Work Text:
Charles
In hindsight, I do still think it’s pathetic. Despite Erik lovingly trying to tell me that it most certainly isn’t.
But healing from trauma that I’ve never quite treated the right way until the past month is more complicated than I thought it was going to be.
And trauma from mental hospitals, no less. Among other terrible things.
But having PTSD partly from places that were supposed to and DID save my life almost feels…selfish, in a way?
Erik says it’s not. Of course he does.
Erik is behind me all the way but…what happened is still…
I hate it. And myself too.
I don’t remember what day it was or what time it was or anything. All I know is that I’m sitting on the couch, curled up comfortably against the back cushion, when Sean storms into the main space and zips right past me with no greeting into the kitchen.
His horrible, angry mood is so potent and volatile that I have to consciously tell myself to block it out, because his fury is pretty much throbbing off of him in waves. The kind of emotion my brain can take on in an instant.
Any other day or mental state I might check if he’s okay. But now? And recently? I barely have enough energy or motivation to care for myself let alone trying to comfort someone else.
So I go on scrolling on my phone, mindless entertainment. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. It’ll rot my brain or something. Next video, next video, next video. Mindless. Stupid, mind-numbing entertainment. Sometimes it’s needed, right?
…I ignore the voice in the back of my head whispering that recently the line between healthy and unhealthy screen time has been nonexistent…
I continue scrolling. Sean is making dinner in the kitchen. I don’t pay much attention. I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later.
Scroll, scroll, scroll.
I’m in a fine mood, I guess. Not horrible. Maybe even okay for once.
Sean moves around in the kitchen. I can hear him making sharp, angry movements through the doorway.
Yeah, I definitely shouldn’t engage. Part of me wants to go try and comfort him, crack a joke and read the room, try to make him laugh. But I can barely do that for myself anymore. I shouldn’t. I emotionally can’t.
Scroll, scroll, scroll. Next video. Oh, that one’s funny. Next video, next video– these are kind of stupid– next video.
Sean wanders around and comes nearer to the doorway, I can hear him closer. The microwave opens, closes. A few button-presses later and the microwave boots up, filling the air with a low hum.
Scroll, next video, scroll, next video, scr–
A single sound interrupts my scrolling:
Sean does something, and whatever he does, it sounds fists thunking against a head, knuckles cracking on a forehead, someone hitting their own head, whack, whack, whack!
It’s a second, a single second, but my entire body immediately clenches up and fills with a rush of cold dread. Each one of my senses heightens and sharpens tenfold until even the sound of the vents nearby seems way too loud. Images of the mental facility flash in my head, the big one, the most traumatic one, the month-long residential, from years ago, and all of a sudden with another nauseating rush of helplessness and hopelessness and DREAD, I remember something that I had completely forgotten about up until this point:
Someone at that facility used to do that. Hit their head. As a form of self-hatred, self-harm, and they did it HARD, they PUNCHED themselves, oh Jesus now I remember, she would even bang her head against the wall sometimes, oh and she’s the one who unintentionally gave me the idea to start cutting with a- oh goddamn it- why couldn’t that have stayed FORGOTTEN?
I drop my phone into my lap. My heart’s pounding five thousands miles a second, I can feel it in my throat, I press myself up against the back of the couch and I try to breathe. Just breathe, just breathe, it’s just a memory, it’s just a–
BUT I HAVEN’T THOUGHT ABOUT THAT IN YEARS, I HAD COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN ABOUT IT, I DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT–
My breathing speeds up, my body shivers, and my fingers cramp together so much so that I feel like I can’t hold my phone properly. Calm down, calm down, PLEASE calm down. Don’t make noise, don’t make noise, he’s right around the corner.
Out of the corner of my eye, Sean walks past me and disappears down a hallway. I wait a few long seconds for him to get out of earshot before I give sound to my hyperventilating and start gasping into the dead air.
