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Despite my firm grip on her upper body, I can’t control her thrashing legs. In the past, I’d have wrapped my right leg around both of hers to hold her until I could wake her, but thanks to some asshole over in the Sandbox, I’m missing half of it. I attempt anyway, but she easily wriggles free and slams her heel back into the center of my healing thigh bone. I groan in pain and move my leg out of range.
I don’t know what to do. Charlie isn’t snapping out of it. She’s not responding to my voice, and this bear hug isn’t doing a damn thing to help. If anything, it’s making her fight harder.
Should I release her and call Lila? Is there time? It’ll take them several minutes to get dressed and drive over. Is it safe for this to keep going that long?
Fuck. I’ve got to wake her up.
After another minute of unsuccessful grappling and saying her name, I reach a horrible conclusion.
I have to turn her onto her stomach and pin her.
I don’t want to. I feel sick for even considering it. Charlie is fighting, believing those bastards are trying to rape her again. Holding her down with my body is probably the worst thing I could do, but I have no idea how else to subdue her long enough to wake her and free her from her hell.
I close my eyes, hating myself as I lift her and roll her onto her stomach. She growls, “No!” followed by a series of expletives, fighting harder. I wrap both her legs in my left one and pin her upper arms at her sides. I bury my face between her shoulders as she continues trying to headbutt me. I use my weight to restrain her, repeating her name, telling her she’s safe, that I’m here.
Only when I switch to calling her “Baby Girl” does her struggling noticeably diminish.
“Baby Girl, it’s me,” I say, and her screaming stops as her body stills. “It’s me, Baby Girl. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you,” I repeat, moving close, speaking into her ear. The fight leaves her, turning to wracking sobs. I roll off her immediately, and my heart throbs, echoing her anguish.
I turn her to face me. “Baby Girl?”
She puts her hands over her face, crying. I gently pull them down, needing to see her eyes to make sure she’s fully present. The devastation in her expression rips me apart. “You’re safe, Baby Girl,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
Charlie launches herself at my chest, sobbing harder than I’ve seen since they summoned me to Walter Reed. I tuck her face into my shoulder and hug her, stroking her hair.
I’m listed as Charlie’s sole family member on all of her Army paperwork through a loophole formed when her parents became my legal guardians. It’s the same loophole that allows her to be listed as my next of kin even though we’re not related. Following her rescue, Charlie went into a catatonic state. She didn’t speak, didn’t eat, didn’t do anything except stare into space. She rarely slept. When she did, she awoke with violent nightmares, screaming until they sedated her. The lead psychiatrist called Colonel Sherman to request I be flown stateside. If I couldn’t get through to her, he’d recommend she be moved to a psychiatric facility for long term – and possibly permanent – care.
No pressure.
Colonel Sherman agreed without hesitating. Despite the differences in our ranks, he’d become our friend over the years. He was devastated by what happened to Charlie and Lila. He flew me out within the hour, and I arrived at Walter Reed shortly after midnight, unshaven, still dressed in fatigues. The nurse cautioned me that Charlie probably wouldn’t respond, but allowed my visit anyway while someone kept watch from the doorway, ready to sedate her if things went poorly.
I’d quietly entered the dimly lit room. Charlie lay in the bed, eyes open but vacant, a frail figure motionless under spotless sheets. I stood at the foot of her bed and spoke to her, calling her name, but she didn’t respond. Fear shot through me when I thought she didn’t recognize me anymore. After a moment, I sat down on the edge of her bed and said, “Baby Girl, it’s me. I’m here.”
And I reached her.
She’d turned toward the sound of my voice, her sad eyes locking on my face. “Hey, Baby Girl.” She’d burst into tears before crawling onto my lap to lay her head against my chest. I’d scooped her up and carried her to a recliner in the corner, cradling her on my lap like a child while she cried. The nurse tucked a blanket around us and quietly left the room. We stayed there until her psychiatrist arrived the following morning.
I was always the one who could reach her. I suppose the reverse is true as well.
I hold her close now as she trembles, letting her cry against my chest while I rub her back and press my cheek against her silky hair. It’s a long time until she calms, and even longer before she speaks. “I’m sorry,” she whispers finally.
I tilt her tear-stained face up. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She glimpses my cheek and gasps, sitting up. “Oh my God. Did I do that?”
“I’m fine,” I insist, sitting up as well. “I’m more worried about you.”
She looks down. “I’m glad you had my gun.”
I am too. She’d have shot me for sure, and this time, she wouldn’t have missed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She laughs sadly. “There’s not much to talk about. Just reliving my own personal hell. I see them, smell them, feel them. It’s like it’s happening all over again.”
She leans into me again, and I hug her tightly. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
She sighs. “It’s a lot better than it was, thanks to you.”
I hesitate. “I think I made it worse with the bear hug. I’m sorry.”
