Chapter Text
The one thing I focus on is the whirring sound of the ceiling fan. It lulls me in comfort, allowing me to forget. As long as I concentrate on the buzzing sound as the blades circle through the night, I can keep myself from slipping.
I had thought the nights would get better, and the nightmares would vanish completely. Veronica, sleeping next to me, comforting me, keeping me from drifting. For five days, the bad dreams had stopped… until the darkness crept into my thoughts, again, like a tiny little maggot. Wriggling its way in, growing, manifesting itself… As long as I don't close my eyes, I can keep the visual horrors and the darkness at bay.
It's been three days since we've left Neptune. Three days we've been hiding out here, Deeks and Kensi our only lifeline to the outside world. Three days full of questions, but few answers. The short video conference with the JAG office in San Diego had pretty much told us what we already knew. I am officially dead so that makes matters a tad bit… complex, as they put it. They said they’d get back to us once they figured out how to proceed.
Erik and Nell are still scouring the databases and the interwebs for any info about me and the mission I was involved in, but if Naval Intelligence is good at one thing, it’s concealing information they don’t want to be found. What little they were able to find had more blacked out words on a paper than there are Is and Ss in Mississippi .
Of course Homeland Security has also declared a particular interest in me. Why, no one knows for sure, but we all know when the Feds get involved in military business, shit is about to hit the fan. Hattie has been able to keep them off my back for the time being, but we've all been advised by JAG that the moment Feds walk through the doors with a warrant, we were to comply with anything they demanded.
Saying things are looking a bit dire at the moment doesn’t even begin to cover it in the slightest.
If we could at least catch a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel, we'd be able to surface and breathe again. A sliver of hope. A silver lining. But for that to happen we need to fix what happened to me and officially bring me back from the dead which is easier said than done.
There's so much about this past year I want to tell Veronica. I know she won't stop asking questions and investigating until she finds the one missing piece we need to solve the puzzle. But I know I can't tell her. Just like she will never know everything that happened after she left for Stanford, she'll never know everything about my year in the Middle East. She'll tell me and reassure me that she can handle it no matter how bad it was, that nothing will change between us -- but I know it will. Because I know her. She's Veronica, and there are certain things about her that she just can't control, no matter how much she wants to. It’s those things that make her, her , the things I love about her. But what is it that people say? The things that keep us together are the things that will pull us apart. We’ve been at that crossroad before. It pulled us apart before. For nine long years.
I’ve learned the hard way that with Veronica, concealing and hiding is not an option, but neither is dishing out the whole truth. You can give her a tiny bit of information, thinking it will be enough to quench the thirst, but she will fasten onto the miniscule, those things people usually wouldn’t even notice. It’s in her blood to investigate, to question and to second guess until she's unearthed the cold, hard truth, no matter the consequences.
I hear a deep sigh behind me, an incomprehensible mumble of words, and she scoots closer to me, tightening her hold on me. Her hand slips over my chest, blindly searching for my hand until she finds it. Her fingers close tightly around mine, squeezing them, holding on to me so we won't slip from each other. I feel her breath evening out against my back, her nose nuzzling my shoulder, and I know she's drifting back into a deep slumber without waking.
She won't admit it if I ask her, but I know her own nightmares have come back to haunt her. I’ve experienced all the different variations with her over the years, but the gist is always the same. At least they are no longer keeping her awake like mine are keeping me. I’m afraid to close my eyes, scared of what I’ll see and what I’ll be reminded of when I allow myself to slip into a different world, surrendering control to the eternal beyond.
Veronica and I, we’re two souls drifting towards each other, sharing a trauma so deep that we can’t really control without the other. Like magnets, opposite poles, drawn together no matter the distance.
Veronica is my Rome. Every road always leads me back to her.
The bright red numbers of the clock on the nightstand taunt me as the minutes tick by ever so slowly. 03:03. 03:04. 03:05. Another night with little to no sleep. It's eating at me, trying so desperately to be in control so that I won’t slip again. I’ve found my ground again, found my footing, and I cannot allow myself to waiver. I am where I want to be, where I need to be… who I want to be and need to be.
Almost a year has passed since the day that I stepped into a different world. It still feels like yesterday that I left my old life behind… left Logan Echolls behind.