Mentally, I am not here. I am three years ago, in that facility, one broken person surrounded by more and more broken people, too many to count, and we’re all broken enough that we have to be checked on every fifteen minutes outside of the therapy school day because safety is the number one concern, and little do they know I’ve started scratching myself in secret, and I’ve lied, and I’m just now realizing that I might be developing an addiction and I’m terrified, and I’m surrounded by trauma dumping and toxic people and sad songs and crying and during therapy you can’t even escape and go up to your assigned room, I still want to die sometimes, most of the time, and despite this place existing to help me, I can’t help but feel powerless and hopeless and completely utterly HELPLESS in here. I remember the way the tile felt, the way the couches felt, the faces of the staff, feeling happy but not REALLY feeling happy…
And then there was her, the girl who busted through locked doors and banged her head on the wall and punched herself and cut herself even though I don’t have a specific memory, I remembering bearing witness to her head banging and the blood on her arm, Jesus Christ please goddamn it erase those memories, PLEASE.
I grit my teeth and whimper against the cushions. The tears follow soon afterward, made worse by the fact that I can feel a panic attack coming and I still can’t breathe.
Please dissociate, please please PLEASE dissociate…
A figure bobs in my peripheral, pauses, then moves into my full view. Erik.
“Charles?” He kneels in front of me and puts a hand on my knee. “Hey, what’s going on?”
I shake my head. “It-it’s nothing, it’s…” My breath hitches and a small sob slips out. I gasp on my next breath. “I-I can’t breathe, I c…” The tears fall without noise as the same memories overtake me like a flood, drowning me. I start hyperventilating again.
“Whoa, okay, you’re all right.” Erik sits beside me and hugs me against his chest. “Can you talk to me? What happened?”
“It’s stupid,” I force out through tears. “It’s so– .”
“No, it’s not. Whatever it is, it’s not stupid.”
Erik holds me for a bit, maybe around ten minutes, and in his arms I start to calm down a little. I inhale a stuttering breath into his chest and try to explain somewhat:
“Sean was in the kitchen and he was mad. He…did something. Or, I don’t know what he did, but I heard a sound. It sounded like…someone hitting their own head. With their fist.”
Erik is silent.
“And-and I know it’s not this crazy thing, but all of a sudden I felt really scared and helpless and shaky and panicky,” I curl into Erik’s chest, “and then I remembered that there was someone in that residential facility who used to bang their head and stuff and-and I…” I trail off to find that I’m shivering in Erik’s arms and he’s tightened his hold on me. Again, the memories of EVERYTHING crash into me, then I’m panting like a sick dog and fighting back tears. The frigid, hollow dread curls around my body and squeezes, and another rush of terror surges through me. The urge to find a distant corner to hide in overtakes me, all of a sudden I feel YEARS younger, and I can’t help but sob.
Erik grips me tight. “Hey, hey, it’s okay...” He rubs my back and shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “You’re okay, love. This is a trauma response, you’re having some sort of flashback, it’s okay. That was a while ago, you’re here now.”
I clutch fistfuls of his shirt. “But it’s not a flashback,” I whine into his chest. “I’m not seeing anything, I just feel– .”
“There are different kinds of flashbacks, Charles. You just happen to have ones that don’t include seeing anything.” He kisses my tearstained cheek. “Triggers are sometimes obscure. Or confusing. But Charles, this is a perfectly appropriate reaction. And you do have diagnosed PTSD. So. These kinds of things are bound to happen.”
By now, my tears have slowed somewhat. I pull away from him and dry my face with my sleeve cuffs.
Erik places a kiss on my forehead and strokes my shoulder. “You okay?”
I shrug. “I feel disoriented. Better than before. But still…” A shiver runs through me as if to illustrate my point.
Erik nods. “Okay.” He frowns in concern. “Can I do anything for you?”
I look up at him. “Can I have another hug?”
Erik smiles sadly. “Of course, love.” He pulls me into his arms. “Of course.” His strong arms curl around me and he puts his chin on the top of my head, wrapping me in a protective cocoon of Erik.
After a few minutes of this, he lays down on the cushions and lays me down with him. We stay like this for a while until the leftover emotions from my flashback have melted into fatigue. I start to doze on his chest, growing calm by the up and down of his breath underneath me.
In Erik’s arms, I feel safe.
As I drift into half-consciousness, I feel Erik project into my mind:
You’re here, Charles. You’re right here, with me.
Sweet dreams.