Twisted in You

by Fabiola Francisco

  “No, finish what you were doing, but thought I’d ask.”

  “It’s okay.” Her arms have toned a bit from yoga, but learning self-defense is different. Not that I’m much of a self-defense instructor, but I can teach her to throw a punch and kick some balls.

  We get started, and I warm her up with jumping jacks and burpees. She’s going to have to build her endurance and agility. Though she’s breathing hard, she’s pushing forward without a complaint. We walk to the punching bag, and I instruct her to imitate my stance. Mikayla holds her hands up, fists closed.

  “Go for a quick punch.” I show her, my knuckles colliding with the leather. Closing my eyes, I envision my father’s face. “Ready?” I look over at her when I’m done.

  Nodding, she punches the bag and grunts. I try not to laugh, but she embodies the phrase, hit like a girl. We’ll work on that.

  “You’re going to want to hit with your middle finger. It’s stronger and centered in your hand and arm. Like that, you can avoid any possible fractures. You also want to twist your arm so your elbow doesn’t lock.”

  She nods quickly. “Okay.” She positions herself in front of the bag again and punches.

  “Better,” I tell her.

  We spend some time getting the technique down and practicing. She’s persistent, and I assume she wants to be as prepared as possible when she leaves here. I don’t want her to fear leaving this place, but I do want her to be better when she does.

  We get water from the water fountain and cool down. “That’s hard.” She finally speaks.

  “It takes time to build your endurance, but you’ll get there. Kinda like when you started yoga. I’m sure it’s easier now.”

  “It is. Thanks.”

  “Hey, if I can help while I’m in here, why not?”

  “Are you dying to leave?” Her question surprises me a bit because we haven’t talked about the outside world.

  “I’m dying to get back to my music. What about you?”

  “I was before, but now I’m not too sure if I’m ready. I’ll need a plan once I get out.”

  “Like for a job and stuff?”

  “For where I’ll live. I can’t stay in Nashville.”

  “Why not?” My words jump at her.

  “Because . . .” She looks away.

  “Red,” I warn.

  “I think I saw him in Nashville the night I . . .” She doesn’t finish the sentence because I know exactly what she’s talking about.

  “What do you mean, you think?”

  “I was at work and heard a laugh. It sounded like him, so I left work. I couldn’t handle him finding me, so I tried to escape it the only way I could think of.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  “It sounded just like him.”

  “But you didn’t see him.”

  “No.”

  “You should tell Sam that.” I’m thinking what Mikayla heard wasn’t her stepdad, but a memory of him. Whoever laughed reminded her of him. I’m no therapist. In fact, I don’t like them at all, but something tells me that’s what happened. If that’s the case, she’s going to have to work on those triggers.

  Fuck, I’ve been listening in too much during group therapy.

  “Listen, Doc, I’m fine.”

  “I know you think this is a joke, Tyler, but you’ve come in here a few times already. I’m not here to badger you, but I would like to help you if I can.”

  Grace has been the therapist assigned to me all the other times I’ve been in here. It hasn’t been that many. Maybe three? No, I think this is my fourth time. Anyway, I call her Doc to fuck with her because a therapist is a step down from a psych degree, but she seems unharmed by it. Then, I think back to what Mikayla said, and I sit down and look at Grace.

  “Okay . . .” She nods and looks at her notepad. “I know you don’t want to, but we need to talk about your father.” I sigh and slouch back into the couch.

  “What do you want to know?”

  An hour of talking about my drunk ass, motherfucking dad, I’m about ready for a drink. Thing is, I won’t find any here, so I decide the gym will be the only option for me to release my anger while I’m here.

  I hit the punching bag hard when I remember Grace telling me that patterns are engrained in us. I punch it even harder when I realize she was saying my father is in me. I want nothing to do with him. I witnessed what he did to my mom. He could have attacked me, but no, I was his star. I didn’t want to be his pride and joy. I wanted him to fucking hit me so he would be too busy with me to hurt my mom. I remember feeling so fucking happy when he died. I visited his grave. Then, I fucking spit on it. How was that for a goodbye, Dad?

  I call out when my fist collides with the bag, feeling a sharp pain shoot up my wrist. “Fuck!” I cradle my hand with my left one and apply pressure. No idea why, but I feel like it might make it feel better. I shake it off but realize quickly that’s not a good idea. I hold it out and notice the swelling. Great.

  As I walk out of the gym, I bump into Mikayla.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “What’s up, Red?” I try to walk forward.

  “Nothing. What happened?” She eyes me hugging my hand.

  “Nothing.”

  “Convincing.” She gets on the tips of her toes to take a closer look, but my left hand is covering most of it.

  “I’m good, need some ice.”

  “No shit, it’s swollen. Follow me.” She walks into the cafeteria and grabs a plastic bag before filling it with ice.

  “You aren’t going to ask?”

  “Who’s around to stop me? If they deny ice to an injured person, then they’re shitty people.”

  I grab the ice and put in over my wrist. I must have twisted my wrist when I threw the punch. This is what happens when you spend more time than necessary thinking about useless people. Or person.

  “I take it you’re done working out?” Mikayla looks over at me.

