A/N: I see some familiar faces and some newbies. Hi. Welcome aboard. I'm probably about to destroy your feelings. I'm so very sorry.
Chapter 2:
Paralyzed
When Emily woke up she felt sick to her stomach. Despite it being empty it felt like it was stretching to the point that she couldn't breathe. She gagged and she automatically tried to reach up and cover her mouth, but there was something holding her arm down. She looked down and saw cloth shackles around her wrists. She was tethered to the bed. She glanced down, feeling the same constricting feeling against her ankles.
Right. The psychiatric hold.
A side effect of trying to kill oneself.
She'd been in and out of consciousness the last twelve hours. She felt like she was dying, which was ironic considering she wanted to die. She was pissed at herself for calling the crisis hotline. She didn't know that the woman who answered the phone would be a fucking Bloodhound that could track her.
If she'd just kept her damn mouth shut her nightmare would be over. But she'd gone and cried about her problems to some stranger. And of course the woman had given her hope. But where was she now?
How much of what she remembered was real? Had she hallucinated seeing her in the ambulance? In her hospital room?
She was real. She had to be real.
She'd had hallucinations before, but none as vivid and stunning as the blonde who'd been hovering over her when she woke up under that bridge. She had felt her touch. She'd had a beautiful aura, a glow like Emily had never seen before. Emily knew that she couldn't have dreamed up the depth of humanity that was radiating off of the blonde. She'd looked like heaven, and Emily knew for a fact that she sure as hell wasn't going to heaven...if there was a heaven.
Emily closed her eyes and tried to picture Alison's face. She needed something to center her, to calm her. But it didn't stop the barrage of negative thoughts loudly berating her.
You don't deserve her. You don't deserve to be happy. No one will ever love you. You're too broken.
She shoved her head back into her pillow and groaned. When she opened her eyes the room looked smaller.
Suddenly, the cuffs around her appendages felt tighter. She was trapped. She hated being trapped. She felt like the room was closing in on her, and every bad thing that had ever happened to her was flashing through her mind like some twisted demented horror movie.
"She's dead!"
"Look out!"
"I'm going to fucking kill you, you hear me?"
"Em, run! RUN!"
"I'm going to fuck you up real good the next time I see you…"
"Go! We have to go!"
She heard the yelling. She saw the destruction. She could taste her blood. There was a flash and all she felt was pain. She wanted to scream for help, but her voice hitched in her throat.
Instead of blood, she tasted vomit. She gagged again, this time feeling something hot burning her esophagus. Her entire body felt like it was on fire. She started shaking.
She heard a machine screaming, pissed off about something. She'd barely even registered its presence. She'd gotten used to hearing machines after she'd nearly died overseas. But the squawking noise drew the presence of some young bubbly little thing that came in way too chipper and way too awake.
"Is everything okay in here?" The nurse asked, walking up to the machine to check it.
She was a bouncy little girl. Probably fresh out of nursing school, so she hadn't been jaded by the medical industry yet. The poor thing still had the fresh stench of hope.
"I think I'm going to puke. I need the basin." Emily motioned towards a large pink bucket that was out of her reach.
How stupid. Something that clearly she was going to need wasn't anywhere near her. And she was tied down so she couldn't even reach for it.
The girl's young unwrinkled face scrunched up as she looked at some numbers on the machine.
Don't fucking ignore me. I'm about to puke all over the place, and if you don't get me the fuck out of these handcuffs I'm going to aim in your direction…
The nurse "hmm"ed to herself, like she saw something she didn't like. She mindlessly reached for the basin, still keeping her eyes on the monitor.
Emily felt the panic rising.
"I need my hands…" She pulled against her restraints, "…please untie my hands."
Her breathing started to quicken. All she could think about was a time she'd been trapped overseas, blindfolded, and tied up with no hope of escape. The binds around her arms and legs made her feel like she was going to die.
"Please..."
"I can't, sweetie."
Sweetie. This girl was probably younger than her and she was calling her sweetie.
"I need to throw up." Emily pulled harder, barely even realizing that the urge to puke had passed.
"We'll get you something for that." She leaned over the bed, holding the basin up for her.
It felt humiliating. She was like some caged animal that couldn't care for herself. She'd defended her fucking country and she wasn't even granted the liberty to hold her own damn puke bucket.