The sun had just risen when I stepped off the plane in Aleppo. Twenty-eight hours earlier, I’d left Frankfurt with a mission that, at that very moment, I wasn't really sure anymore that I was the best fit for. I had gone cold turkey off my pain meds three days earlier, knowing that once I was out in the desert, there’d be no continuous supply of Vicodin and Tilodol. The side effects were clearly showing. The burns covering my body were killing me, and there was nothing within reach to subdue the pain. My body was trembling, I was shaking, sweating… the signs of withdrawal evident to anyone who’d care enough to take a closer look. Honestly, I was a complete mess.
I'd met my contact at the airport in Kuwait. The cell he'd handed me was safely tucked into my pocket. Just open Call of Duty when you're headed to Aleppo and need a meeting. It'll broadcast a secret message. I'll meet you at the central market. Third row, second vendor selling tobacco. Ask for something mango flavored. Call of Duty. Someone in Naval Tech must've had a very crude sense of humor.
I was flying absolutely blind. No safety net in reach, no backup, nothing. Just me and me and absolutely me. If things went sideways? So what. It wasn’t like there was anyone left who truly cared. I didn't care. Not anymore.
I remember this slight tingle in my gut, this short surge of electricity as I scanned the sparse crowd for a sign with my name. My eyes landed on a short, chubby guy, piece of a cardboard box in hand that had the almost illegible words Padrik Onell written on it in the Latin alphabet. I guessed that was supposed to be me.
With the brightest grin, Aamir, as I was told immediately, ushered me outside and pointed towards a very rusty and very old Lada pickup truck. He was speaking fast, a bit too fast for me to pick up on his Arabic, but I could understand that it was going be about eight hours on the road until we'd reach the outskirts of asch-Schaddadi. Someone else would take me from there.
That someone turned out to be a tall, well-built French guy in his early twenties by the name of Raphael who silently led me to a Toyota truck which, given its signage on the side, must have belonged to NATO forces once upon a time. While the bumpy ride with Aamir was graced with a lot of Arabic music that wasn’t really to my taste, quite the praise of Allah and incomprehensible stories and jokes as Aamir's mouth never really stood still, the two hour ride out into the pitch black desert with Raphael was the complete opposite.
He never said a word but eyed me constantly. I was too tired and sore to ask questions, desperately trying to hide the symptoms of withdrawal in order not to jeopardize the mission. I couldn't wait to finally get to where we were going and stretch, walk off the kinks and grab a cold-ass beer to calm down my trembling body. I needed something, anything, to stop the constant restlessness.
When we reached the shacks and tents, I finally caught on to something I should have discovered the moment I’d hopped onto the truck - Raphael spoke barely any English or Arabic. Just French. How could I not have picked up on that? I clearly wasn’t up on my game at all. He dropped my bag in front of a large tent at the edge of the camp, flipped open the front and pointed inside. A ramshackled tent, bullet holes and tears included, was going to be my new home. Stepping inside, I saw half a dozen folding cots lined up, four on one side, two on the other. There was a faint light coming from a gas lamp sitting on a small table, and I could only make out the shadow of a figure sitting on the cot the furthest away from me.
"Merci beaucoup, Rapha," a dark voice with a British accent said, and the shadow rose, walking into the light. "Patrick, welcome. I hope your trek from Aleppo wasn't that bad."
And that was my introduction to ISIS and its camp leader Zahid. A pretty smart guy, educated in Oxford, then returned home to Cairo only to declare his newfound love for Allah, the Quran and Islam. According to Gibbons, he’d dropped off the radar two years prior only to resurface as one of the top three ISIS leaders nine months later. I knew almost everything there was about Zahid and this little operation he was running out here in the Syrian desert. Or at least, I thought I did.
I was met with suspicion in the camp, like any newcomer was. It took time and effort to earn their trust, but nothing I couldn't manage. I shared my tent with the kids they put into my care. Newcomers, just like me, smuggled over the border from Turkey in the days before I arrived. Henrik, the youngest, was fifteen - a runaway, but from where he didn't want to say. His English had an accent, Skandinavien maybe, but no one in the camp could place it for sure. Omer, a seventeen-year old from a rural town in Turkmenistan, was the oldest. Five teenagers desperately trying to find their place in the world, looking for acceptance and purpose.
I was showing these boys how to handle Kalashnikovs and rocket launchers and trained them in close combat. I taught them the basics of interrogation skills and how to withstand. I taught them almost everything the Navy once taught me. Basically - I readied these kids for war. I trained them to kill.
