There’s no way I could possibly feel shittier about what happened. But she clearly wants to let it go, so apologizing profusely will only make things worse.
Dr. Phillips offers his upturned palm, gaze assessing in that typical physician-like manner. “Can you sit up for me, Mackenzie?”
I’m not sure if it’s stubbornness or if I’m still reeling from the fact that I hurt Lara. Whatever the reason, I’m reluctant to touch anyone right now, and disregard his offered hand. I sit up and release a slow breath.
Dr. Phillips regards me carefully, concerned eyes sweeping over me. “How do you feel?”
I turn my palms over and flex my fingers, the imprints from the restraints still visible at my wrists. Fucking hell, I must’ve really been thrashing if they had to pull them that tight.
“I’m okay.” I think.
I cycle through the rapidly fading image in my mind.
The squeak of Dr. Phillips’ wheeled stool sounds a moment before he sits at my side. “Do you remember what it was that upset you?”
Gently massaging the marks on one of my wrists, I avoid meeting his eyes. “I remember feeling like my heart was beating out of my chest.” I try to draw back the memory that seems like it’s seeping into quicksand. “I was in restraints and panicked. I just…felt like something bad was about to happen.”
Dr. Phillips shifts, and the metal stool gives a squeak of protest. “Well, I think we need to consider increasing the sedative a bit. What do you think?”
I raise my eyes to meet his concerned ones. His expression is placid, contrasting with the sympathy intertwined with worry in his gaze.
Unease has my stomach lurching at the thought of having increased sedation. I’m already woozy enough when I leave here, but I certainly can’t ask them to run the risk that I become violent again.
Slowly, I nod. “Okay.”
His eyes lift to focus over my shoulder. “Lara, make a note in Mackenzie’s file that we’ll increase her sedative and maintain closer observation.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr. Phillips briefly rests a palm over mine. “Let’s get you some water and make sure you’re well enough to make it home.”
7
MAC
A few minutes later, I step from the doctor’s office and into the bright sunlight. With a sigh, I briefly close my eyes and tip my face toward the sun.
There are days when I despise the heat and humidity that come with living in Florida. At times like this, though, there’s a therapeutic quality to it.
As crazy as it sounds, when I step into the sunlight, it feels as if it dissipates the lingering fogginess in my brain. Sometimes, it even gives me the sensation that it’s powerful enough to penetrate all those nooks and crannies deep within me—the ones that hold a darkness I’m not privy to.
Once I board the bus and find a seat near the window, I zone out while my mind replays my discussion with Dr. Phillips on my way out of the office today.
I hovered at the door, a thought striking me. “Do you…think I should see a therapist or something?”
Dr. Phillips tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t recommend that based on a single episode. Why don’t we just play things by ear? You said your headaches have improved a bit?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. A little.” Frowning, I hedge, “But I still have those gaps in my memory from time to time.”
He sat back and linked his fingers. “I don’t think that’s reason for concern.
“For example, a person can drive or ride the bus to their destination, but once they arrive, they realize they don’t recall the bulk of the journey there. This is actually a form of self-hypnosis. It’s natural, and a lot of people don’t realize it…”
Self-hypnosis. I let that roll around in my head as the scenery flits past my window.
What if there’s a way to use self-hypnosis to tap into buried memories? If I succeeded, maybe that would help ease my headaches.
The bus’ lurching stop-and-go movement is soothingly familiar, and it allows my mind to wander. I mull over the Toyota Tacoma I’ve been working on and its salvageable parts.
Leaning my head against the bus window, my body’s heavy, still weighed down by the sedation’s lingering effects.
The strong scent of marijuana suddenly wafts over me, preceding the person who plunks down heavily in the seat beside me. I instantly tense, because plenty of other seats are available. But this person doesn’t give a shit. I sense that immediately.
They’re here for a different reason.
The fingers that curl around my wrist threaten to cut off my circulation, but the knife notched between two of my ribs pisses me the fuck off.
Not only did I wake up this morning with unexplained injuries, but I had a hell of a fucking episode at the appointment I just left. And now, I’m an attempted mugger’s target on a motherfucking bus.
Brilliant. I get the award for best day ever. Obviously.
“Don’t make a fuckin’ sound. Just give me your wallet, bitch.”
I meet eyes spearing mine with malevolence that would probably have other people pissing their pants, but not me. It isn’t because I’m not afraid of dying, but because I know death is inevitable.
What I also instinctively know is, my death won’t be at the hands of some asshole too lazy to work for his own fucking cash. The brand-new, pricey pair of sneakers on his feet and his expensive wristwatch tell me all I need to know.
“You heard me, bitch,” he hisses. His breath is so damn rancid it has me rearing back in disgust. “Give it to me.”
Calmly, I stare him in the eyes. “You got a knife, huh?”
His expression grows thunderous, and he presses the knife’s tip harder against my side. “You dumb or somethin’? I said—”
“I know what you said.” My tone is nonchalant. Reaching up slowly, I sweep my hair back from my face. “Do you really think I give a shit about your measly little knife?”
The instant he notices my marred skin, he rears back in horror. Just like clockwork.
I use the distraction to grab his switchblade and place the tip at his throat. He goes ramrod stiff, eyes impossibly wide.
“Not so fun when you get a taste of your own medicine, is it, bitch?”
His eyes practically light me on fire with hatred. “Fuck you,” he grits out.
“No, thanks. Not interested.” I dig the knife’s tip in enough for a trickle of blood to spill down onto the collar of his T-shirt. “Get a fuckin’ job. ’Cause if I see you again, I won’t be so nice about it. Understood?”
His mouth presses into a thin line. “Yeah.”
“Oooh, no. That’s not how a man from the South should answer a lady, now, is it?” I dig the knife into his skin and his nostrils flare, fury rolling off him in thick, oppressive waves.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I don’t get a chance to relish in his begrudgingly polite response, because the blood trickling down his neck has captured my attention.
My vision goes hazy as I’m swept up in a fantasy of tightening my grip on the knife and dragging the sharp blade in a deep curve, from one side of his neck to the other. A river of blood would flow from where I’ve sliced him and—