Her stomach churned and she gagged again, but nothing came up.
"This fucking sucks." Emily groaned.
"It'll get better soon. You're going through withdrawal. It's just the detox."
"I'm not an addict."
"Your tox screen says differently. Your blood alcohol content was off the charts."
"So I like to drink."
Truth be told, she didn't. She hated everything about alcohol. She hated the smell. It reminded her too much of home. She hated the taste. She hated the hangovers. She only drank to forget her pain. She had been leaning on the bottle a lot lately, but…
"I'm not a fucking alcoholic." Emily hissed. Though she knew it wasn't the nurse's fault. She knew she wasn't angry at her.
She resented being called an addict. She was a wounded veteran. Her physical injuries had healed. But the emotional ones…those scars would last a lifetime. Which is exactly why she didn't want her lifetime anymore. Because it hurt. It was more painful than any physical ailment she'd ever suffered.
"Just…get the doctor. I want to talk to the doctor."
"Of course, honey."
If my hands were free I'd smack that chipper smile right off of your face. Emily glared at her.
The nurse wrote something down in her chart and then walked out of the room. Emily stared at the wall, trying not to think about the fact that she was tied down with no escape.
She felt her heart hammering against her rib cage and sweat pouring down her body. Maybe she was suffering from withdrawal. She had been drinking a lot more lately. And it wasn't the first time she'd eaten pills like candy, though it was the first time she'd gone overboard with it with the intention of flipping the world off and saying goodbye.
She felt another wave of nausea coming. She closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath. Her fingers started twitching. Her muscles felt tense. Her body tremored. Her chest felt tight. She thought she was having a heart attack, which would be ironic considering she'd wanted to die in the first place.
She felt a smooth pair of fingers against her wrist and then something cool draped underneath her hospital gown. Then she heard a soft male voice with a crisp English accent.
"Emily, I need you to take a few deep breaths for me."
When she opened her eyes she saw a man in a lab coat standing over her, his stethoscope against her chest.
"You're having a panic attack," he explained.
His fingers brushed against her breastbone. She flinched and jerked away from his touch. He immediately pulled away. She started to hyperventilate.
"Hey, easy." He spoke to her like someone would speak to a wild animal. "My name is Doctor Wren Kingston. I'm here covering for a colleague. He's asked me to look in on you. I didn't mean to give you a fright. The nurse said your pulse was a bit on the high side and that you were having some nausea."
Emily took a minute to memorize what he looked like. She did that with nearly everyone she met. She'd made it a habit since she'd been shipped overseas. Recognizing people could mean the difference between life or death for her.
He was young. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Kind of handsome. Probably the kind of doctor all the nurses fawned over. If she was straight she would definitely have a go at him. But as she'd repeatedly told the hyper-sexual guys in her squad,
"I don't drive stick."
She hated dicks. And she usually hated the person attached to them. There were very few men that she liked and trusted. And most of them were dead now.
"Are you having any discomfort in your chest?" He asked.
"Well, I have shrapnel in it, so…" Emily replied with a frown.
She felt a sharp pain in her chest and she sucked in a gasp.
"You're stressing yourself out…"
"I'm tied to a fucking bed. Of course I'm stressed." Emily grimaced.
"I understand your frustration…"
Emily couldn't help but laugh, because she'd heard the speech before. It was like something straight out of a transcript doctors learned the first day of class.
"Just shoot me up with something until this stupid hold is over." Emily groaned.
"I've ordered something to help with the withdrawal and I'll get you something for your nausea," he assured her. "But the point of this observation is…"
"I know the point of it." Emily cut him off.
The point was to get lingering drugs and alcohol out of her system and to watch for signs of another suicide attempt. It was mostly just to cover their asses. They'd send her on her way after the hold was up. She'd be free to frolic in her fucked up thoughts again out in the world.
"I understand that you came to us after a nearly fatal overdose." His smooth buttery accent made her flinch.
"What part of England are you from?" Emily questioned.
"London."
"One of the guys in my squad was from London," she said, her eyes fixed on the wall. Because she didn't want to think about him. She didn't want to think about the glassy-eyed look she'd last seen on his face, or his milky white pale skin drenched in blood. She remembered everything about him. Down to his last words.
