Hey, this is something I've been wanting to write about for a very long time. Let me start with this: this story is a creation of my imagination, therefore any mistakes or misrepresentation of the process are on me, though I believe every experience (generally in life) is different and relies mostly on the person experiencing it. With that said, if you still find yourself troubled over something I wrote, please let me know.
This story is about healing and rebuilding oneself, that's my main focus, at least at the beginning; so for those of you who came here solely for the romance, this story probably isn't the one for you. Please beware- if you find mentions of sexual assault, violence and mental distress triggering, continue with caution.
All of you who are still here and willing, thank you for taking the time to read it! I do hope you'll enjoy this story, please let me know how you feel about it!
P.s- this story will be updated once a week. Hopefully ;)
Chapter 1-
We're Not In Chicago Anymore
He glances at his wrist again. His face blank but his intentions are clear, nonetheless; time is passing and not a single word has yet been said.
She takes a shallow breath, opting on making as little noise as possible. Maybe, he'll forget that she's there. Her hands fist in her lap, occasionally twisting. That is, until she realizes what she is doing, and then she stills them into knuckle-white balls again. Her back is straight as a board, her head held high. She knows her posture is the only thing she has left, and she holds on to it for dear life.
"Miss Mills?" he tries again and she brings her gaze up to meet his.
Once he has her attention he sighs and slumps a little against his chair.
"Look," he says "at the end of the day, it's your money. If you want to spend it by sitting here quietly, be my guest."
He shoves his perched glasses up his nose. She noticed early on that they don't need fixing, however, it seems like a habit he'd acquired since it was at least the fourth or fifth time he has done it so far.
"But my guess is that it's not what you want." He looks at her, eyes calm and inviting. She says nothing in return, and so he continues.
"You see, some of the people who come here are required to. Ex-cons, sexual offenders, troubled teens from juvy. Those are people that have no choice, they are here because if they don't, they'll be breaking court orders."
He leans forward to grab a glass of water and she has to stop herself from visibly flinching. He takes a sip and places it back on the table. When he leans back, she finally relaxes her taut form.
"But you're not like them" he states simply "you don't have to be here. It's your choice to be here which makes me think, assume even, that you're here because you want to."
She purses her lips. Want wouldn't be the word she would use, but overall his statement is not far from the truth.
She wriggles in her seat, in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, giving up when she realizes the feeling of restlessness isn't physical.
"Okay" she grits out, the first thing she has said since she arrived, almost a half an hour ago.
His lips quirk up just a little and she's overcome with the urge to remain silent, just so he won't get his way. He is not the enemy, she's well aware, but it doesn't stop her from wanting to treat him like one. It seems a rather repetitive motif in her life these days, everyone is the enemy, and therefore, treated like one.
There's another stretched silence, but eventually, she gives up.
"What do you want to know?" her gaze jumps all over the room and she can't help but feel ashamed. She is pathetic. What happened to the fearless Regina Mills?
He shakes his head and she almost sneers. She has no idea why she finds him so annoying, but he just is.
"Whatever it is that you want to tell me" he replies and it's so damn condescending she wants to march out of the room and never look back.
When she says nothing else he pushes his glasses up, yet again, and gives it another try.
"How about why you are here?" he inquires and every muscle in her body goes rigid. She gulps, trying and failing to fight a wave of nausea.
He notices it fairly quickly, and immediately retreats.
"Let's try something more simplistic, shall we?" he smiles encouragingly "Tell me something, anything, about yourself."
She shoots up in her bed, petrified. She feels the hands clinging to her skin, claiming her, and desperately tries to shove them away. Every intake of breath is short and erratic as she pushes the blanket away from her sweaty form, searching for the demanding hands or their imprint on her skin.
She finds nothing but the angry red lines, bloody, where her nails broke the skin.
Her heart is in her throat as she scrambles off the bed, knees crashing on the floor with a thud as a result of her legs getting tangled up in the blanket. She doesn't pay attention to the waves of pain radiating from her knees as she grabs the blanket and rushes, still on all fours, to the corner of the room.
Once she's there, she reaches for the switch with a shaking hand.
The light makes it slightly better. She tries to get her breathing under control while her eyes scan the empty room over and over again, looking for him.
Finally, after what feels like the hundredth scan, she slumps against the wall. Her body weak from the tremors, her throat dry from the harsh breathing, her brow soaked with cold sweat.
She hides behind the blanket like a little child, afraid of monsters that aren't there. Not anymore.
It seems ridiculous, really, to use a thin piece of fabric as a shield but somehow it offers a comfort she can't find anywhere else at the moment.
Then, she's thrown back to her childhood, to when her mother used to chastise her for being afraid.
Don't be silly she would say with her signature sneer and disappointed look monsters don't exist.
They do she wants to scream now and they're so much worse than you could ever imagine.
The room is awfully silent. It's awfully lonely as well, and she can't decide whether it's a good or a bad thing.
The only sound heard is her still slightly irregular breathing and the clock's ticking. She finds comfort in listening to that repeating sound.
