Chapter 7 Post Traumatic Stress
Post Traumatic Stress
Mads
Telling my mom that we aren’t getting the settlement is nearly as bad as when I was run over by that car. She’s better than me. When I give her the news she takes only a minute or two to be silent, and then she gets up and makes us some bread and butter sandwiches.
Then I tell her about my job.
She needs three minutes to accept that.
I bury my face in my hands in shame, but she tells me to stop it and eat my dinner.
“I’m going to the library before it closes so I can apply to some places.
I wasn’t looking because I thought it was a sure thing getting back on with my old place.
I have a great resume. It shouldn’t take long.
And since I’ll no longer need all the time off for physical therapy, I’m sure I’ll get something. ”
“What’s going on with physical therapy?” she asks in her thick Dutch accent.
“We can’t afford it, mom. And I can just do what they taught me at home.”
She sighs and lets it go. For now. She’s tired. I’m tired.
I spend the rest of the day in the library applying to everything under the sun.
I’ve been an executive assistant at my last two jobs, and I’m not looking to expand.
I like getting an office together with the right systems and procedures.
And I’m really good at rallying everyone and setting such a good tone. Or at least I used to be.
I have my MBA, and so my role isn’t greeting people or getting coffee (I still often do those things). It’s more like narrowing down internal system strategies or presenting a dozen options for financial spend.
At this point in my career, I should be taking on an actual leadership role, but it’s never interested me.
The library closes at nine and I wait for the bus for over an hour before I resign myself to walking home. It’s over a mile. A quarter of a mile and 30 minutes in, I find a bench and sit down.
I don’t think I can keep doing this.
I’m in front of a bar and decide fuck it. I’m going to spend some money on a beer and pretend I’m a normal person.
I hobble up to the door and the bouncer doesn’t look at me twice. All the seats at the bar are full, so I find a booth and slide in.
I wave the bartender over by holding up my cane. She’s an older woman, and she comes over quickly.
“Hey, usually at this hour on a Friday night I’d ask you to come up to the bar to order, but I see you are limping like a dog.”
I cringe at that statement. I know I can’t hide my limp, but I’d really prefer it if people didn’t tell me to my face what injured animal I resemble while walking around.
On more than one occasion, I’ve had people pull over their car, as I was walking along the sidewalk minding my own business, to tell me they could take me to the hospital since I clearly was in distress.
Convincing them this is just how I walk leaves me so angry and overwhelmed, and then they don’t know what to do with all their “good will”. No one wins.
She doesn’t notice me cringe or the headache she’s suddenly given me, she just goes on, “Good on you snagging this booth while it’s open. What can I get you?”
“Any specials? $5 beer?” Sometimes they have Heinekens for $5 at the bar I used to go to with friends, I think. It feels like ages ago.
“Yeah, I’ll get you something. $5 you said?”
There’s no $5 beer. I hold my tongue, too poor to have any pride, and I nod. She leaves and comes back with a stein of a Pilsner. She confirms it’s $5 and I hand her $8. She rushes off to help the actual customers filling the place.
People are looking at my booth with covetous eyes. This was a dumb idea. I shouldn’t have come.
I’m not even halfway through my stein when the door opens and five full-grown, jacked alphas come into the bar.
I know they don’t look like the Dougherty brothers, but my body doesn’t seem to care.
My breaths are gone. Too fast and I’m not getting any air.
Is my throat closing up? My hands don’t have any blood in them.
I forget where I left the handle of my beer, so when I dart out my hand to grab it, I just knock the whole fucking thing over.
My vision is blackening around the edges.
The alphas come up to my table.
I think one of them is asking if I need help or maybe they want my table or something, but all my brain hears is “Oh look, the little bitch beta thinks he can fuck around with an omega and keep his balls.”
My arms fling to the sides, and I try to get out of the booth. I stumble and fall to my knees on the open floor. I can’t find my cane.
Someone pulls me up from under my arms, and when I’m on my feet, my head tips back, and my eyes meet an alpha. He’s a foot taller than me.
“Hey, man, are you here with someone? I can go get them?”
I know fear is leaking out of me. I can’t help it.
I manage to shake my head no and then tear my eyes away from his.
I have to get out of here. My hands start groping the empty air for my cane.
One of the other alphas figures out what I’m looking for and gets it for me.
But all it means is I’m completely surrounded.
As soon as my cane is in my hand, I lurch out of there. I must look like a psycho hobbling back and forth, barely making any headway, trying to run out of a bar. The bouncer thankfully opens the door for me and I’m out.
The warm summer air welcomes me, and I get my first breath in.
I keep going down the block and all the way home. My leg is completely inflamed to the point I have to go to bed with my jeans because I can’t get them off. At least the day is finally over.
At one in the morning, my phone pings and I ignore it.