"I got you. Just cover me…"
He hadn't seen the sniper, but Emily had.
"Wesley, get out! Get out of there!" She'd screamed before everything had gone to hell.
He had turned back to answer her, but a bullet cut through the back of his head, cracking his skull and sending bone fragments, brain matter, and blood exploding from the front of his face and into a shower of remains on Emily's face.
Emily closed her eyes and fought back the memory. She squeezed her hands into fists and quietly tried to count down from one hundred. It was something she'd learned to do as a child.
"So, you served?" Wren asked.
Was the tattoo not a big enough clue for you? Only in America can a tattoo the size of Texas that says 'Army' in big bold letters be overlooked.
"I did."
"Thank you."
She didn't reply. She hadn't done anything to be thanked for. She hadn't been able to save anyone. She'd barely been able to save herself. Actually, she hadn't saved herself. She'd been content to die. But she'd been fucked over in that department.
"Listen, given the state you were in when you were brought in we don't have much in the way of your history. We've got a lot of blanks to fill in. Let's start with an easy one. What is your last name?"
She flinched again. Because what if someone recognized her? What if someone knew she was back?
Fuck it. She thought to herself.
She wanted to die anyway. Why not tempt fate? Though some things were worse than death. Still, it was her brother's name. It was her father's name. It was her mother's name. She was the only one left to carry it on. Nothing could take that away from her.
"Fields."
"Age?"
"24."
She'd be 25 next month. That was his next question. She rattled off her date of birth.
"Any living relatives…"
Emily seized up at the question. She felt her body actually aching when she thought about it.
"None that I want to contact." Her voice came out as a quivering noise she barely even recognized.
"Do you have a history of depression and suicide?"
"I was in a fucking war, doc, what do you think?"
She immediately felt like an asshole, because the pretty-boy doctor was just trying to do his job. And she was being a jerk.
"So you suffer from PTSD?" He didn't even falter.
"That's what they tell me. But the truth is that's just what they call it when someone is batshit crazy and they don't have a fix for it."
"Have you ever tried to commit suicide before?"
Every damn day when she was in the army, though that was a different kind of death wish. She didn't actively think about it. She just didn't care if she happened to take a slug to the brain or the chest. The impulse to die had increased tenfold since she'd been back in the states. She actively thought about it every second of every day. And as far as her youth…
She shook her head.
"Nah, just thought I'd try something new." There's the asshole again. "I'm sorry." She apologized. "I'm not great with being trapped." She gently pulled against the restraints. "I don't…it's just…if you don't have control over there then you're dead, you know?"
"Well, I can assure that you're safe here." He smiled warmly at her.
Safe? It sounded laughable. You'll never be safe. Not from him. Not from yourself. Not from anyone.
Emily closed her eyes and tried to silence her brain. She gnashed her teeth together and took a deep breath through her nose. And for some reason she saw the image of the blonde she'd seen by her bedside.
Alison.
Emily opened her eyes.
"Can I ask you something?" Emily asked.
"Certainly."
"Was I brought in alone?"
Wren glanced back at his notes.
"It says here there was a young woman that brought you in. Stayed by your side through it all."
So she hadn't imagined it. But why would Alison go to all that trouble? Why did she care so much about some stranger?
"She left her contact information at the desk. Would you like me to call her?"
"Why? She can't see me while I'm being held."
"I can give her an update on your progress with your permission."
"Not much to give her an update on, is there? Still tied down. Still can't go to piss by myself. Still a bitch."
Wren didn't play into her attitude. Instead he glanced down at the chart in his hands. She saw him reading over something. Emily knew the look that he was wearing on his face. She'd seen it on other doctors' faces before.
"I'm guessing something is wrong." She nodded towards the chart. "So, which is it? My liver or my kidney?"
"Kidney, singular?" Wren's brow furrowed.
"Lost one in action." Emily was able to finagle her hip over to where her hand was tied down. She moved her hospital gown just enough so that he could see a long jagged scar above her pelvis that extended up her side. "Knife went right through it. They couldn't save it. It was actually my first war injury." She dropped her gown.
It hadn't stopped her from getting back on the battlefield as soon as possible. She didn't know how to live life any other way. And she'd been pissed the fuck off, so it had made her better at combat.
