Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Emory
I was only doing this because I wanted to be better for Enoch. I didn’t want to have another episode. I didn’t want him to see that side of me.
That’s what I told myself as I drove to my appointment with my therapist. What I told myself as I fidgeted with the drawstring on my sweatshirt and the silence taunted me to open my mouth. What I told myself when she asked me what it was I wanted to talk about today.
“Emory?” Sarah called when I didn’t respond to her question from several minutes ago.
“I…Is it normal to have, like, sleepwalking episodes where you can’t tell what’s reality and what’s a dream?”
Sarah’s brow furrowed and she shifted in her chair. “Can you describe these episodes?”
“Um, well, it’s usually that I wake up from a dream but I’m not really awake. And I think I’m somewhere else and I can’t get a grip on reality.”
Sarah hummed in thought, nodding her head.
“And are these dreams good dreams or bad dreams?”
“Bad. Definitely bad.”
“And do you remember them when you wake up?”
“Sometimes, but not always.”
“And how often does this happen?”
“The bad dreams, those happen all the time,” I explained. “But the whole sleepwalking thing, that’s more recent. I mean, it’s happened in the past before, but it hasn’t in a long time.”
Sarah tucked a strand of her hair that had fallen from her updo behind her ear and nodded.
“So, these bad dreams or nightmares, are they about things that have actually happened?”
“Yeah. But not necessarily a memory. I mean, there are aspects of the dream that are true to past events, but it’s not like an exact replica of events. And I don’t always remember them, or I only remember bits and pieces.”
“Okay. And when you wake up, you feel like you’re sleepwalking? What do you do exactly?”
I cleared my throat, cracking my knuckles to avoid digging my nails into my skin. It wouldn’t look very good if I self-harmed in front of my therapist.
“It’s only happened a couple of times. This time, I was at my boyfriend’s house,” I nearly smiled just saying that word, but fought the urge.
“Your boyfriend?” Sarah’s brow raised, a smile on her lips. “That would be Enoch?”
I bit my lip, trying not to smile like a maniac. I nodded.
“Okay. Sorry. Go on.”
I blew out a breath. “Right. I was sleeping and I woke up. I thought I was somewhere else, like, back in Texas at, um,” I paused, rubbing my hand across my forehead.
I tucked my hair back behind my ear. “Well, back in Texas. And I concocted this whole scenario in my head because I got ‘triggered’,” I cringed at the word and rolled my eyes to myself.
She narrowed her eyes, and I groaned. “Is that another off-limits word?”
Sarah chuckled with a head nod. “Tell me what that means. What does being ‘triggered’ mean?”
I swallowed, trying to come up with the words that didn’t contain any clinical language. Things like anxiety, anxious, worried…she didn’t like them. Said they were too abstract.
“It’s like…like I’m scared. Like…like terrified. My heart races, I start sweating, I feel like I can’t breathe. Like this dread in my stomach that makes me feel like I’m going to puke and this feeling like…like something absolutely horrible is about to happen.”
Sarah nodded, letting the silence linger.
“So, what caused you to feel that way?” She asked with interest.
I closed my eyes. “I started my period.”
“And why did that make you scared?”
I cracked my knuckles again, although the joints remained silent.
“I, um,” I groaned rubbing my hands down my thighs to swipe away the sweat. “I thought I was having a miscarriage.”
Sarah made one of her nonverbal sounds that always made me feel like she was judging me. Fuck, it’s hot in here.
“Are you pregnant?”
“No,” I muttered. “I just thought I was when I woke up from the dream.”
“I see,” she said, and I opened my eyes to find her watching me with sympathy. I clenched my jaw, my eyes bouncing around her office space. “So, you thought you were having a miscarriage and then what did you do?”
I sucked a breath between my teeth, my chest tight. My fingers drummed against my thigh, and I impulsively reached for the scar that ran across the back of my left bicep. I traced the raised skin through my shirt.
I cradled my arm against my chest and clenched my jaw to hold back the whimper in my throat.
“It was an accident, my love,” he said, his voice soft and calm as he rummaged through the first aid kit beside him on the bed. “You shouldn’t have moved. Now you’ll need stitches.”
I swallowed back my retort. Of course, it was my fault that his belt missed my back and whipped my arm, cutting it open.
I took a deep breath.
“Will we go to the clinic?”
Theo’s movements stilled, and I mustered up the courage to glance at him. He pierced me with his blue eyes, his clean-shaven jaw ticking with tension.
