by Clara Martin
I snorted. “I have a brain injury and schizophrenia. How could I possibly have PTSD as well?”
Eamon smiled sympathetically. “I’m no expert, Eileen. Perhaps you should ask your psychiatrist.” He stood gracefully from the bed, stretching. “I hear my lord calling me,” he said sarcastically, “and like a good and loyal peon, I must away.” He vanished.
I lay back on the bed. How, I wondered, could I possibly have PTSD? Was what I’d gone through traumatic enough? I thought back to what I knew of PTSD, gleaned from mandatory Army briefings I’d normally dozed through. All I knew was that it required exposure to trauma. Did my experiences qualify? Others, I thought, had been through far worse.
I rolled onto my side and curled up into a ball. I couldn’t have PTSD. I had enough problems – and others had suffered far worse. I stared at the wall, wishing the memories away; eventually I fell asleep.
“Eileen?” A voice woke me. “Eileen.” A nurse was standing at the door. “It’s time for medication,” he said gently. “You slept through dinner.”
I sat up groggily. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost eight o’clock in the evening, Eileen.” He led me down the hall. A line had formed outside of a small room, half-covered with plexiglass. “This is the medication room,” he explained. “It’s where medication is given.”
“I know,” I said dully. “I’ve been in the hospital before.”
“Good,” he said cheerfully. “Go ahead and get in line, then.” He walked away, and I obediently went to the back of the line.
The line moved slowly. I stared at the back of the head of the woman in front of me and wished myself anywhere but there.
“Hello,” the man behind me said. “What’s your name?”
I turned. “Eileen.” I smiled hesitantly. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Dennis.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. Dennis was sixty if he was a day, tall and thin, like he hadn’t eaten in a month. “I saw you in art therapy today. That was a beautiful painting you painted.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, embarrassed.
“Are you an artist?” He his head to the side quizzically.
“No,” I said. “No. I’m – I’m fired.” I sighed.
“I see.” He nodded knowingly. “I’m sorry, Eileen.I was fired from my last job, and the job before that. It’s hard. Never gets easier.”
“What did you do?” I asked as the line inched forward.
“I worked construction.”He spread his hands so I could see the calluses. “But – well. I have major depressive disorder,” he said sadly. “I started hearing voices on the job. Boss fired me. Said I was a safety hazard.”
“That’s… very similar to what happened to me,” I said. “When I was fired the first time. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
As the line inched forward, we fell into an awkward silence.
“Do you play cards?” he asked suddenly.
“No I don’t.”
“Do you want to learn?”
Ishot a glance at him. “Not really, to be honest.”
He shrugged, looking a little hurt. “Okay, no problem.”
I nodded, and we fell into another silence, which lasted until I reached the nurse dispensing the medicine. I turned to Dennis with an awkward smile. “Thank you for talking to me.”
He shrugged again. “Hey, no problem.” He paused. “Sure you don’t want to learn cards?” he asked hopefully.
I sighed. “Why not?” I said dismally. His smile could have lit up the room.
“Eileen,” the nurse said with a smile, “here you are.” She gave me a plastic cup with a small green pill in it. “One pill, twenty milligrams of Clozaril.” She handed me another plastic cup of water. “Go ahead and swallow.” I. made a face and swallowed it down. “Mouth check,” the nurse said sharply. I rolled my eyes but opened my mouth, allowing her to see I’d swallowed the pill. “Excellent,” she said. “Snack’s in the next room. Have a good night, Eileen.”
I turned to Dennis. “I’m going to have a snack. I’ll see you later.”
“Don’t forget about cards,” he called after me as I escaped. I raised my hand in acknowledgment.
I got my snack – cranberry juice and crackers – and went back to my room. I turned off the light and pulled the covers up to my chin, closing my eyes. I prayed sleep would come quickly.
It did, but my dreams were strange.