"Hmm, they must have missed that on the intake exam." He scanned the notes.
Of fucking course they did. Got to love modern medicine in the US of fucking A. Fetuses with stethoscopes playing an oversized version of "Operation".
"With as many scars as I have, it's easy to miss," Emily said flatly, almost emotionless. "So, what's wrong with my other kidney?"
"Well, I'm afraid it's not just your kidney." He frowned. "Your bloodwork indicated high values in both your kidney and your liver."
"My liver is fucked up, too?" Well, that was just great.
"Quite," he said. "How long have you been using drugs and alcohol?"
"I told your nurse, I'm not an addict." She growled through her teeth. "Sometimes I need a little something to help me forget…"
"Mmm." Wren nodded, taking something down in her chart. "Listen, Emily, we can't help you unless you tell us what you've been taking and how often you've been consuming alcohol."
Emily grumbled in frustration. Why wasn't anyone listening to her? She sighed and then paused. Maybe she didn't want them to help her.
"I've only been back a few months. I have a few drinks a couple of times a week. The meds I've been taking are for my pain and anxiety. And I've got a lot of fucking anxiety, doc. So who the fuck cares if I need a shot or two…" or twelve, "…to help me sleep?"
"And do you often take the medications along with the alcohol?"
Only every fucking day.
"Mostly, yes."
"Well, it seems as though the acute excessive substance abuse has put you on a path that could very potentially lead you into multiple organ failure."
Emily blinked, cocked her head, and then blinked again. Then she laughed.
"So, are you saying that I'm dying?" She couldn't stop laughing.
Because, Christ, that's what she'd been trying to do before she'd been so rudely interrupted and brought back to life, again. Resurrected like a necromanced demon that couldn't seem to die. She certainly felt like the walking dead.
"No. Not exactly. The condition can be managed. It's not extensive. Your levels are high, but with the proper treatment protocols we can keep it from getting any worse. We can potentially bring some of those numbers back down, though not into the normal range. You'll have to go on renal and hepatic supplements immediately. We've already started a course intravenously."
Great. More fucking drugs. That's all doctors did. They handed out drugs like candy.
"Dying from rotting insides? Here, take a blue pill and two pink ones. Riddled with cancer? Enjoy our selection of multicolored drugs in all shapes, colors, and sizes! Can't take a shit? Here, eat this nasty tasting gummi fiber. Feel like slitting your wrists? This yellow pill will help with that, but it will cause impotence and diarrhea."
"We can treat what we can while you're here in psych. But we should have a discussion about admitting you to the hospital after…"
"No." Emily cut him off. "No, I can't stay here. I can't fucking stay in another hospital."
When she'd first gotten back stateside she'd seen terrible flashes of her life while she'd been stuck in a hospital bed. She couldn't let her demons find her again. She couldn't be left vulnerable again.
"Then perhaps we should look into treating you on an outpatient basis." Wren flipped back through his notes. "Who is your primary care physician?"
"Some jackass at the VA who just gave me a prescription for therapy and some drugs as he shoved me out the door to get me out of his hair…while I was still bleeding."
"I see."
"Look, it doesn't matter." Emily tried to sit up, but was restricted by the cuffs on her hands. She felt like reaching out and grabbing her right side because the pain was so intense. She had no idea detox was such a bitch. "Just…give me something that will help with my dying organs and push me towards the exit like everyone else."
"I'm afraid it's not that simple." Wren replied softly. "We can give you something to combat the nausea and the supplements to help balance your values, but ultimately if this can't be reversed then your best option is a transplant…"
"Come on, doc. Like the surgery board would ever consider me a viable transplant recipient? You've got an idea of my history. I don't even come close to a candidate, and you know it."
"You're a veteran, Emily."
"Stop saying that like it means something!" Emily growled harshly. "I served my country with people who were a thousand times more deserving."
Her brother for one. Ethan had risked everything for her. He'd given his life for hers, a million times over.
"I'm a washed-up has-been. Just give me the drugs." She didn't deserve brand new equipment when she couldn't take care of what she already had. "Save the real heroics for the people who deserve it."
