40. Forty Freya
Forty: Freya
“ D o you want to get out of bed today, honey?” my mom asked me, and I yanked the sheets further up my body, shaking my head. It was the weekend.
So what if it was four in the afternoon and I hadn’t left my room yet? Not even to brush my teeth or use the bathroom. It wasn’t a huge deal.
My new room wasn’t finished yet. I didn’t possess the motivation to finish painting it. I’d stopped halfway the other day, looking down to see I was splattered with paint. Only, I didn’t see it as paint.
The light cream colour had morphed into a crimson shade of red, and a scream had escaped my mouth as memories of the incident that had occurred two months ago flashed before my eyes.
Murderer.
Killer.
“Please, mom,” I sighed, squeezing my eyes shut painfully. “I just want to sleep.”
“Freya, don’t you think we should talk about—“
“No,” I interjected. “I want to sleep.”
My mom’s eyes grew teary, and guilt slammed into me. She’d been trying to get me to talk to her about what had happened, but I just couldn’t bring myself to relive it.
She'd been forcing me to see a therapist regularly. I hated crying in front of people, but my first conversation with the trained professional had caused me to break down. However, she reminded me she was no stranger to traumatised people.
“Alright, I’m going on a hike with Jackie. Call me if you need anything.” The name caused my heart to skip a beat. “I’ll be gone for a couple of hours. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I didn’t want to think about Jackie because when I did, I also thought about him. That was dangerous. It caused my emotions to whirl around me like a tornado, pricking at me, taunting me.
Most of my happy memories involving him felt like they were overpowered by despair, the fear creating a thick film over my mind and altering my way of thinking. A trauma response—something that I was going to have to work through eventually, but the idea of doing so was frightening.
My gloomy bubble was comfortable because the moment I allowed happiness in, I was hit full force with the idea that I didn’t deserve it. I’d taken somebody’s life, and whether or not they deserved it, matter-of-factly, I was a killer and was struggling to come to terms with it.
“And how does that make you feel?” my therapist questioned me, crossing her legs.
I hummed. “Umm, powerless.”
She nodded in response. “It’s perfectly normal to feel powerless after going through a traumatic event, but something you need to remember is that nothing that happened to you was your fault. You did nothing to warrant it; self-defence is not a crime.”
Murderer.
Killer.
I clamped my eyes shut, inhaling deeply before opening them again.
I knew the way I was thinking wasn’t logical. If I hadn't shot Will, then either my father, Kaleb, Brent, or I would have ended up dead. I did what I had to do to survive, but the guilt that consumed me was asthmatic.
I hated Will—with a passion, feeling no sympathy towards him. But it was weird to think of him as dead after everything. He'd been a human being, and I’d drained the soul from his body using a single bullet.
“I’m really pleased with the way you’re progressing, Freya.” My therapist smiled—proud and joyous. “When we first started having these sessions, you would barely say a word on the subject. I truly believe this is something you are going to get through.”
I nodded. “Thank you. Talking about it is less painful, but it’s still difficult.” I swallowed harshly. I’d reached my limit for today. My mind was frazzled.
“Let’s book you in again for next week. In the meantime, I think going out and meeting your friends will really help you. Push yourself. I know it’s scary, but just remember, you can do it.”