Three months in, I was no longer the newcomer or the outsider not to be trusted. I had earned my place in the camp, had gained much of Zahid's confidence, a steady in his command. I was trusted enough to make regular trips to Aleppo, sometimes with Rapha, sometimes with Miguel. While for them it was just a normal trip to pick up supplies, it was my lifeline to the outside world. Report, be briefed, go back, lay low. Only to be repeated the next time we headed back to Aleppo.
I could keep myself occupied, caring for these kids the reprieve I so desperately needed. I had found a purpose again, a reason to go on. I could pretend that what I was doing wasn't preparing these children for combat but rather offering them a home and catering to their need to belong. I needed to believe that what I was doing was right - because otherwise, I knew the abyss would take over control and swallow me again. And this time, it would be forever.
So as long as I pretended, as long as I wasn't Logan, I no longer stood at the abyss each night, staring down into nothingness. The darkness no longer controlled me. I controlled the darkness instead. Or at least I thought I did.
I still dreamed of Veronica. Vivid, animated, vibrant dreams.The dreams no longer came with the desperation, the taunting that without her, I couldn't go on. There was some sort of relief in seeing her in my dreams, kind of like the only drug I needed to help me heal. The pain of losing her though… it had lodged itself so deeply within me, becoming a part of me like the beating of my heart, like every breath I took. She was a part of me, always would be. Nothing could ever change that.
Crazy as it may sound, we all were like one big family. A group of pariahs, thrown together by what Zahid would always claim to be Allah’s one true work, preparing for the uprising. We looked out for each other, cared for each other. Henrik once compared us to some sort of newly-discovered indigenous tribe. Several different families, bound together by one common principle. Every family unit had its chief - a nickname all the boys adopted soon after for me - while the tribe itself was ruled and governed by the one and only tribal chief, Zahid.
The comparison wasn’t that far fetched. The boys and I, we were a unit. I wouldn’t quite have called it a family, but the kids found comfort in that, so who was I to correct them? They needed something to hold on to, even if it was believing that out here in the god-forsaken desert they’d finally found the family that they all were seeking.
There were four more units like mine. Our camp was a melting pot of cobbled together cultures and personalities. Respecting set up boundaries was a major problem for some, while others blindly followed the rules. Punishment for overstepping was left to Zahid, and depending on his current mood, all that was needed to push his buttons was throwing a glance at one of the girls living with us.
Six teenage girls that were off-limits to anyone but Zahid and Faiz, the second in command. Zahid had claimed half of them as his wives, the other half literally belonged to Faiz. Seven children had been born into that mix already, three more were on their way. These girls and their babies, they were nothing but status symbols to Zahid and Faiz. They were their possessions, a sign of their wealth. The more wives, the more sons, the wealthier they were, the higher they rose in their standing with Allah.
While I understood perfectly that the further I moved up in ranks, the more valuable I’d be to them, I never quite grasped just exactly what it meant to keep your face and show off your power and might until Zahid walked up to me one day and announced that it was time for me to show off my wealth. He didn’t have to elaborate any further to understand what he meant by that.
My gift was coming in straight from London, ready to be picked up ten miles past the Turkish border. I set out with Rapha the same night, nervous, itchy, not really knowing what to do. There was no time to meet with my contact in Aleppo, ask for advice. I had no other choice than to drive my truck out into the darkness while trying to figure out what to do next.
When we pulled up to that small group of people, I had played out half a dozen different scenarios in my head, thinking I was prepared for almost everything - but I most definitely wasn’t ready for what, or better, who was waiting for me. She was tiny, petite. The hood of her sweater was drawn into her face, but in the dim moonlight, I could make out strands of blonde hair sticking out around her chin. Her gaze lifted and fixed on me, her bright blue eyes sparkling in the dim moonlight.
There was this smirk crossing her face, a flicker of recognition when she realized I was the one. The one intended for her.
"Oy, you the ding-head picking us up?" she hollered directly at me. "Blimey, you're hot. This s’getting better by the minute."
A seventeen-year-old who didn't take shit from no-one. Not even me.
God knows what made Lucy decide she needed to pack up her things and hop on a plane so she could join the “good fight for freedom” in Syria. Maybe it was the promise of a world so completely different from the mundane life back in London that had drawn her in. Maybe it was the promise of excitement and thrill, supposedly living in the fast-lane. She never would say, and I never could truly tell.
