“Now, Ayden,” my therapist, Dr. Gardingdale leans forward in the chair and hovers over me. A string of quartet flows around me and the ceiling light flickers about every two minutes or so. “I need to make sure you want to do this. Because the last thing I want is for anyone to push you into this. It could make your Severe Post Traumatic Amnesia worse.”
Inhale. Exhale. I nod, even though I don’t. Want is too strong of a word. Am I going to do this? Yes. But only for my brother.
“Alright then.” He relaxes in the chair and reaches behind him to press the on button of a recorder. “I’m going to record our session for the police to review.” He taps the top of a timer. “And I don’t want to keep you under for too long.”
He had explained when I first came in that this was a lot like hypnotherapy. I’d never tried it before but had watched someone get hypnotized at a fair.
I suck in a deep breath and nod, my nerves jarring. “Okay.”
“Now close your eyes.”
“Okay.”
“And relax.”
“Ok…ay.”
“Do you hear that, Ayden,” my sister says. “Cop sirens. We’re saved.”
Saved? Is it possible?
“It’ll never be possible,” the woman whispers. “”You’ll never be saved. Because if you escape, we’ll come back for you…”
I rub my eyes as I open them. Blinking against the inadequate lighting, I sit up. “Did it work?” I ask the doctor. “Did I say anything?”
His sympathy tells me all I need to know. “Unfortunately no, but did you remember anything different.”
“Just my sister saying we were saved.” I drag my fingers along the scars on the back of my hand. “And the woman telling me we weren’t ever going to be saved.”
“Well, that’s a tiny bit of progress then.” He stops the timer. “I don’t want you to immediately get discouraged that you only were able to remember a little. These things can take time.”
He continues explaining the details of hypnotherapy while I zone out on the short memory I did see. See might be a stretch. Heard is more like it. No one ever has faces in the faint memories that return to me. They’re just blurs, shells of people and places that I pretend don’t exist.
After the session, I return home in a sullen mood and feel exhausted. I go straight up to my room to relax and play the guitar until Lyric comes bounding into my room, sporting one of her heart-warming smiles.
“I have an idea,” she singsongs as she bounces onto my bed.
“And what’s that?” I pluck a few guitar strings.
“Even though it’s Christmas Eve and we’re supposed to exchange presents,” she kneels in front of me, “I think we should wait.”
“Wait? But you love, love opening presents.”
“True, but I was thinking it might be fun to do it later when life is a bit more cheery.” She situates beside me and tugs the hem of her dress down as she stretches out her legs. Her hair is up, her deliciously looking lips sheen with gloss, and her green eyes radiate enthusiasm. “And it could be like a weird little tradition we do. Instead of being cliché and exchanging them on Christmas Eve, like a ton of people are doing all around the world.”
I ponder her offer. “All right, you have yourself a deal.”
“Good.” She grins. “Because I can’t think of a damn thing to get you.”
I shake my head, faintly smiling. “I knew there was an ulterior motive.” I strum the strings of a song I’ve been working on.
“What’s that tune you’re playing?” Lyric wonders, sliding her legs up and facing me.
“Just a song that’s been stuck in my head.”
“I like it… it’s pretty.”
“Pretty isn’t very rock n’ roll.”
“Neither are you.” She slumps her head against the headboard. “You’re sweet and sensitive and piercing free.” She touches the tip of her finger to the corner of my eye, causing me to miss the next chord. “You have such long eyelashes… They’re gorgeous.”
“So let me get this straight.” I set the guitar down on the foot of the bed and turn to her. “You tell me I’m not very rock n’ roll and that I have gorgeous eyelashes. I’m not really sure how to take that.”
“You should be happy,” she insists, her gaze momentarily flicking onto my mouth. “Being rock n’ roll in a band is cliché and your gorgeous eyelashes make your eyes stunning.”
My cheeks flame. I’m blushing.
“You’re cute.” She swipes her finger down the brim of my nose. “I remember the first day of school how I held your hand. I felt so special that you were all mine.”
My heart flutters like an upbeat song when she declares that she pretty much claimed me a year and a half ago. “You are special,” I say, wishing I was brave enough to kiss her right now. But after therapy, the doctor had said take it easy with anything severely emotional. Just being with Lyric sparks emotions to life. Good ones like happiness and longing.
I pick my guitar up while Lyric fluffs a pillow and lies down in my bed. She watches me play for a while, running her fingers through her hair.
“So how did your therapy go today,” she finally dares to ask as I play a song.
I shrug. “Not too bad but that’s probably because nothing really happened.”