“Am I not your husband?” he asked with hurt in his voice.
“Y-yes, of course you are,” I stuttered.
“Then you know that I am capable of caring for your every need,” he stated.
He closed his eyes briefly before returning to the first aid kit.
“I understand that this transition has been difficult, my love. I am here to guide you. You must trust me. That is the foundation of any relationship. Trust. Stop resisting, don’t give into the ways of this world, Olivia.
We follow The Lord. We obey his commands, and we submit to one another. ”
I nodded. “I understand, Theo. Please forgive me.”
“For?” he asked, head tilted as he studied me.
I swallowed. “For doubting you. That was disrespectful and disobedient. I accept your just punishment as reparation, and I repent for my wrongdoings.”
His lips flattened together, and he held his eyes on mine. Waiting. He was waiting for me to say it.
“And I submit.”
Theo smiled, his eyes softening. “And I to you, my love. Now let’s finish so we can go to sleep.”
I nodded, grateful it was over. Grateful that he had stopped after two lashes because he’d broken my skin open.
I involuntarily jerked away from the needle as it pricked my skin.
“Sit still, Olivia. You’ll hurt yourself,” he chided, sighing with frustration.
I tensed my body, holding my breath as he pulled the needle through my flesh.
I kept my eyes squeezed shut, praying to God that He would keep my tears at bay.
Theo hated when I cried, said it hurt him to see me in pain.
And I hated being temporarily blind and dependent on him when my eyes swelled shut.
The pull of my skin was making my stomach churn. I released a shaky breath, sweat pooling under my arms.
This is temporary. This is for Javi. This is for me. This is for justice. This. Is Temporary.
“Emory?”
I jumped, jolting backwards from the face in my field of vision.
I blinked several times, looking around the room, the smell of the essential oils grounding me.
“Forgive me,” I muttered on instinct, as I let my eyes swing back to Sarah’s face. She had moved to sit beside me on the couch while I was spaced out. I shuddered and dropped my hand from where I was still absently tracing the scar.
She gave me a soft smile. “No need for apologies. Does that happen often?”
I cleared my throat still trying to gain my bearings on reality. My stomach was clenched with fear, braced against the phantom pain like I was back in our bedroom, getting stitched up for the mistake I’d made at dinner.
That wasn’t the first time I’d been belted.
I’d lost count after the number of times they belted me during RLS.
I remembered being grateful for how gentle Theo had been, how at least the lashes on my back were only going to bruise, how he took care of me afterwards, gave me ice so I wouldn’t have to live with the reminder that the pain would provide and never hit my backside or thighs like they did in RLS, how he wanted me to let go of any guilt right away.
I had hoped that he would continue to use that punishment sparingly.
Although, realistically, I knew it was inevitably going to happen again.
I wasn’t perfect. Any mistake that broke one of the ten commandments meant that I needed a belting.
Unfortunately, almost any mistake could be considered dishonoring my husband, and therefore result in a belting.
When I first learned of their use of corporal punishment during Reformed Life Studies, I struggled to comprehend how normal they made it sound.
How even children received beltings starting on their first birthday, the number of lashes permitted up to the age of the child.
But me, an adult, I could receive the maximum prescribed in Deuteronomy 25:3—thirty-nine. Thirty-fucking-nine lashes.
I sent a silent thank you to God for sparing me from ever receiving that many lashes.
I shuddered again, trying to shake off the phantom stinging across my back and arm.
“Um, yeah. Sometimes I space out,” I mumbled, shifting back on the couch.
“Where do you go when you space out?”
“The past.”
Sarah nodded, standing to return to her usual seat across from me. Sarah let the silence settle between us and when it became unbearable, I looked up to glare at her.
“So? It’s not normal, is it?”
She gave me a look. I closed my eyes with frustration.
“I know. I know. Normal is relative. I just…I feel like something is wrong with me.”
She sighed, crossing her legs. “Look, you know how I feel about the DSM and using clinical language in our sessions, but…to answer your question…No, it’s not ‘normal’ to have flashbacks and panic attacks to the degree and frequency you’re describing unless you have PTSD.”
“PTSD?” I deadpanned. “Great. Yeah, well, I certainly lived through enough trauma, so…”
“Yes, I can imagine that you have.”
I sighed, my eyes snagging on the letter opener on her desk. I let myself daydream for a moment about cutting myself open with it while the silenced stretched on.
“What do you usually do to cope? When you have these flashbacks or nightmares, what do you do to calm yourself down?”