When she'd started her journey into her new life, she'd known there'd be a husband waiting for her. She'd known she was promised to a stranger, a guy she never met. I still can't understand why a girl as smart and well-educated as her could just accept that others would take away her free will, would choose for her, decide her every step. The boys came in with a promise of freedom, of power and of honor. The three girls who stood in front of me that night, I don't know what they'd been promised, but their purpose was clear.
Back in the camp, I told Zahid I couldn't accept the gift he'd given me. It was too valuable and I had nothing to repay. I was walking a fine line insulting his honor by rejecting his generosity, but there was no way I could take this girl to be my wife. Something like that had never been part of the mission or part of my job. It was not what I had signed up for. Zahid just laughed it off, telling me that one wife was not enough to repay me for my glorious work for Allah.
I had three days to get out of that mess until we were supposed to be declared husband and wife.
The voice in my head, those yellow piercing eyes staring up at me from the abyss… they were laughing at me, mocking me. Once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up. You wanted a wife? There, have your wife!
Yes, I wanted a wife. I wanted Veronica to be my wife, to show her just how much I loved her, how much she meant to me, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. Marriage to me was never about that little piece of paper that came with it, signing over half of your worldly possessions to the other person unless you covered your ass with yet another piece of paper. Marriage was, and still is, about love and about devotion. About giving yourself completely to the one person that meant the most to you in the entire world.
Do I believe in messages sent from the eternal beyond? Good heavens, no! That night though, as I sat alone outside in the desert and looked up at the bright, star-lit sky, asking the heavens what the hell I was supposed to do, I saw the flicker of a light in the darkness, leaving a faint, flickering trail as it shot from East to West.
Make a wish!
Veronica’s voice echoed through my head like the voice of Christmas past as I stared up at the invisible trail left by a tiny shooting star.
I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.
That was the moment when I realized that there was something worse than me losing her. All those plans Veronica had had for her life, even those absolutely outrageous early morning musings I was subjected to after nights of hot and wild sex - she'd never get a chance to do any of that anymore. She'd been robbed of everything she ever dreamed of, everything she wished for, just because some asshole with a self-confidence the size of an amoeba had an unquenchable thirst for revenge and decided he needed to make a whole town pay for his own shortcomings.
The tears were stinging like tiny needles as they trickled down my cheeks, but I didn’t care. I needed to let this all out, needed some sort of release. I wept for hours - not about her, but for her - until I lay exhausted in the sand and sleep finally claimed me.
I woke up the next morning to the first rays of sunlight, sprawled out under a bush about a quarter mile from camp. I pulled myself up, wiped the gunk from my face and made the short trek back. The closer I got, the more I realized that something was off. Everyone was rushing around frantically, stashing things, packing boxes. I could make out Zahid near one of the trucks. His expression turned dark and accusing when he saw me.
"Where the hell have you been?" he spat at me and shoved the Kalashnikov he'd been carrying against my chest.
"Night watch," I replied as I carefully pushed the barrel of the gun to the side. "What's going on?"
"Observation drones! We gotta go!"
An hour later, I was driving my truck into the bleak desert, heading Northeast. My five charges sat cramped in the back between supplies and weapons. Lucy was lounging in the passenger seat.
There was a plan for a situation like this. Ten trucks heading in different directions. No contact until we'd all reach the final destination: Iraq. I didn't know the routes the others were taking just as they didn't know which route we would follow. Sixteen days out in the desert, three stopovers at crucial points to pick up supplies until we'd reach our final destination North of Mossul.
The days on the road had started out as an adventure within the adventure. Curled up in sleeping bags under the clear night sky, just enjoying the wide open space and the freedom it brought with it. About five days in, the mood started to shift. Boredom crept in, the lack of the thrill clearly evident. I could no longer rely on the kids doing as they were asked and needed to do the one thing that I knew would piss them all off even more. I couldn't be the cool big brother anymore. I needed to be the controlling dad instead. Our survival depended on the compliance of every single one.
I made a point of waking myself every two hours during the night to make sure whoever was on watch hadn't fallen asleep, woke the next in line and handed off the rifle. More than once I found them all sleeping soundly, the fire that kept us warm not taken care off and almost extinguished.
Whenever I stood next to my sleeping bag in situations like that, watching the circle of huddled forms around the fire, I needed to remind myself that they were not my mates from the Navy. They were all just kids. Lost boys. Looking for Peter Pan to come to the rescue.
The only one I somehow could rely on was Lucy. She’d always be up when her shift was about to start and was guarding all of us like a hawk while we slept. Still, I was there when she woke and I was there when she was allowed to go back to sleep. We sat next to the fire, our sleeping bags drawn around our bodies to shield us from the cold, desert nights. Just keeping watch, night after night.
