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Reintegrating ex-service men and women into civilian life posed a significant challenge. Their bodies and brains had become addicted to the adrenaline rush, the anxiety of combat, and struggled to cope with the mundane every day, how they fit into society.
From what her brother had said, Alexander seemed affected by the usual PTSD symptoms—unrelenting nightmares, persistent flashbacks, disassociation from reality. She prided herself on providing sessions that explained the phenomenon in a caring, sensitive way and engaging clients in effective, evidence-based treatment.
Sage couldn’t get involved with Alexander, though—not personally, not professionally. She’d have to give him impartial advice and refer him to a service that could objectively explore his situation in more depth.
From her interventions with clients, she’d learned they often required a healthy reset, some time to readjust. It reinforced that soldiers needed a therapist who wasn’t conflicted and space to readapt, a skill they knew well.
Having chatted with a range of veterans, she understood that in a war zone they quickly and efficiently reacted in order to save others’ lives in addition to their own. Could she help Alexander, too? At least put him on the right path without getting too entangled?
Positive change could take its toll. It wasn’t enough for some veterans to be out of immediate danger. Many times her clients experienced recurring night terrors that brought them right back to the scariest, most guilt-and-remorse-ridden situations of their lives.
And it felt real, almost tangible. They described the explosive sounds, the smoky smell, the metallic taste. A high percentage of her patients relived it daily. Forget all the other complications. It fucked with a person’s psyche, their state of mind, their self-worth. Everyone needed time to reacclimatize.
In her case, with Alexander, she didn’t have as much preparation time as she’d prefer. And she had no idea how long she’d need. Most likely she’d never be entirely ready. Given their text-exchange agreement, she only had a few short hours to psych herself up.
Would he continue to see her as Chase’s annoying little sister? An irritating, yet possibly helpful hassle he had to deal with on top of his emotional, mental and probable physical scarring? Or would he take her suggestions onboard, her advice, acknowledging her professional expertise?
Did it even matter? She’d do her best and hope he got something out of their informal chat. Then, if he found it useful, she’d suggest a referral to an external, unbiased professional. Knowing him, even a little, could cause a competing interest. Her damn irrational emotions had already been triggered.
The best advice came from an unprejudiced place, hence why he needed someone independent, someone unbiased to provide intervention in the longer term. If she got him to understand that, she’d consider the interaction successful. Professionally, anyway.
Sage leaned into her office chair, closed her eyes and blew out a long, centering breath. She could do this. Like her brother said, she loved helping. So why should Alexander be any different?
Because he always would be, had always been special. Branded himself on her soul…irreplaceable, irremovable, permanent.
A familiar ding announced she had a new email. She snapped her eyes open and—
Not again. Goosebumps prickled along her skin.
Her heart galloped and her mind went AWOL.
The message frequency continued to escalate—sometimes email, sometimes text, sometimes social media. Not a good sign.
No. She shouldn’t jump to fear-based conclusions.
Not yet. Before she went to the police, she needed more concrete evidence to prove she was in jeopardy or else they’d laugh her out of the station.
Getting a reputation as a jumpy, neurotic, hypersensitive psychologist wouldn’t help her business.
The newest unsettling message sat at the top of her inbox and practically glared at her. The same email address as all the others. Some generic thing that undoubtedly couldn’t be traced.
The title drew her eyes to it like a magnet.
Time is running out…
Curiosity got the better of her over-vigilant mind, and she clicked into the body of the email.
You’ll soon get what you deserve.
Dread burned her stomach as though she’d sculled a double shot of cyanide. Like the other posts, it wasn’t an overt threat. It could be interpreted any number of ways. And she refused to play into this person’s game. Whoever had instigated this attack obviously hoped it’d put her on edge, unnerve her, make her fearful. Fuck her up.
And yes, okay, it did. It had…somewhat. She tried not to be the last to leave the office, made sure daylight still hung in the sky, warily checked the car park and held her keys in her hand like a makeshift knuckle duster.
Sage knew all about the power of paranoia, had seen it countless times in her therapy sessions—how it insidiously took over her clients’ lives. She wouldn’t allow that to happen to her. Her profession should make her immune. Right? She understood how it worked.
Rather than block the sender, she moved the email into a separate ‘Threats’ folder in case she needed evidence later. She’d also kept all the text messages and private-messenger social-media posts as a backup.
Over the years she’d heard too many stories of disgruntled patients attacking their therapists. Hopefully it wouldn’t get to that. However, it paid to be cautious.