Wren sighed heavily. Her survivor's guilt was one of the worst cases he'd ever seen. He'd seen hundreds of cases just like hers come across his desk, but something about her plight struck him...something he couldn't let go of. But he didn't have a window to argue, because Emily passed out shortly after he'd come into the room.
On his way out he passed by the sugary little nurse, who seemed downtrodden after hearing the entire exchange.
"Perhaps she'll change her mind when she's thinking a little more clearly." Wren gave the girl a hopeful smile.
The girl's bubbly personality had vanished. She looked in on the sleeping veteran with a heavy sadness.
Emily hated being in psych. The staff was nice enough, but that just made her feel worse. She felt like they were just wasting their time with her. She felt bad that she was taking up their valuable resources.
Her stay was miserable. The staff watched her writhe in her sleep, scream out in her nightmares, and tremble in pain…emotional and physical when she was awake. Her heart rate would never settle. She would sweat so often that her sheets were soaked and her hair was constantly sticking to her cheeks.
Her nausea did start to get better as her stint was halfway through. But by the time her system was clean she felt no more human than she had when she came in.
When the restraints were finally removed she had no desire to do anything or to go anywhere. She listened as Wren explained her medications to her and zoned out when he told her how important staying away from alcohol was. But he captured her attention when he told her that she had to complete a mandatory therapy session before she was released.
"You did your job." Emily frowned. "Technically, what's to stop me from walking out that door?"
"My sheer belief that you'd be back within 24 hours if I let you go without the proper counsel."
Won't be back if I pull it off the right way this time.
"What good is sitting in with some shrink going to do for me? Can therapy bring back the dead now?"
Wren ignored her hostility. He knew she was just acting out because she was dealing with an unspeakable amount of trauma.
"I have some concerns that you are still a danger to yourself."
Emily snorted.
What gave it away? The suicide attempt?
"Aren't we all a danger to ourselves?" Emily shrugged.
"Some certainly more-so than others." He looked at her chart. "I have some routine follow-up questions."
Oh, good. A test. Just what I fucking need. I'll probably fail it just like I fail everything else.
"My stay was excellent. I give it four stars. My only complaint is that there wasn't a mint on my pillow this morning. And your housekeeping staff kept stabbing me with needles. Rude."
"I'll have a chat with them about that." Wren replied. Emily was surprised by his dry humor, though she shouldn't have been. Her London buddy Wes had been the same way. "Are you currently thinking about or have you thought about harming yourself in the past 24 hours?"
"You're joking, right?"
"Your health is very important to me."
"Yeah, the whole being alive thing gave that away." Emily scratched her eyebrow. She couldn't believe she was being interrogated…on her home soil. It made her uneasy. And angry. "I'm just peachy, doc."
"Do you have access to anything you could use to harm yourself?"
"The drugs are in a frozen pile of vomit under a bridge somewhere."
"What about firearms? Are you in possession of any firearms?"
"I plead the fifth." She'd fought for the second amendment and the last thing she wanted was someone to take away her rights.
"Do you have any intention of following through on any thoughts of self-harm?"
If I did I wouldn't tell you.
"I fucked it up pretty badly last time. You think I want to try again?"
He furrowed his brow and stared at something he'd written.
"I feel as though you would benefit from anti-depressants."
"So…you want to stop my next drug overdose by giving me more drugs?"
Wren sighed. She clearly wasn't taking this seriously.
"I believe you can make progress if you really try." He reached for a pamphlet. "I don't know much about the program, as I'm actually not based out of this hospital, but my colleague here highly recommends it. The next meet is in two hours. Perhaps you can sit in on it."
"So, is it like AA for psychos and whiners or something?" She looked at the pamphlet. No thanks.
"It's an organization run by our partner volunteer program. I truly think you'll benefit from it. And unless you complete a group session and an individual session I'll be forced to alert the authorities that you left against medical advice."
"So much for doctor-patient confidentiality." Emily snorted angrily.
"It wouldn't be in violation. Physicians are required to report dangerous and reckless behavior that could result in you or someone around you getting hurt."
"Well, I'll make it easy for you. I don't have anyone around me."
"Yes, well, that still leaves you."
"Who cares about me?"
"Emily…" He said, "Miss Fields…"
Emily held up her hand.
"I'll go to your stupid little camp and sing kumbaya. Just don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I need to be pitied."
