, of course. Did I hope for freedom? No, no I hadn’t in a very long time. My only real friend had been Matt, and he didn’t talk. So, yeah, I like to talk. I like to pour my damn heart out in therapy. Especially when Dr. Singh loves to tell me that everything I feel is valid, even the fucked up feelings.
Of course, I haven’t gotten the courage to tell him that I sometimes wish I could go back to the compound, and I’m not about to tell him today. Which means I’m not ready to answer his question either.
“I’m okay,” I say instead. A lie, but an acceptable one. I take the new paper. “Thank you.”
He gives me a nod and another smile before turning to the rest of the room and encouraging everyone to get started. He urges us to include details that will be grounding. If there are sounds, draw symbols that represent them or write words in the air. Do the same for smells and tastes. Try to draw textures for touch. It’s like the five senses grounding technique he’s been having us practice, naming things we can see, smell, hear, taste, and touch, but on paper.
It’s great in theory, except my brain keeps skipping over that same image. I could draw it so perfectly, too. I know I could. The exact shade of the glossy mahogany floors. The intricate grain pattern in the spot beneath Master—Travis’s—dining chair. The nick the size of my thumbnail in the left front leg of that chair. The shadows beneath the table, the warm glow of the room’s lights filtering in from the sides just enough to light our way. The heavy scent of food—maybe symbolized by pieces of food floating in the open spaces of the drawing?—battling the thick scent of used slaves—maybe symbolized by little waves coming off our bodies? And some bodily fluids drawn onto our skin? The sound of cutlery against plates and glasses being placed down on the table above our heads. The sound of men’s voices and easy laughter and soft cries of slaves being mistreated as a side dish to the meal.
“While we draw,” Dr. Singh says, making me startle. I blink down at the paper in my lap—someone placed it on a clipboard for me. Matt, if his gentle smile when I look at him is any indication. At least the paper isn’t wrinkled this time. There is a teardrop in the center of it, though. I hurry to wipe away the rest of the tears on my cheeks, forcing myself to concentrate on Dr. Singh’s words. “Would anyone like to share the one thing they did to make themselves happy since our last session?”
I stare at the damp circle in the center of my paper as someone says they visited the gym and ran on the treadmill, returning to a love of running they’ve had since they were in elementary school.
Matt nudges me, getting my attention. I don’t let myself look at his drawing in case that’s not what he’s trying to share. His brows are knitted together. He puts his hand flat, the other hand centered across it straight like a knife chopping the palm. He moves it twice to sign, you alright?
It’s a new sign, as opposed to his usual fingerspelling of “O” and “K” with a questioning look on his face. It makes me smile with pride, even as my eyes fill with more tears. I nod and force a smile, signing, fine.
He arches a brow, not seeming to buy it. I sign, fine, again, adding a verbal, “Really, I’m okay. Keep drawing your safe space. I’m just thinking.”
After one last skeptical look, he switches his red colored pencil for a blue one and bows his head to focus again. I eye the others in the room. Carter and Casey are pressed together at one end of the couch, both of them drawing easily. I can’t see what they’re drawing—not that it’s any of my business—but Carter is using a soft orange pencil and Casey is using blue. I’d bet my money on a pool for Casey. For Carter… well, I have no idea, actually. I don’t know him very well.
At least it seems like Carter isn’t struggling for once. He’s a big fan of leaving group therapy sessions early, or avoiding them altogether, but his expression is peaceful as he colors.
“Very good, everyone,” Dr. Singh says with pride. “These safe places aren’t just a fun exercise. Right now, you’re creating a visual representation of the place you’ll go to in your mind when you struggle. If you’ve woken up from a nightmare or you’ve been triggered or it’s just a bad day or some other distressing thing has occurred, you can either look at this drawing or you can close your eyes and just visualize it, and it’ll help you ground yourself. It’ll bring you calm and a feeling of safety.”
Something vicious and hot bubbles inside of me. What the absolute fuck is wrong with me that the image of me as a slave was what came to mind when needing to draw the calming, peaceful place that would give me a feeling of safety when distressed?
Maybe I’m a lost cause.
Maybe I should just fucking go back.
I’m out of my seat before I’ve fully processed my need to get the fuck out of the room. Both the wrinkled and unwrinkled but tear-wet paper fall to the floor, along with the clipboard. A pencil snaps in my hand. I hadn’t even realized I was holding one. Someone touches the back of my knee—Matt, probably—but I ignore them, pushing forward and only stumbling once before I’m out of the room and away from all of the survivors who seem to find no issue creating safe places for themselves.
The fastest exit is through the sliding glass door outside. I take it, pretending I don’t hear Dr. Singh call out for me. The wind outside is cold and forceful enough to steal my breath and replace it with icy needles in my lungs. It feels good. Like a punishment. Maybe I can’t judge Maison’s need for bloody knuckles after all.