I woke the next morning just in time for breakfast. I ate in the TV room again, surrounded once more by people who wouldn’t make eye contact and stared at the walls, muttering to themselves.
“Eileen O’Donnell?” the nurse called from the door.
I stood, brushing off my hospital gown, and went to the door. “I’m ready for the doctor,” I said quietly.
“Good! How are you feeling today?”
I shrugged. “Fine.”
She smiled and led me to Dr. Gupta’s office.
Dr. Gupta looked up as I came in, her eyes sharp. “Eileen. Come in, do. How are you today?”
“Fine,” I repeated as I sat down.
“Good, good.” She began to type on her computer. “Have you seen any of your friends since last night?”
“Charles came by,” I said slowly. “But Emma, Sheldon, Joe – I haven’t seen them at all today.”
“Oh?” Dr. Gupta looked at me. “Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. She nodded and wrote something down.
“How are you sleeping?” She watched me with keen eyes.
I shrugged. “Fine – though I have weird dreams.”
Dr. Gupta nodded thoughtfully. “Charles told me some of what you’d been through,” she said neutrally. “Can you tell me about that?”
“Well,” I said awkwardly, “It all started when a slave ran into my job interview.”
Dr. Gupta raised her eyebrows. “I think it started earlier,” she murmured. “When you were in the Army.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it,” she suggested. “Start from the beginning.”
So, I did. I told her about my time at the University of Fair Isle, my commissioning, my time at Fort Irwin with Master Sergeant Milagros. I told her about my soldier, the one I’d tried to defend. I told her about the brain injury. My mouth seemed to move of its own accord, words tripping over themselves as they came out. I blinked, surprised at their ferocity.
Dr. Gupta let me finish. “Do you ever have strong memories, memories you can’t break free of?” she asked quietly.
I thought back. “Sometimes. Especially recently, over the past few days.” I shuddered. “I keep seeing Faolain’s face, feeling his hands.”
Dr. Gupta nodded slightly and made a note. “Do you startle easily?”
“I…well, over the past few days, I have been. I’ve been really jumpy.”
“Understandable.” She made another note and looked at me. “Eileen, you have schizophrenia. There’s no doubt about that, and with good treatment, there’s no reason you can’t go on to live a full life. But I’m also concerned that you’ve developed post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD.”
“I thought that was only in response to overwhelming trauma. I was never deployed in the Army. I wasn’t raped. I’m safe here.”
Dr. Gupta looked at me with compassion. “You’ve had some incredibly traumatic experiences, Eileen. In some cases, the fear of rape is enough to cause PTSD. Coupled with what you experienced in the Army, I’m not overly surprised you developed it.” She frowned. “Do you have a therapist?”
“I haven’t seen her for about six months. The money ran out when I lost my last job, and then there just wasn’t time when I started at the NVRA… I’m regular on my meds, though.”
“I believe you,” she murmured, “but it’s very important, for both schizophrenia and PTSD, to see a therapist. I’d like you to ha
ve one as soon as you leave the hospital, perhaps through the VA.”
“I…I suppose,” I said awkwardly.
“I insist.” She looked at her watch. “That’s all the time we have today, Eileen. It’s about time for art therapy – are you going?”
I remembered the feeling of peace I’d had yesterday when I’d painted. “Yes,” I murmured, standing. “Thank you, doctor.”
“That took a while,” the nurse standing outside remarked as I left. “All right, Eileen?”
“Fine,” I said, slightly dazed. “I’m ready for art therapy.”
The nurse smiled. “You know where it is.” He pointed down the hall. I smiled back automatically as I walked away.
Both Eamon and Dr. Gupta thought I had PTSD. Was it even possible? Faolain’s face flashed before my eyes again, and I involuntarily shuddered.
“Welcome, Eileen.” The art teacher’s voice penetrated my thoughts, and I snapped back to reality. She smiled at me. “Are you ready to paint?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“What will you use today?”she asked, gesturing at the back of the room, which was lined with supplies. I shrugged, feeling stiff.