"It's just a dream" she whispers to herself "he's not here, he'll never be here"
The third time saying that seems to convince her just enough to close her eyes and sag against the wall, her head hitting the surface with a faint thud. Eventually, she gets up and turns on every light available. When she glances at the clock, she frowns; it's around 3 past midnight.
Great, she thinks bitterly, a little over three hours of sleep. At least it's better than the night before.
She walks around the apartment, the blanket still draped over her hunched form, protecting her. She checks every corner and every nook, re-locks the door and makes sure all the windows are sealed.
She makes her way to the kitchen, placing a mug on the counter while fishing for the coffee beans and the milk. She heats the milk and the water on the stove, a luxury she affords herself nowadays, and waits for the familiar shriek.
Once it's boiling, she spills the ground powder inside and adds two table-spoons of sugar. She mixes it and turns off the gas, pours it to the large mug and places the used dishes in the sink.
She positions herself on the couch, warm mug in hands, and turns the TV on.
She won't be sleeping tonight.
Her phone buzzes, yanking her from her reverie.
She leans forward and tilts the phone to her direction. The screen is on with a message notification.
She slumps in her seat, her lower lip captured by her teeth as she opens the text.
Kathryn- How are you?
She sighs in defeat and closes her eyes.
Why does she have to keep trying?
She knows the answer to that; Kathryn is a friend, a friend who cares and one Regina hasn't talked to since the incident. Well, with the exception of one occasion.
It was a couple of weeks after that night and Regina felt like she was on the verge of losing it. She knew there's no way she could keep this up, that it wasn't going to get better unless she sought help, professional help.
She searched for professionals who specialized in that specific niche. And no matter how hard she dug, she couldn't find a female therapist in the area that fit her standards.
It was around that time she decided distance would do her good. Taking a break and clearing her head were the initial reasons, but with all honesty, she just needed to disappear, from everything, from everyone. Get away from her friends, who kept asking too many questions. From her mother, whom she couldn't face. From him.
She changed the area of her searches from Chicago to New York and one name kept popping up. A professional, veteran in the field of sexual related assaults, discrete and most importantly, not intimidating looking. She stared at the picture in his website for hours; eyes jumping all over his features, from his red curls in desperate need of a trim to his kind eyes framed by vintage looking round glasses.
She desperately wanted a woman, but that didn't seem to work out. Still, she wanted to be completely sure. Reluctantly, she picked up the phone and dialed Kathryn, whose husband, Fred, did investigating jobs for major law firms in Chicago.
Kathryn was ecstatic to hear from her. Regina didn't say much, practically throwing her social manners out the window, and simply asked for her help. Minutes later she had Fred's work phone number as well as his personal cell.
Her request was for him to find everything about the doctor, personally, ethically and professionally. She could sense the curiosity in his tone but he agreed to call her in a week. The test, as investigators like to call it, came back white; no apparent slips whether it's with the law or the ethical boundaries of his profession. There was one incident during college, regarding his participation in an unauthorized protest, and one regarding his lease but that's about it.
She reached the end of the second page of the file and read the last paragraph. Seemingly irrelevant to most people but Regina couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled out as she sighed in relief. He would do.
She hadn't talked to Kathryn since, which is more than a little insensitive considering the help she provided Regina when she needed it most, all while avoiding prying or asking any questions. Regina appreciated it more than she showed. Still, it didn't change the deep feeling of humiliation in general, and also specifically, knowing that after his research Fred probably had some clue about what it is that happened to her.
The phone buzzes again, announcing another incoming message.
Kathryn- Please call me
She stares at the text for a while before pressing the lock button and placing the phone back on the table, messages unanswered.
She places her forehead against the cold tiled walls in the bathroom, sighing when the cold spreads over her heated skin; relieving her headache, even if just by little.
There is no doctor needed for her to know why that is. The headaches, the black circles under her eyes, the mood swings, are all a result of her lack of sleep. In no circumstance three hours a night are enough for a human being to function, and surely not for her.
She opts for a pill and looks for something to snack on. She opens one cabinet after the other in search for something worthy of eating. Eventually, she finds some oatmeal. She shoves it in the microwave with the remains of her milk and some cinnamon and presses the start button.
She leans on the island and waits. She needs to go grocery shopping, she notes to herself, it's long past the point of avoidable. Her kitchen is practically empty.
The ping of the microwave cuts her line of thought and she grabs the steaming bowl, mixes it a couple of times and dives in. Once she is done with the meal, she reaches the drugs' cabinet and retrieves a pack of Advil. She pops in two pills and downs them with water.
She waits a little for the pills to start working their magic and then grabs a piece of paper and makes a list of all the things she has to buy.
Come on.
She checks the closet again, no luck. She reaches the pile of recently folded clothes, fresh out of the laundry, and rummages through the fabrics in search for the shirt. She exhales in relief once her fingers sense the soft fabric of her beloved turtleneck. She pulls it out of the pile and wears it, immediately feeling the blessed sensation of protection washing over her.
Just in case, she pulls her sleeveless jacket, large and terribly shapeless, on top. Then the slacks and the boots.
There you go.