"I'll let the program director know you're coming."
Emily wandered the halls of the hospital for a while, just trying to get used to being back on her feet. She'd felt so confined in her hospital room. It was nice to be able to breathe again.
After a few hours she wandered down to the bottom floor, the same place the cafeteria was located. She walked by the lunch room and down a hall to a room with double doors that led outside. Above the doors in bold arced lettering read the phrase, "Peace Garden".
"Jesus." Emily muttered. Even the meeting place seemed disgustingly fuzzy. "Bunch of hippies."
She opened the door and walked out into a man-made indoor garden filled with a mixture of real and fake potted plants. There was a trickling river that ran into a pond where there was a meditation fountain. The surrounding windows were glimpses outside where natural sunlight was pouring into the room.
There were several chairs with people facing the lightly flowing fountain, where a petite blonde had her back turned as she spoke about letting the sun in.
Her voice triggered something in Emily. She paced forward a few steps, accidentally catching her foot on the bottom of a fake plant, knocking it over.
Her vision went white. She felt herself choking on something in her throat. Instead of meditation plants she saw thick brush. Instead of the sun she felt hot desert sand scratching her face. She could hear the screams of her squad just yards away from her. She bit down on her tongue so hard that she drew blood.
Everyone in the room turned to face her. But Emily's eyes immediately locked on the girl who was leading the group.
Alison.
"And so…" Alison stopped talking when she saw Emily.
The brunette was in the same clothes that she'd been in when Alison found her. In the light she could see how much of her figure was accentuated by her spaghetti strap top. Her jeans were hugging her hips. When she'd seen Emily in her hospital bed, she'd only been able to see her scars. But looking at her now she couldn't peel her eyes away from her body.
She could see her tattoos better in the light of day. They were like a painted portrait of beauty. She was gorgeous. Her chest was perfectly exquisite. Her arms were lean and strong. Her legs were tone and long.
The blonde started to smile at her, though she could tell that something was wrong. Emily had a strange look in her eyes. Alison could sense her fear. And it was more than just fear. It was a sheer look of terror. But then there was a strange flash on Emily's face, and a warm soulful expression washed over her. She couldn't stop staring at Alison.
Alison could tell that the brunette was captivated by her beauty.
Emily was quite certain that Alison was the most perfect girl she'd ever seen. She was even more angelic than Emily remembered. She hadn't been able to fully appreciate her beauty before. Her eyes were piercing and alluring. Her soft complexion and heart-shaped face looked like something out of a fashion magazine. Most noticeably, her dimples were to die for. She was trim and had wavy golden hair flowing down her shoulders.
Emily blinked several times just to make sure she wasn't in a drug-induced haze. The woman was picture perfect. And all Emily could imagine was what she would look like with her clothes off.
"Hello," Alison said with a smile.
Emily did something she hadn't done in a long time. She froze.
"Uh…is this the four o'clock therapy session. Am I late or something?"
"You're right on time." Alison motioned for her to come take a seat. It was the only one open. And it was right in front of her. "My name is Alison DiLaurentis. I run the counseling here."
"Of fucking course you do." Emily muttered. Well, that's just fucking perfect.
No wonder the woman wouldn't let her die. She begrudgingly took a seat close enough to her that she could smell her perfume. She knew it was crazy, but she swore she could remember a faint whiff of it from a few nights ago when she was dying.
She could only imagine that the woman tasted as good as she smelled. She stared at her, picturing her naked…picturing her perky bosom and her milky white thighs…
Fuck.
She was already having wet daydreams about the teacher. Her brothers in the army used to tease her about her sexual conquests. She could have any woman she wanted, and she did. But she'd never been with the same girl more than once. She was notorious for being a player, and any time she went longer than the boys without getting some action she'd hear about it. She'd lost count of the times she'd heard the same conversation with the rowdy hornballs in her squad.
"Nothing sweeter than fresh poontang in the morning."
"I hear that."
"Like you've ever been able to please a woman, Kahn?"
"What's the matter, Fields? Those lady nuts of yours turning blue? Got a little slit fit going on? Don't worry your pretty little head. I can take care of that hot twat if you are aching that bad."
"Knock it off, man. That's my sister."