“Whatever you have,” I muttered.
She smiled again and handed me a piece of paper, a paintbrush, and a palette. “The paint is on the table,” she said, pointing. I looked. I’d been too upset to notice the details when I’d been there last.
I sat at the table and stared at the paper, my mind blank. I shifted position, tapping the brush on the desk. Someone shushed me.
Finally, in frustration, I jabbed the paintbrush at the paper. It left behind a wet, spreading spot. It reminded me of the fluid that had leaked out of my brain when I’d been hit on the head back at Fort Stewart, back when my life had so completely and irrevocably changed. I put red on the brush and began to paint jagged, angry lines, thick and bold, slashing. I felt wetness on my cheeks and realized I was crying.
I painted in a daze, lost in the memories of the pain, of realizing that my friend – someone that I’d trusted, who I’d cared for – had betrayed me, thesoldier he’d hurt, and the Army. That he’d lost so much control that he’d hurt both me and her. I painted, and I cried, and it felt like the weight of ten thousand stones I hadn’t realized I was carrying was leaving me.
“Eileen.” I felt a soft touch on my arm and looked up with a jolt. “Art therapy is over,” the teacher said quietly. “And visiting hours have begun.”
“Thank you,” I managed. I looked down. I’d painted a painful scene – empty ground but for the blood-soaked grass in the shape of a body.
The teacher picked it up. “Powerful,” she commented.
I took it back from her, fighting the urge not to wrench it from her. “Thank you,” I whispered.
A nurse appeared at the door. “Eileen? Your boyfriend is here – and so are your mother and your brother.”
Chapter 5
My mother, Nate, and Charles were all seated in the TV room when I arrived. My mother was holding a letter. When I got there, Charles stood and kissed me chastely on the cheek. “Eileen,” he murmured. There was a wealth of relief in his voice.
“Charles,” I replied. “It’s good to see you.”
My mother stood and gave me a hug. “Eileen, I just want you to know, first of all, I’m absolutely furious with you. What did you think you were doing, running off into fae territory like that?!” She took a deep breath. “But this came for you from the VA.” She handed me the letter, and I took it, frowning.
“Open it,” she urged.
Slowly, I did.
Dear Ms. O’Donnell,
After reviewing your case, the Department of Veterans Affairs has revised its ruling and will be awarding you 70% for the listed schedular disabilities. As you have already received severance pay, you will be required to pay it back before receiving full benefits.
Traumatic brain injury 70%.
I looked up, gaping.
“What is it?” Charles asked. Slowly, I handed him the letter. He read it and looked up, his eyes shining. “This is wonderful, Eileen!”
“I’d appealed, but hadn’t realized they’d made a decision,” I said slowly. I felt faint.
“It’s good that they did.” He was watching me closely. “Eileen, with this money – you don’t have to get a job right away. You can take some time, figure things out.”
“You think I need to figure things out?” I asked archly.
“Eileen, you went through a lot in the service,” he said uncomfortably. “You went through a lot in fae land. Why don’t you take some time and just – just be?”
“So did you,” I pointed out, growing angry. “I don’t see you taking time off.”
“I didn’t go straight to work with the NVRA,” Charles said quietly. “I had a two-year gap where I did nothing but drink, sleep with women, and numb the pain. I’d rather you have better.”
Nate, who had been watching the volley silently, broke in. “Either way,” he said pointedly, “Eileen is still in the hospital. Why don’t you just focus on getting better first, Eileen? Are you still hallucinating?”
I sighed. “I haven’t seen my…hallucinations in two days, now,” I admitted. “But they seemed so real,” I added.
My mother nodded. “Tell us about them.”
I told them about how my friends had come to me when I was held prisoner in Faolain’s chambers, how they’d spent the night with me. How they’d been with me on the hike out of the forest. How they’d been there my first night in the hospital.
“I understand why you’d be attached to them,” my mother said, her voice soft, “but think back, Eileen. Had you ever seen them before?”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“When?”
