Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
J asmine woke with a start. Was that screaming? She sat up, her heart pounding.
Amir.
He was having one of his nightmares again.
She slipped out of bed, unlocked the door, and peered down the hallway. Gasping, moaning sounds drifted from his room—followed by a raw, guttural howl like a wounded animal.
She knocked, firm enough to wake him.
The sounds stopped.
“Amir?” she called softly. “Are you all right?”
A choked sob.
She hesitated, then slowly pushed the door open.
The room was dark, but she spotted him crouched in the corner, knees pulled up to his chest. She flicked on the light.
“It’s me. Jasmine.”
His whole body was shaking.
Night terrors.
She’d seen them before—first with her father, then with some of her patients. But Amir’s were bad. Maybe the worst she’d ever encountered.
“It’s okay. You’re safe.”
He stared at her, his gaze blank, as if he didn’t recognize her at all.
She knew what was happening. The memories, the nightmares, the flashbacks—whatever you wanted to call them—were still firing through his mind. His sleep-addled brain scrambled to separate the dream from reality.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, keeping her voice casual. “Come join me when you’re ready.” Then she turned and walked away, leaving the bedroom door open.
She knew his pride wouldn’t let him stay curled up in the dark for long.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, he shuffled into the kitchen.
“You heard me?”
She nodded. “Was it the same dream?”
“Yeah. From my childhood.” He sat down, bare feet sticking out from under the table.
She slid a cup of sweet tea toward him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
The first time she met him, she’d thought Amir was the most terrifying man she’d ever encountered. Cold, unforgiving eyes. A mouth that never smiled. A relaxed, confident demeanor that masked a brutal temper. He was a man who could erupt at any moment.
Like the man in the restaurant.
But now, sitting across from her pale, sweating, and shaken, he didn’t look terrifying at all. Not like a hardened terrorist. More like a frightened child. She knew better than anyone that you could only patch up trauma for so long before the cracks start to show.
It would take time for Amir to work through the damage. Years, even. And she still got the feeling he wasn’t telling her everything.
“Does it really help?” He reached for the tea. “Talking about it?”
“Yes,” she said. “It desensitizes you. Makes it less scary.”
“Okay, but you’ve heard this before.”
“Only the beginning,” she corrected. “You never finished last time.”
Last time, he’d stormed out. The memories were still too raw, even after all these years.
He hesitated. Then, finally, he began.
“We lived in Kuwait. We had a nice house, a good life. Then the war came. Operation Desert Storm.” He spat out the words like they were poison.
“I was twelve years old. My brother, Kasim, was eight. We were in our room when we heard it—a sound like thunder, but louder. A missile had hit the street outside.”
His face was haunted, his hands clenching the teacup.
Jasmine stayed silent. She didn’t want to interrupt his thought process.
“More missiles followed. People ran into the streets, screaming. It was chaos. I let go of my brother’s hand and he ran back inside the house. My mother went after him, even though my father tried to stop her.”
He stared at a spot on the table, unblinking.
“That’s when it hit. I remember watching the house explode in a ball of fire and thought: My family is in there.”
Jasmine’s heart went out to the twelve-year-old boy left standing in the rubble.
“It must have been terrifying,” she said gently.
He’d told her about the air raid before but hadn’t elaborated. Just the grim facts, spoken like they meant nothing. Now, he was opening up.
“I screamed and tried to go after them, but a neighbor held me back.” He set the cup down with a shudder. “After that, I had no one. My whole family was dead.”
She studied him, watching the emotions flash across his face. Fear. Disbelief. Sadness. Grief. Then his body locked up and his jaw tightened.
Hate.
Grief crushed you. Hate gave you purpose.
“What happened to you was terrible,” she said carefully. “You were just a boy. You suffered unspeakable trauma.”
His grip on the table tightened. “But why now?” he demanded. “Why am I having these nightmares now?”
He was angry. At himself. At his own mind for betraying him.
His hands curled into fists. “I’ve lived with this my whole life. Why the hell am I falling apart now?”
He was a man used to being in control, used to making ruthless decisions, destroying the people he blamed for his loss. His festering hate had become his life’s mission.
“You can’t block trauma out forever,” she said simply. “It always manifests, one way or another.”
He shook his head, rejecting her statement. “No.”
“It could have been prison that triggered it,” she continued. “Maybe it’s whatever you’re planning now. Something opened the floodgates. And the more you fight it, the worse it’s going to get.”
He swore in Arabic, then stood up and kicked the table leg. “I don’t need this. I want to get back to my life. I am free now, I’ve served my time. Don’t I deserve to enjoy my life?”
No, you don’t, Jasmine thought. Y ou are planning another terrorist attack. You and your cousin Riad.
“Of course.” She smiled benignly. “That’s why we have to work through this. It’s good that we talked.”
She could tell he was teetering on the edge. He needed time to process, to get a grip on his emotions.
“I’m going back to bed,” she decided, leaving him pacing the kitchen like a caged animal. “I hope you manage to get some sleep.”
She padded back to her room, closing the door softly behind her. As she crept under the covers, her mind drifted back to the stranger at the restaurant.
What was his story? What was his connection to Amir?
Was he a soldier? An FBI Agent?
They had history. That much was clear.
Maybe, one day, she’d ask Amir about it.
But for now, she let herself drift off to sleep, picturing the stranger’s burning eyes watching her from across the restaurant.