  “Not by choice.” I wasn’t done releasing.

  “You should probably take some ibuprofen for the swelling and rest.”

  “You a doctor now?”

  “No.” She crosses her arms defensively.

  “I’m kidding.”

  “Oh.” She looks around. “I gotta go to yoga. Someone at reception will have a pill.” I nod and watch her walk away. Red has so much potential, and she doesn’t even know it.

  I try to move my wrist again but it still hurts. This needs to get fixed so I can play my guitar and write. I head to my room, first stopping for medicine, and rest my arm as I review the last thing I wrote in my journal.

  PTSD.

  I try to wrap my head around it. I thought that was only for people in combat, or who have been through combat. Not some girl from Georgia. Apparently, post traumatic stress disorder can happen to anyone who has suffered any type of trauma, and we all know I’ve suffered a couple.

  When Sam mentioned it, I stared at her as if she was insane. I questioned her without saying a word. She picked up on it though, and we talked. She explained what PTSD is and how greatly it affects so many people. Seems like yoga and meditation are great therapies to help, which is a reason the center offers it. Apparently, I’m not the only one here suffering from it.

  It does explain the anxiety, triggers, and constant fear of getting attacked. Sam also mentioned that it possibly was not him who I heard at the diner the night I cut myself way too deep. It could have been a trigger, but not reality. Will I always live with this disorder?

  “How old are you, Sam?”

  “I’m thirty-five.”

  “Did you always want to be a therapist?”

  She smiles slowly. “No.”

  “Well, you’re good at it.”

  “Thanks.” She reviews her notes before we close our session. “Mikayla, I don’t want you to over think this. Keep doing what you’re doing and listen to yourself a little more. The fear is an unreal emotion within us.”

  “I’m also learning to
defend myself.” I need to make up for my lack of strength somehow.

  “That’s good. Once you leave?”

  “No, here. Tyler is helping me.”

  “Hmm . . . Good idea.”

  “So, PTSD?”

  “Yeah, but like I said, don’t over think. This isn’t some kind of label that you will be associated with unless you make that a possibility.” I nod and thank her before walking out.

  This week they finally acknowledged Sam as a licensed therapist, but she told her boss that for now she only wanted to work with me and continue the rest of her responsibilities as they were. I have no idea why she would turn down a promotion, especially one from a center like this that rarely opens spots for therapists.

  I head to the cafeteria for lunch and sit at the same table as Tyler without questioning it. It’s become a habit, being around him.

  “How was Sam?”

  “Good. How’s your hand?”

  “Good.” We both nod and eat.

  Although he sprained his wrist last week, he has continued to help me learn self-defense techniques. I now understand the appeal of the punching bag. It feels great to let the anger out. I’ve noticed I’ve become stronger in the week and a half he’s been training me. I’ve also got the punch down. No more punching like a girl, like Tyler says.

  “You still wanna meet at the gym today?”

  “If that’s okay?” I respond.

  Honestly, I’m fearful that the time is ticking, and I’ll be alone again. Sam’s words pop in my head—fear is an unreal emotion. But it feels so real when it wracks my body.

  “Yup, I’m good with it.” He takes a bite of his food and swallows hard.

  “Can you play the guitar with your hand like that?”

  “Kinda, but I’m trying not to. I need this to fully heal so I can play once I’m out of here.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I have a tour planned. Actually, it’s supposed to be as soon as I leave here, but since I’m here, they postponed it.” I nod carefully.

  Once we’re out in the real world, I’ll be long gone from Nashville and Tyler will go back to his life on the road and being a successful singer. I hope he stays clean. Something tells me he’s a nicer person when he is. Even a good-hearted person. There’s a small part of me that will miss him.

  “I’ll see you later.” I get up and clear my tray, heading to my room. I open my sketchbook and begin to draw, mostly with my eyes closed. This has been a godsend. Drawing, painting, any form of art. Halfway through I realize who I’m sketching and keep going instead of questioning it. When I’m done, I stare at the drawing for some time before ripping out this page and hiding it under my mattress.

  Then, I turn my forearms over, analyzing the inside of my arms. Though they are faint, the scars are there. A reminder. Some are more prominent than others, like the one from my suicide attempt. I know that one will always be there. I look at each one, flashbacks of creating them filling my head as they come in and out like some psychological thriller.

  I run my finger over them. The skin is different here. That makes sense. I look up when there’s a knock on my door.

  “You ready for the gym?” Tyler peeks his head in, and I’m grateful I had put that drawing away earlier.

  “Yeah, let me change.” He closes my door again so I can dress. Sam brought me a few extra things she had at home for me to use for yoga and a pair of sneakers. Apparently, she had bought herself a new pair to run in. I gratefully accepted them.

  I warm up as usual, and Tyler guides me in speeding up my defenses. I’ve become quicker, more agile, but I still don’t feel comfortable enough to defend myself against who I need defending from.

  After the punching bags, Tyler blocks off a small space.

  “Let’s pretend I’m coming to attack you.” He walks towards me and I freeze. Heat and tingling rises up my arms and spine. I stand there, rooted. “Ready?” Tyler stops right before me. I shake my head slightly.