She checks herself in the mirror one last time before grabbing her purse, the shopping list and the three books she has to return to the library.
It's a sunny September day. Most of the people around her, at least the New Yorkers in the bunch, are all wearing short sleeves, some even short pants.
Like any other day of the few times she actually steps out of her apartment, she's immediately haunted by the thought of sticking out. Her outfit is fall attire at best, if not winter. She's afraid of drawing unwanted attention, which nowadays is any type of attention.
But soon someone will pass by. Whether it's a ridiculous, barely clothed woman, or a make-up wearing, heels strutting man that makes her realize; New York doesn't care. It's still hard to think like they do, knowing that people aren't that forgiving in the frozen Chicago.
Still, her walk is fast and she arrives at the library in no time.
It's a small, public library located in Charles St.; a hidden treasure. It's small, run by lovely volunteers and managed by Mrs. Heathers, an energetic old lady. They store mostly the classics, and unfortunately Regina has read them all. What she does enjoy is a little aisle in the back, filled with a weird mixture of British 18th century novels and new-age books. A paradox that, surprisingly, works quite well; diving into the old days of the kingdom and then indulging in some life changing perspectives written by what could only be described as the rebels of this century.
"Miss Mills" Heathers chirps when she enters the library, the open door pushes the bell into a jiggle.
"Regina, please" she corrects, nodding her hello as she approaches the desk. She places the books on the wooden surface and Heathers scans them into the system.
"Here for another batch?" she smiles warmly at Regina and the brunette returns a tight-lipped smile. The old librarian is the only one who seemed to pierce her high walls and wriggle her way inside. She suspects it's her unending care and warmth, yet lack of prying that make her tolerable in Regina's eyes, maybe even welcomed. And for Regina, who seems to hate the human kind as a whole these days, it's quite the progress.
"Mhm" she smiles tightly, her fingers tapping impatiently.
"Go ahead, sweetheart" Heathers encourages and she slips away into the back of the shop.
She spends a few minutes fishing out books that catch her eye.
She approaches the desk with a pile, four this time, and places them on the counter.
"Four?" Heathers asks, eyebrows climbing up at the amount. Regina shrugs almost sheepishly, knowing the limit is three.
"Fine" the old woman relents without much resistance "bring them back by next Friday"
"Sure" she hoists them up and shoves them in her large bag. "Thank you Mrs. Heathers, have a good day."
"You too, honey"
The next stop is the grocery shop. She enters the blissfully deserted store. Thankfully, there aren't a lot of people during weekday mornings.
She piles up ludicrous amounts of dry food, so that she won't have to go grocery shopping for at least another three weeks. She knows she will have to come back for eggs and dairy products but at least the trip would be a lot shorter.
She stands in line, acknowledging the fact that so far she's been doing fine. Great, actually. But of course, she had to jinx it. As she scans the area, glancing towards the other cashier and the client he's handling, she locks eyes with the man, the latter looking at her with a suggestive smirk plastered on his face.
She swallows thickly as her stomach flips.
It's only in your head. She says to herself repeatedly, quickly averting her gaze.
When the cashier starts scanning her items she steals another look in his direction. He's still looking at her, eyes dropping to her form and slowly rising back up. And then, he winks at her. That action is enough to make her body go rigid and heart flutter in her chest.
She retrieves her purse, the act taking twice as long due to her violently shaking hands.
"Are you alright, Miss?" the cashier asks and she nods erratically, not bothering with a verbal answer.
When she finally gets a hold of her purse she pulls out three twenty dollar bills, a little over what she needs, and throws them on the counter. She grabs the bags hastily and rushes to the exit.
"Ma'am, you forgot your change" is called behind her but she doesn't bother to turn around.
She's practically running back to her apartment, which is, luckily, quite close. Her legs are twitching and her lungs are burning but she pays no mind to it. She steals a glance back every couple of seconds, each and every time finding no one behind her, especially not that man.
She knows in her head it was nothing more than a harmless flirtation, but apparently it's not enough to shake her body out of the panic attack that washes over her.
She reaches the apartment, carelessly releasing the bags of food to the ground. She ignores the thud the cans elicit upon hitting the floor and shoves a hand in her bag to retrieve the keys. After several attempts of trying to insert it in the hole and failing, she uses her other hand to stabilize herself. The key goes in and she almost gasps in relief. She grabs the bags and shoves them into the apartment. Closing the door after herself, she makes sure to lock both of the locks while leaning her side against the door.
She lets out a sigh.
You're safe now.
She slides all the way to the floor and that's when she breaks into a hysterical cry, her entire body shaking as she gasps for air.
She remains seated on the floor long after the tears dry out, staring aimlessly at the wall from across the living room.
Eventually, she gets up and fixes all the food in its rightful place. When she's done, she stands in her kitchen, purposeless, until she's shaken out of her daze.
Her eyes zero on her work desk and she moves quickly, opening the single drawer in search for the white card. She picks it up and stares at it for a good minute or so before grabbing her phone and dialing the number.
She takes a seat as the phone rings and waits for the other side to pick up.
