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And that Shane’s drifting away from me, caught in a nightmarish memory that won’t let him go.
A dissociative flashback.
My own memories swell, overtake my thoughts like a great dark wave. Angel. His night terrors. His fears.
Jesus.
Swallowing down bile, I fight to gather my wits, push down the terror that lurks at the back of my mind, waiting to drag me down—because Shane needs my help. He thinks he’s trapped in the past, in a moment when the whole world let him down. He thinks he’s alone fighting a losing battle—and I need to let him know I’m here.
Somehow.
Anchoring techniques. Think, Cass.
My mouth dry, I reach for him, then retract my hand. No touching. No wonder he freaked out when I put my hand on him.
Okay. You used to know how to deal with this. With Angel, when he lost himself in his past.
“Shane,” I say. Need to keep calling him, calling him back. “Shane, it’s me, Cassie. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
He’s facing away from me, tremors going through his body, and the need to touch him is overwhelming. I fight it. It’s not what he needs.
“Do you know where you are?” I ask him. “This is your apartment. It’s just you and me. The door is closed. You’re safe.”
I keep telling him that. I repeat it again and again. You’re safe. You’re okay. Shane, can you hear me? It’s me, Cassie.
But I’m not getting through. Not yet.
He whimpers, tries to shift further from me. Begs me to stop. I don’t know what he’s seeing, but his body is doubled up, muscles tense, and I don’t know if it’s physical pain he?
?s feeling, or only fear.
Christ, I really should call Seth. They’re close and having someone he knows well beside him will help more than I am.
But as I dig in my pockets for my cell phone, Shane moves. Uncurling from his spot on the floor, he throws a hand up, grabbing the bed for support, and crouches across from me.
Time stops.
He’s staring at me, long hair hiding his face, and my heart is banging against my ribs like it wants out. He looks… feral. Beautiful.
Lost.
He’s looking at me but doesn’t seem to really see me. His face is ashen, his eyes too wide. I have no clue what he’s seeing, or thinking. He’s shaking. His gaze flicks to the door and back as if he’s trying to decide how to reach it and bolt.
How do I anchor him, when I didn’t even know he has flashbacks a minute ago? For Angel, Mom would have things like a photo album with old photos and music that calmed him down. The psychologist treating him had suggested it, and it seemed to work.
So we thought, at least.
“Can you hear me?” I lick my dry lips, trying to figure out what to do next. “I promise you’re safe. You know me. Cassie. We play pool together in Halo.”
His gaze returns to me, and he frowns.
“Shane. You’re okay. You’ll be fine.”
Slowly he rocks back until his back meets the bed, and slides to the floor. His ragged breathing is very loud in the quiet. He fists his trembling hands at his sides, and tries to curl up again, pressing back into the bed.
How can I make him feel safe?
A blue quilt has fallen to the floor. I reach for it, pull it closer. Angel liked to hide in the dark when things started making sense again.
