Page 29 of Lucky 14

I hold back tears, my throat feeling like it’s being slowly crushed by a strong hand. My ear hurts like a bitch anytime the tag shifts, which, because it’s so big, is pretty much anytime I move my head. My hair is still in some semblance of a ponytail.

Slowly, the burning in my eyes stops, and I stare down at my shoes. Such familiar things. I wear them every day to work, the laces tied in a perfect knot that allows me to slip them on hands-free but keeps them from falling off.

They’re muddy now. Everything is muddy. And now that I’ve slowed down, I realize this place is cool. Much cooler than I’m used to. It’s not cold, by any means, and the air is humid as hell, but I’d guess it’s no more than seventy.

I suck in a breath, and as I do, my brain screams that I’m not safe. Not safe, not safe.

What would I do if this were a client who wasn’t sure if they were in psychosis?

First, I’d check in and see how many of the five senses they can access.

I pull in a breath, feeling the way my clothes move with my chest. With that breath comes the smell of mud and earth. Birds sing nearby. My mouth tastes sour. I notice the way my hands are clenched, and I release them.

Okay. Not good, but you can still have psychosis with all five senses.

What beliefs do I have about the situation?

Everyone’s out to kill me.

Check. Could still be psychosis.

Comorbidities? Depression. No drugs or regular alcohol. I wasn’t even drunk before any of this started. So what triggered it? Usually there’s something. Was it the stress of my dream? How can I treat this? I’d need meds. And therapy.

This doesn’t feel right.

I stare out over the forest, fighting the instinct to hold my breath. What do I do? I don’t know how to process trauma as it’s happening. I talk about it after it happens in the chair. Or if it is still happening, it’s not during the session when I’m in that fluffy pink chair.

I want that fluffy pink chair.

My breaths want to be high and fast in my chest, and I know that’ll reduce the oxygen to my brain. So I force myself to breathe out to the point where I feel like I’m drowning. Then back in again. Then out.

I need to keep calm. If this is psychosis, then I need to get help. Someone should be able to help.

Like Seven.

Right. I’m calling him a number like an animal. But I realize I don’t actually know his name. He also might not be helpful. In fact, he might be more dangerous than anyone here.

That cold creep of panic sets in, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of my head screaming that my little psychosis diagnosis is really denial. How could it be real? I’ve never been hunted by…murderers. I wouldn’t know how to handle that. I count a bad day as when they discontinue my favorite ice cream. Denial is what happens when you’re put at the edge of a cliff and told to fly. Denial makes you say: ‘Oh, they wouldn’t expect me to fly, this isn’t real, where did this cliff even come from?’

I find myself wanting desperately for Seven to be a part of psychosis. Because if he isn’t…

I suck in a breath as a profound sense of…loneliness washes over me. It settles over my limbs like a weight.

Lonely. I huff a strangled laugh. It’s ironic, since the last thing I want is to see people here. Real people, anyway.

And that’s when I realize the birds have stopped singing.

I freeze, adrenal system pumping. And that’s when I hear it.

Voices.

For a second, my heart lifts. Voices. People. They can help me. Maybe call the cops. Get me checked into a mental hospital.

I look for them, raising my hands in the air to motion them over.

Then I register the sounds they’re making. They’re coming from down the hill, and they sound like coyotes—yips and yells, hoots and whistles.

Immediately, my stomach washes in cold energy, and I stand there, frozen. What if they’re real? The sounds of crashing brush get closer. And I realize they’re running.