Ethan didn't take the squad's bullshit. Emily had told him more than once that she could handle herself, but sometimes the way the rest of the guys talked to her pissed him off. He had an instinctive need to protect her. It's what had gotten him killed.
"Yeah, Kahn. Get fucked. I wouldn't touch your dick if I was on fire and it was filled with water."
"I'll show you filled." He'd grabbed his junk and jokingly thrust it into his hand.
"I've met women with bigger pinkies than you. Besides, you wouldn't know what to do with it. It's not the same as tugging your little pork sausage with your right hand."
The boys howled and shoved him when Emily's insult landed.
"I'm ambidextrous," he'd retorted.
"With your hand-eye coordination? You expect me to believe someone who can't even hit the broad side of a barn at target practice has hand-dick coordination? Not to mention your Vienna sausage isn't enough to fill up one hand, let alone two."
There was another round of "ooohs" and "ahhhs" and a rowdy "oh damn" from the boys.
"Just give up, Kahn. She owned your ass."
"Next time, Fields…"
"Bring it."
The boys never meant any harm when they teased Emily. In fact, they loved her. But they didn't know what was beyond the surface. They didn't realize that she slept around because of her upbringing. Her brother had tried to talk to her about it, but she shut down.
The truth was that she didn't like attachments. She'd never been emotionally involved with anyone, and she refused to let another woman take control. Yet, something about Alison made her want to expose that vulnerable part of herself.
But not in front of a group full of strangers.
Emily leaned back in her chair, giving off a presence of apathy. She picked at the straps on her shirt, mindlessly taking note of the fact that it had been covered in vomit when she got to the hospital. She only found out right before her group powwow that the bubbly little nurse had taken it upon herself to clean the splashes of vomit off as best she could. She'd done a pretty decent job, though Emily still would have worn her clothes on her way out anyway even if they'd still been covered in vomit. She'd been covered in stains worse than vomit.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked at the other nutjobs she'd landed with.
There was an untidy girl with greasy blonde hair sitting in the corner nervously rocking back and forth and quietly uttering something that sounded like a melody under her breath.
A few feet in front of her there was another girl sucking on her curly black hair like it was a lollipop. To their left there was a pale skinny white guy with dark bags under his eyes. He had a strange smile on his face, like it had been painted on.
Emily looked at the two girls sitting next to her. They were both leaning away from her, staring at her like she had the plague. Clearly these people didn't like newbies. Or perhaps they could sense how dangerous she was.
She had been around enough people with PTSD and sensitivities that she'd learned that they all seemed to harbor a sixth sense that normal people didn't have. She had that sixth sense, too. She could look at someone and see right through them.
"Would you like to introduce yourself?" Alison asked.
Seriously? Is this middle school? You know who the fuck I am. You took it upon yourself to insert yourself into my life you porcelain doll looking slice of perfection…
"Name's Emily." She mumbled.
"Emily, we were just sharing our feelings…"
The hell kind of kindergarten bullshit…
"…would you like to say anything?"
Emily stared at Alison. She shook her head.
"Nah, I'm good."
Emily wasn't a talker. She never had been. She was someone who listened. She expected Alison to push her, but the blonde politely smiled at her and nodded. She turned her attention to the other participants.
Emily listened to the plights of the other patients. There was a boy named Charles, a shy blonde, who was depressed because his family abandoned him when they found out he liked boys.
Been there, brother. Emily thought to herself.
Then there was a girl named Melissa, who'd had a nervous breakdown because her family strived for perfection and it had pushed her to the breaking point.
The girl sitting next to Emily was Hanna, who was in for an eating disorder. Hanna smiled at Emily and lifted her brows flirtatiously. Clearly food was the only thing she had a problem eating. She looked ravenous when it came to eating other things. She didn't look nearly as whacked out as the others. She was probably in for some mandatory thing, too. Perhaps she had a family member who cared…or a pushy British doctor who "wanted the best for her".
The small petite brunette next to Hanna grumbled something. Her name was Mona and she struggled with a split personality. But right now all she was focused on was the fact that Hanna's attention was on Emily. She glowered at Emily like she was marking her territory. Emily looked back at her with indifference.
Emily listened to their stories. She sympathized, which is something she didn't even know she was still capable of doing. After the shit she'd seen overseas she'd often wondered if her emotions had become deadened. It turns out that she felt their pain more than she felt her own. She hated it. She wished she could turn her emotions off.
