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“I don’t want to do that,” I whisper. “No needles.”
“Even if it’s me?” he asks, tilting his head in a way that does strange things to my heart. His blue eyes are soft. Pleading. “We need to make sure you’re not sick, Case. There are so many things that could be wrong. If we don’t test you, we won’t know. Please?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to hate him for asking, but unable to. “Fine.”
He thanks me again. I ignore him, continuing to keep my eyes closed as he shuffles closer and something rustles. He speaks softly to me as he works, explaining everything before it happens. The rubber band around my arm. His finger pressing against the crook of my elbow. The soft slide of a wipe to clean the skin. The sharp bite of the needle. The steady pressure as the blood drains from my body.
“So good,” he murmurs as the needle slides free of my skin. I finally open my eyes, but I keep them trained on my left hand where it lays curled in my lap, not wanting to see the needle or the blood or either of the men in the room. “You did so good, Case.”
“Done now?” I whisper.
“Yeah.” Jake secures a piece of cotton over the poke site with medical tape. “All done.”
He turns away, doing something with the blood he collected. Four vials. It feels like a lot, even though they're small. Did all the survivors get that much taken? Or did I need more because of all the extra risks I have? Is that why I feel so hopeless? Because I'm more broken than the rest?
"If you don't have any questions, you're free to go now," Dr. Deacon says.
Free.
What a fucking joke.
I stumble off the table, my shoulder accidentally crashing against Jake's. He steps back enough for me to slide past and toward the door. I hear him call my name before Dr. Deacon says something about being here if I need anything. I ignore them both, focusing on the suddenly complicated task of breathing as I force one foot in front of the other.
“Casey!” Jake calls again, just as I’m turning the corner to the hall with my bedroom. He snags my elbow and pulls me to a stop. "Please don't run from me."
The wind in my metaphorical sails evaporates. I slump against the wall, eyes falling closed.
"What's wrong? Did you get triggered? Did I hurt you?"
"I just…" I shake my head, not sure if there are words to explain how I'm feeling. Not sure I'm ready to share them even if there are. "I need to be alone."
“Of course.” He smiles, but it's sad. "Will I see you at dinner before tonight?"
No. No, you probably won't.
"I'll try."
The smile falls. "Okay. Just - I'll be around if you change your mind. I'm here. I'm always here, Case."
"I know."
He hesitates, then leans forward to brush his lips across my forehead in a kiss.
It hurts.
I hate that it hurts.
Dr. Singh manages to snag me after group therapy, his kind eyes and understanding smile making it impossible to deny him when he asks me to come to his office for a chat. My stomach twists and turns as he leads me away, my head already buzzing as I wonder what he'll want me to talk about. I know his one and only session with Carter only lasted a few minutes before Carter was upset enough to walk out. Will I last that long?
The office is warm and welcoming. He gestures for me to sit in an overstuffed leather chair across from him, that ever-present journal of his perched on his lap. I can't even imagine the horrors that exist inside that book. How does he not feel utterly hopeless knowing it all?
"So, Casey. It's good to finally meet you properly." He tilts his head. "It's always interesting when I have a survivor who doesn't come to see me right away because I'm able to get a sense of them before our first appointment. I usually ask someone to tell me a little about themselves in the first meeting, whatever they'd like to share, but I think I know you a bit by now. Know you down to your core, at least. You're a very good friend. A good listener. Strong and level-headed. And quite the swimmer."
A laugh catches in the base of my throat. I sink into the chair, my chin tucking beneath the collar of Jake's Army sweatshirt I wear more often than not these days. A second laugh bubbles up. This time, I let it loose. It sounds angry. Frantic.
Dr. Singh just nods slowly, his eyebrows knitted close together.
"I'm sorry," I gasp, my eyes watering. I'm not sure if I'm still laughing or if I'm crying now. Maybe both. "I just - I can barely make myself eat, I can't sleep in my bed, I can't shower, I freaked out after my doctor appointment - an appointment that Jake pretty much dragged me to. Is that strong, Dr. Singh? Or Carter - does it make me a very good friend if most of the reason why I take such good care of him is because it distracts me from this feeling like I'm about to crumble into shards of glass any second now? And don't even get me started on swimming. I can barely do a full lap before feeling like I'm going to pass out, so I'm not quite the swimmer at all. Not anymore."