“At the time of my last breakdown”
“Do you think it’s possible,” Nate asked, “that’s why you’re seeing them now? Because you’re having another breakdown?”
I felt tears come to my eyes. Charles took my hand. “Maybe,” I said, voice cracking.
My mother reached over and hugged me, careful to avoid Charles. “I love you, Eileen.”
“I love you, too.”
She sat up and briskly wiped her eyes. “So what are you going to do with your new source of income?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. I still need a new job.” Charles stiffened next to me but said nothing. “And,” I said dispiritedly, “I have no idea what I’m going to do, either. I’ve been fired twice. Finding a job is going to be a challenge.” At this, Charles pressed his lips together.
We talked for a while longer, Charles never relinquishing my hand, until a nurse came by. “Visiting hours are over,” she called quietly. Charles pressed a gentle kiss to my hand, then my cheek, and stood. My mother hugged me, followed by Nate. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” she promised.
I went back to my room, the feel of Charles’s lips tingling on my cheek, a slight smile on my lips.
“So, the lovebird returns.” Eamon was lounging on my bed, surrounded once more by golden fire.
“Lovebird’?” I asked, sitting at the foot and raising my eyebrows.
“Is that not what you are?”
“Charles is my boyfriend,” I replied, leaning back. He didn’t move, and I hit his leg. He smirked as I lay against it for a moment. I jerked upright.
“We need to talk strategy.”He looked serious.
“Why? I’m in a hospital.” I laughed loudly.
“So you are – but you won’t always be. And when that time comes – Eileen, it’s in your best interest to support me.” He paused. “Unlike Faolain, I’m not your enemy.”
“How are you any different from Faolain?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Unlike Faolain, I’m half-human – which gives me a certain…sympathy to the human slaves in the realm. I also have no interest in invading the United States. I should think that would be incentive enough to support me.” He sat up, sinuous as a cat. “T
hink about it,” he murmured, and then disappeared.
Grumbling, I turned off my light and went to bed for a nap. There was probably some ulterior motive there, some intention that I couldn’t see, but I couldn’t discern it, and that worried me.
“Eileen?” The nurse woke me. “You slept through dinner. It’s probably the higher medication dosage. It’s not unusual. But it’s time for more. You need to come out.”
I followed her outside and got in line. Today I stood behind the woman I’d met on my first day here – I frowned, thinking back. I thought her name was June.
“Hello,” I said politely. She frowned and said nothing. I shrugged and stared at the wall. Maybe she was having a bad day.
Suddenly June reached over and grabbed me. “Beware,” she whispered. I jumped and looked at her. Her eyes were white and glowing with a brilliant shine. “Beware the one who walks in shadow and darkness, the one who brings promises which taste of honey and nectar, who offers succor!” Her eyes closed, and she slowly collapsed against me.
“Nurse!” I called sharply, supporting her weight. Two nurses seemed to emerge out of nowhere, and they grabbed her. “What happened?” one of them asked sharply.
I shrugged. “She started muttering, and her eyes went white and strange, and then she collapsed.”
“Prophetic vision,” the nurse said succinctly. “Odd. They’re not in her medical records. Good that you caught her. Everyone against the walls! Stretcher coming through!”
The prophecy floated through my head for the rest of the day and into the night. What did it mean? Was it intended for me? Prophetic gifts were very, very rare; I’d never known anyone who’d received a prophecy. Legend held that receiving one meant that Christ and the fae Lords were taking a personal interest in you. I shuddered. I had no desire forTheir personal touch in my life.
I woke the next morning still tired, having slept through breakfast. The nurse who came to get me for Dr. Gupta told me as we walked down the hall that they’d come for me earlier. “But you slept so deeply,” he said cheerfully, “that we didn’t want to wake you. It really isn’t unusual when the medication dosage increases.” He dropped me off at Dr. Gupta’s office with a smile.