She watched the interactions between the others. Some of them seemed to know each other pretty well. Some of them probably knew one another as more than just friends. Hanna and Mona seemed really close. At one point in the middle of the session Mona smiled at Hanna and stroked the other girl's wavy blonde locks.
"I like your hair." She seemed mesmerized by it. "So pretty. Like a doll."
"Thanks. I grew it myself." Hanna gave Mona a cheeky smile.
Hanna grabbed Mona's hand and they grinned at one another.
Yep, definitely banging in the supply closet.
The session was almost over. Emily thought she was home free, but Alison glanced at her again.
"Emily?" She called attention to her.
Emily hated her for it. She felt like a kid who was trying to lie low in class, but the teacher just had to call her out in front of everyone.
"Or…would you prefer Sergeant Fields?"
Fuck me. She has been researching me. Fuck my life…
"Emily is fine." She didn't feel like she deserved the title anyway.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to share?"
Emily stared at her for a good long minute before she answered, a silent fuck you, and then she shook her head.
"I've got nothing to share."
It was a lie. She could write a book on her life. She had a feeling that Alison knew that.
"Everyone has a story." Alison encouraged.
"Well, not me."
Alison was trying to remain professional. Usually when someone didn't open up, they were told not to force it. But for her own selfish reasons she wanted to know more about Emily.
She'd been unable to access anything worthwhile in her medical files, so she'd turned to the best thing that had ever happened to anti-privacy.
Modern technology.
With the click of a mouse she'd found herself browsing through a sea of different websites and social media profiles searching for her. She hadn't found anything about her on social media, which didn't surprise her, because military life wasn't really conducive to sharing personal things online. Or perhaps she was hiding from something, or someone. Either way, she didn't have a digital footprint.
The web searches hadn't been much help either. Emily Fields yielded millions of profiles of people who shared her name. She tried refining her search by adding keywords and she'd finally found a story by a small local reporter.
The headline read, "Sole survivor of ambush attack gets hero's welcome and purple heart".
She'd clicked on it and read about how Emily's entire squad had been killed in an ambush. Alison had welled up with tears reading the story. She couldn't imagine the horrors that Emily had seen.
Emily had barely survived. She'd been rescued and airlifted to a local medical bay, where the medical personal had fought to save her life. Once she was stable she was flown back to the states.
There were two photos of Emily in the article. One was of her in tactical wear standing with her unit. They looked very close. The soldier standing next to her was leaning near her, hovering protectively.
The second photo was of Emily in a hospital bed. Someone in uniform was standing next to her, shaking her hand, clearly for the photo op. There was a heavy sadness in the girl's eyes. Alison could still see that sadness today.
"This is a safe space…"
Something about the way Alison said it made Emily want to blow her top. Nowhere was safe for her. She'd never be safe again.
"I said no!" Emily tensed up. "I'm not fucking crazy. I don't belong here."
She felt a rising panic in her chest. Everyone was staring at her. She didn't want the attention. She didn't need it. It was a danger to her.
"Well, that's not very nice," Mona said with a frown.
"It was kind of hot though." Hanna smirked.
Clearly Hanna didn't have a filter. Normally, Emily would have appreciated that. But she was too busy freaking out to notice. She didn't respond to Mona or Hanna.
Alison saw her completely shut down. She took note of the reaction. She didn't call any more attention to her in the session.
Emily managed to make it through the rest of the session without blowing up again. She felt like an idiot, because she still had to make it through an individual session with Alison.
The group therapy session was hell, but it was nothing compared to the individual one that her damn doctor had prescribed. He'd told her that she would be clear to leave if her therapist deemed she was ready.
How the fuck was she supposed to pretend her suicide attempt didn't mean something when it had been Alison who had brought her back from the brink of it? How did she make someone who cared that much believe that she wasn't worth caring about?
A/N: Emily is going through some massive shit here. The content is going to continue to get darker, so I just wanted to make sure everyone is still doing okay and taking care of themselves and eating their vegetables. Depression, PTSD, and suicidal thoughts are a daily battle for many, and I understand that. For many it's not just one day at a time. It's one step at a time. One breath at a time.