Chapter 3: A Confession
The rain is falling in a fine mist, feather soft touches on Shane's face and hair as it slowly but surely soaks through the thin material of his shirt. He isn't sure if the chill in his bones is from the weather or from something deeper; a numbness that's radiating from within.
He'd had to get out of his room. As autumn slowly, inevitably made its way into winter, the heating had been dialled up inside; the whole building becoming suffocating. Even opening his window hadn't allowed in enough of the cold to chase to away the claustrophobia. Or that smell… that dryness that scorches your nostrils and parches the back of your throat, turning your tongue to ash.
Desert-dryness.
Desert…
"Mr. Clarke?"—.—
—.—.—
If you asked him afterwards where he went in those episodes, he couldn't tell you. They're not like the flashbacks, where reality bleeds and blends with distorted memory, until he can't determine what is now, what is past and what is just figments from his own mind. There aren't any memories in these moments. No visions, no vision at all; just blank, black space. Holes in time. No conscious thought but overwhelming sensations. And the overriding one is fear.
There isn't anything to be afraid of. He knows he's safe. He knows he's back, away from the desert and the violence and Lothor. Objectively, he knows this. And even if he wasn't back, he was never scared back then.
That's a lie.
He was scared. Terrified at times. But not like this. Not this blind-panic, his heart beating so hard against his ribs that he thinks it'll burst right out. Not the adrenaline pulsing and pounding through his body, limbs trembling and palms damp. Not the suffocating pressure in his chest that makes him feel like he's drowning, unable to take a breath, throat locked and head spinning, thoughts incoherent and wild with only one rising above with any clarity: fear.
The sort of fear he remembers from being a child, when you wake at night from a dream and know there's a monster under the bed. You lie there frozen, unable to move, wanting to scream for your parents but knowing if you do the monster will get you before they arrive. It's irrational and stupid; Shane knows that. Knows there's nothing to be afraid of. Not anymore.
But none of that matters. Because in these moments what's rational and logical doesn't exist.
There is only the fear.
—.—.—
—.—"Breathe with me," he hears at last, a woman's voice breaking through the all-consuming panic. "Focus on my breath. Easy; you're okay. Just breathe with me."
He can hear her breathing now, over the rushing in his ears; slow, deep, deliberate inhales followed by long, controlled exhales. In and out. In and out. His body begins to respond; his breath trying to adjust, tentative at first, catching and choking, and then — slowly, ever so slowly — his shallow, panicked flutters begin to steady, to start to sync in time with hers, to deepen. In and out. The clutching sense of fear drains away, leaving a numb cold in its wake.
When he finally comes to, when the darkness recedes and he can finally start to be aware of his surroundings, he finds he's sitting in Dr. Rasheed's office, a towel draped around his shoulders and an orderly sliding a glass of water onto the table beside him. The doctor herself is crouched in front of him, close but still far enough away to make sure he has the space he needs, big brown eyes kind behind her glasses.
As his eyes finally focus on her, she smiles. "Hi."
"Hi," he croaks back, noticing that while he's been brought inside, the doctor has thrown the large bay window wide open, giving the chill permission to swirl about the room. He shivers, drawing the towel closer around his body; the phantom desert-heat chased away by the bitter Oregon wind.
"Would you like the window closed, or would you prefer it to stay open?" the doctor asks. She's shivering too, Shane can see now, and he realises they must have been sitting in the cold for a while. And yet she's still giving him the choice, letting him decide what would make him feel the most comfortable. He finds himself grateful to her, for her calmness and surety. For the safeness radiating from her.
"Closed, please," he gets out, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. He remembers the water beside him and takes a sip, fingers awkward and clumsy around the cool glass.
Dr. Rasheed eases back into the chair across from Shane, the window now barred against the autumn air; a sudden hush descending on the room. The silence stretches out, allowing Shane time to gather himself, before she speaks again. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Shane knows it's an offer, held out to him with no obligation, no pressure to respond and almost certainly no expectation that he will.
"I got too hot," he mutters, setting aside the glass to smooth his palms against his legs, the roughness of the denim grounding him, reminding him he's here. Here, and not back there. "The desert was hot," he blurts out, surprising himself with the revelation. "It was hot and dry and kinda reminded me of home — of California — even though it was hundreds of miles away. But it felt familiar, y'know? I used to love the heat but now it just-" He lets out a shaky, frustrated breath. "I can't stand it sometimes." He raises his head, meeting the doctor's steady gaze. "What's wrong with me?"
It's almost a plea.
"What makes you think something is wrong?"
He knows what she's trying to do, what she wants him to admit to her, what he's been fighting against all these weeks. But today… today is different. He is different. He's so tired. Exhausted and he just- He's had enough.
"Sometimes I see things that aren't there." The confession is a whisper in the stillness of the office. "Sometimes- I forget where I am. I see things, or remember things and I forget how to breathe. It's like the world closes in and I don't feel safe. I'm scared and there isn't anything to be scared of anymore." He's aware of a pressure on his thighs, his fingers digging in, squeezing, gripping tight and he forces them flat, consciously trying to make himself relax. "I forget that I'm not there, that I'm safe. That it's over. I get nightmares… and flashbacks, I guess."
"To your time in marines?" Dr. Rasheed asks, pen and notepad in hand but her gaze is direct, unwavering.
Yes; the word is on his tongue but there's a flash in front of his eyes-
Red and black.
He'd seen them in the desert too; sometimes just glimpses out of the corner of his eyes, other times he knew they were the enemy. Black balaclavas melding with robotic, metallic red. Inhuman.
Had it helped, thinking like that? Had it made it easier to pull the trigger?
"…Yes?" It's faltering; a lie so blatant that it has Dr. Rasheed frowning again.
She sits up straighter in her chair. "There's something else you want to talk about," she notes. Shane ducks his head, heart thudding in his chest, and he hears the doctor sigh. "Mr. Clarke, all I ask for is the truth. You need to tell me the truth."