"Ya don't hafta do that. Wake them. I can do it," her heavy British accent cut through every time she opened her mouth. "You're knackered."
"I wouldn't be if they took this a bit more seriously," I sighed and threw another piece of wood into the fire.
"You don't sleep enuf."
"I need to deliver all of you to ground zero alive and unharmed. I don’t have the luxury to sleep."
She was shifting next to me, drawing closer, until I found her sitting next to me, barely an inch away. Her eyes were on me. A bright shade of blue. The same kind of blue I’d been staring into for so many years. Shining so vividly in the moonlight. I gazed at her, immediately lost in the vast ocean that was reflecting back at me.
"Who's Veronica?" she whispered, barely audible, just loud enough for me to hear.
I swallowed, hard. I’d said her name a thousand times but I hadn't heard anyone speak her name since… that day. It felt so foreign to hear that eight-lettered word, especially from a girl who had no connection whatsoever with the real me. She didn’t know Logan Echolls, so how could she possibly know about Veronica? I stared at her confused, demanding an answer.
"You talk when you sleep. W'all notice, they just dun say. She your girl?"
"She was."
"Walked out on ya, aye?"
I shook my head, "She died."
"Sorry.”
She reached over, placed her hand on top of mine. Squeezing it ever so gently in compassion.
“How?"
I remember clearly how much I wanted to tell her. I needed to tell somebody. Anybody. Tell them about that girl I fell in love with all those years ago. Tell them how special she was, not only to me, but to pretty much anyone who considered her their friend. Tell them how her life was cut short so tragically just because we both made a simple mistake.
But I knew I couldn't. So I just remained silent. I'd already told Lucy more than I should have. Veronica, she was a part of Logan Echolls. But this person out here in the desert, the one fraternizing with a terrorist organization, supporting them, enabling this madness - it wasn't Logan Echolls. Not anymore.
"Not much of a talker, aye? It's always just business with ya."
I also distinctly remember the snort that escaped me. It's always business with you. Yeah. One of the few lines I could annoy Veronica with to no end. When we were teenagers, she'd just huff frustratedly and shrug it off. I could still push her buttons with that ten years later, in a completely different way. Her response usually would be somewhere along the lines of I'll show you business and we'd end up releasing pent up frustration in one of the most primal ways.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re quite annoying?” I told Lucy, and received a shrug in response.
“’S my middle name. Though I call it persistent instead.”
God, how I had missed that. Always a poignant response to anything I say. The familiarity of all this… I needed to remind myself that I wasn’t battling wits with Veronica out here under the pale moonlight. Who was this girl? Where did she come from? Why was she here?
“You dun’ hafta talk if you dun’ want.”
And I did the one thing I told Veronica to do for years to no end. A leap of faith.
“She died in a car bomb," I told Lucy before I could stop myself. I knew I shouldn’t have been mixing Logan with Patrick, but at that very moment, it was something I just needed to do. For me. For Veronica.
"That where you got these?"
I can still feel her ghosting her fingers over the scars on my neck. Careful, almost hesitant, as if she was waiting for me to pull back. But I didn't. I'd missed this. Human care. Human touch. Slender fingers tenderly brushing over my skin, allowing me to feel something. Anything. Letting me know that I wasn't dead inside.
I relished in the feeling for a moment, the electricity that her gentle touch sent through my skin. Goosebumps. Slight shivers. There was still something inside me. I was still feeling. I was still alive.
"Yeah," I coughed, and finally pulled her hand away.
As exhilarating as it was, these weren't the hands I wanted to feel on me. They weren't Veronica's. I wasn't ready. Not yet. Not sure if ever.
"I won't tattle."
She wrapped herself tighter into her sleeping bag as the wind picked up around us. We sat in silence, listening to the soft snoring from the boys sleeping, until she looked up at the clear black sky.
"Did ya know the moon's always only's big as your thumb no matter where y'are?" She lifted her thumb in the air and squinted. "Same ol' small."
I studied her for a moment, then brought my hand up in front of my eyes, twisting and turning my thumb while I tried to cover the moon.
"Just brighter."
"Nah, 's always the same. The sky's darker here. No light pollution."
I tilt my head, my eyes shifting towards the window. Through the half drawn blinds I can make out the form of an ellipse, shining brightly in the darkness of the night. Carefully, I lift my finger, and squint. Definitely only as big as my thumb, no matter which side of the globe I’m on.
