Page 3 of Unwritten Rules

I pull up my emails, scrolling until I find my old therapist’s details.

This has been going on too long. These nightmares need to go away, and I can’t use Nate as my crutch this time.

After all that had happened, I’d cancelled my weekly sessions with Dr Jameson, not wanting to tell him the whole sordid truth.

And he knows me so well, he’d have surely seen through the guise I’ve been living under in a heartbeat.

I’ve tried for six long-ass months, but the nightmares continue to grow in their intensity, aimlessness now that I’m without Nate’s steadfast guiding presence cloaking my days. So, I know that it’s past time to ask for help.

Sender: Mila DeMarco ([email protected])

Recipient: Taylor Jameson ([email protected])

Good morning, Dr Jameson,

I hope this email finds you well. I know I am currently not on your patient roster and have not been for several months now, but I was hoping I could make an appointment to see you over the coming weeks.

It’s nothing too urgent, so no rush on getting back to me.

All the best,

Mila DeMarco

With the message sent, I gently close the laptop and scoot off the stool, hoping against hope that he can see me sooner rather than later. If only to save me from calling Nate like my heart is screaming to.

* * *

The next afternoon, I bunk off class to find myself at Jameson Medical, following a call from my therapist. He’d told me he’d had a cancellation for 2 p.m., much to my delight.

Right on time, he sticks his head out of his office, eyes landing on me.

“Come right this way, Mila.”

I move to quickly follow, both nervous about opening up and excited that I may just find some peace after this appointment.

“Good afternoon, Mila.”

Dr Jameson greets me from his place behind the desk in his neutral-toned office. His lips curl up in a small smile, and his dove-grey eyes twinkle warmly as I slip into his office.

“Thank you so much for seeing me, Dr Jameson.”

I slide into the seat opposite him with the desk between us, my long, dark hair falling across my face as I get comfortable.

Once I’m settled, I find his worried gaze on me, brow crumpled in his signature sincerity.

“Have the nightmares returned?”

Nodding, I wring my fingers together in my lap. “It’s like I’m back there, all over again, live and in Technicolour. I can feel the gag in my mouth. I can smell his lemony scent in my nostrils. I can see the utter hatred in her eyes – her nails on my….”

I cannot stop myself from running my fingertips along the small scar on my temple – the only physical reminder of the kidnapping almost three years ago.

I glance up to find my therapist’s eyes firmly on my hand’s movements, his jaw ticking though he remains silent. His quiet support bolsters me, so I continue.

“I can still feel the recoil from the gun sometimes. My arms ache at the memory, and no matter how strong I make myself out to be, I killed someone. I took someone’s life, and it’s been…” I trail off and attempt to swallow the lump in my throat. “It’s been hard to live with that.”

“You had been doing so well prior to ending our sessions. Have there been any recent events that may have initiated the return of these nightmares, Mila?”

His head is tilted as he watches me intensely, his brow furrowed in concentration. I chew my bottom lip, knowing what the catalyst was, but undesiring to share such an embarrassing part of my life.