  “You okay?” I drop my hands in defeat.

  “Sorry, I can’t. Not yet.”

  “Oh, shit. I didn’t mean to freak you out.” He runs his hand through his short hair.

  “It’s okay. It’s that . . .” I don’t even know what to say. I have PTSD and that brings up memories of my reality?

  “Let’s focus on technique.” He shifts the training quickly.

  I try not to focus on the fear. Instead, I pay close attention to everything he says and do the exercises that I know will strengthen me. That’s what this is about anyway.

  I sit against the wall by the water fountain after the workout. I’m trying to catch my breath and dry the sweat from my face with my t-shirt. I watch Tyler as he stands, staring away somewhere. Once he stops acting like an asshole, he’s a likeable person. I think of the sketch under my mattress. His eyes look sad in that sketch, as they do right now staring at him. He’s been so helpful to me, and I take it without giving him any back.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yes, you can stop staring.” I lower my eyes, embarrassed.

  “I mean are you okay overall? Like, are you getting stuff sorted?”

  “Yeah, I am. Little by little.”

  “It’s all we can do,” I add.

  “Don’t leave Nashville when you’re outta here.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t leave. If you leave, you’re letting the fear win.”

  “But . . .”

  “No, listen to me,” he interrupts me. “You can’t always run away from the memories. Sam is here, and I’m sure she’d be willing to help you, even when you’re not here. And I’m here.” His eyes dart away from mine.

  “Technically, you’ll be touring.”

  “But this is my place.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” I try to take away the focus from the heaviness in his emotions. It’s weird. “In order to have a concrete plan, I’ll need enough money for any possibility. My funds are limited.”

  “You can stay at my place,” he blurts out.

  “What?”

  “If I’m touring, the place will be empty. It’ll help me to have someone watching it and offers you a place to stay.”

  “A house doesn’t need baby sitting.”

  “Think about it.” I nod picking at the skin around my nails.

  Not bothering to shower yet, I head out to the patio to take advantage of the sunlight and sit on the bench off the path. I close my eyes in this isolated space and repeat to myself what the meditation guide often dictates to us. Two minutes unable to focus, I think to myself, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you. Sam has tried to get me to practice this again, but I can’t get myself to do it towards my stepdad. I focus right now on myself, like Sam suggested.

  Forget those who wronged you and heal yourself for you.

  I think back on her words as I close my eyes. I need some time to myself after the last conversation with Tyler. I can’t stay at his place.

  Can I? No. It’s nice of him to ask, but also weird. I can’t take up that offer. Tomorrow I’ll have to ask Sam how much time I have left. Maybe part of my therapy can be preparing me to be out of this place. I wish she had started helping be before. I won’t be able to afford her once I’m out.

  I open my eyes suddenly when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Sorry, I saw you out here, and it’s getting dark already. Didn’t want you to stay out here.”

  “Oh, thanks.” My heart stammers.

  “No problem.” I look at Bailey. She got here a little after me. I have no idea what her deal is since I don’t talk to anyone here. Well, except Tyler. I stand and walk in. She keeps her step with mine.

  “Were you meditating?”

  “I was trying to, I guess. I needed some time.”

  “Yeah,” she nods. “Happens to me all the time.” I respond with a nod. “So . . . You’re friends with Tyler?”

  “Huh?” I know my eyes are wide. “Oh,
I guess. You can say that.”

  “I’m a huge fan of his.”

  I snort, and she’s taken aback. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel weird. I had no idea who he was until he told me.”

  “Seriously?” She tilts her head to look at me with crunched eyebrows.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow. Everyone I know knows him,” she says pensively.

  “Never heard music,” I shrug.

  “Where are you from?” I hear the shock in her voice, but ignore it and answer the question literally.

  “Georgia.”

  “That’s not . . . Never mind.”

  “I know that’s not what you meant, but I have no other explanation.” Well, I do, but not one I’m going to share with her.

  I head straight to the shower once inside. Talking to Bailey made me realize how much I’ve missed growing up. Or how unnatural my upbringing was in comparison to my peers. I don’t even know what parties were like or what music kids my age listened to. I lived hidden from everything and everyone. Except from the one person I wanted to be hidden from. I shudder and scrub my body hard.

  I remove any trace lingering on me from the past. I scrub until my skin feels raw and my mind is clear. Until all that’s left is me in this place and the reality of the life I’ve missed while trying to stay sane. I brace my arms on the shower wall and drop my head, the water from the showerhead streaming down my neck and back.

  I scream loudly. At first, my voice is muted. I try again. This time it’s louder. Then again. My voice bounces off the walls of this shower stall, the water beating down on me as my arms hold me. My last scream is unforgiveable.

  “Red!” My head snaps up, water hitting my eyes. I almost slip, but stay grounded and cover my body with my arms.

  “What?” I shriek.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Don’t!” I warn before he tries to rip the curtain open. It wouldn’t surprise me if he tried.

  “Why are you yelling?”

  “You can’t be in here.” The curtain is our barrier. This bathroom is for the few women in my block of rooms.

  “Fuck that. Why were you yelling? Were you hurting yourself?”