Running my hand over my face, I try to rub the restlessness from me, the dark circles under my eyes that surely won’t be the only reminder of another sleepless night.
04:34. The dots are still blinking at me, and I know that even though time has passed since I last looked at that daring clock, I know I didn’t sleep. I was everywhere and anywhere, thoughts and memories wreaking havoc with me, denying me that fitful slumber I so desperately crave. An hour, maybe even two, that’s all I want. A short moment of solitude so I can close my eyes and just be.
But my abyss, those piercing yellow eyes staring right at me, they are denying me what I so badly want, need. They always have, for as long as I can remember. We’ve managed to co-exist nicely for many years. I didn’t dare the abyss, the abyss didn’t dare me. We were in balance and at peace. I need to get back to that, to find the equilibrium, before I’m completely swallowed.
Restlessly, I shift around, trying to wrap myself deeper into the cocoon that is Veronica. Arms and legs tangled, her body crushed against mine. I place a quick kiss against the top of her head before I bury my face in her hair, inhaling the scent that is so unmistakably her.
She anchors me to this world. Keeps me from drifting aimlessly. She always has. And always will. She’s the gatekeeper, the one controlling both my uprise and my downfall.
It doesn’t take long until her hand finds her way to the front of my shirt, fingers desperately clawing at the fabric, and she once again mumbles something incomprehensible against my chest. She trembles, her whole body twitching, and I know the nightmares have once again claimed her. I caress her back, up and down, repeating the pattern over and over, coaxing her out of those horrible dreams like I’ve done so many times before. She finally relaxes against me, surrendering the tight grip on my shirt.
“Sleep,” I can make out of the jumble of words that hang in the silence between us.
“I’m here,” I reassure her. “You can go back to sleep.”
Her head moves ever so slightly, twists back, and a pair of sleep-drunken eyes gaze up at me.
“You need to sleep,” she sighs, wriggling her body, scooting up just a fraction so she can rest her forehead against mine.
She knows. Knows that I haven't really slept the last few nights. But she's never said a word, not until now. I smile into the darkness, a faint snort echoing between us. As if it was that easy… I know what drowns out the voices, what subdues the memories. It’s easy to forget and not remember after a first glass, then a second, a third, until the empty bottles are lined up in front of me. It stops everything, even being myself.
There was a time when all I needed to forget and not remember was Veronica. Feeling her close to me when she lay in my arms, just knowing that she was there to catch my fall… I need to get back to that. We need to get back to that. But I know things between us, they’re never that easy. There’s a long, bumpy road ahead and neither of us can see the end. We're both battling our demons. They visit us each night when we both let down our guard, taunting us, tormenting us, punishing us, when all we want is to just be. Try as we might, we can never escape.
Her hand finds mine against her cheek. She gently caresses me at first, then our fingers intertwine, locking us together.
"Close your eyes."
She kisses my palm gently, then lowers our hands carefully to rest against her chest. I can feel her heartbeat faintly pulsing, her chest rising with every breath she takes. It comforts me, feeling her so close, so warm, so alive.
"Close your eyes," she whispers again.
My eyelids slip close, and I want to pretend that just listening to her voice, feeling her against me, will lull me to sleep. She taps my hand against her chest, echoing the rhythm of her heartbeat.
“Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Remember?”
I do. Years and years ago, two teenagers, trying to cope with lies, deception, heartbreak and betrayal. Two teenagers, holed up in bed in a large, luxurious suite, clinging to each other during the nights when the horrors had crept in through the crevices again, keeping them both awake.
“Breathe in,” I mumble, and she finishes off the sentence immediately as she continues tapping our hands against her chest in a steady rhythm, “breathe out. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Breathe in.”
“Breathe out. Thu-thump. Thu-thump.”
Way back, teenage me had laughed at her at first for even suggesting something like that because teenage me wasn’t a nutcase that needed a freaking breathing technique to cope with his problems. I’d given her a lot of grief about it. But stubborn as she was - and still is - she ignored me, took my hand, and repeated the same words over and over like a goddamn mantra. I fell asleep listening to her voice, and for the first time in quite a long time, the nightmares didn’t haunt me.
“Thu-thump,” her soft voice lingers among the silence like a lullaby. “Thu-thump.”
My last thoughts before I finally drift off to sleep are of Veronica as I finally realize that as much as it scares me to admit, she’s my one true remedy.