Chapter 4Stripped of My Safety Net

My feet cemented themselves to the concrete.

Three years ago, that exact car had careened out of control, rocketing directly toward Ethan.

I shoved him out of the way. The impact shattered two of my ribs and triggered a severe, catastrophic case of PTSD.

From that exact day forward, I had never slept through the night.

Ethan clamped his hands onto my shoulders, physically forcing me deeper into the room.

“Confronting the trauma is the absolute, singular path to curing PTSD.”

My fingernails dug desperately into the steel doorframe.

“Ethan, please. Don't do this.”

Chloe stood right behind him, her clipboard tucked under her arm.

“Mia, the traumatic memory has to be behaviorally recoded. You need to trust Ethan. He is doing this to save you.”

Ethan shoved me forward with all his strength.

I stumbled into the dark basement, crashing hard onto my knees against the filthy concrete floor.

The heavy steel door slammed shut behind me.

I lunged at the door, pounding my fists against the metal, my voice cracking in absolute terror.

“Ethan! Let me out! Please!”

He looked at me through the small, barred window in the door. His eyes were heavy with a deeply frustrated exhaustion.

“You are going to sit in there and look at that car until you aren't afraid of it anymore.”

I shook my head violently, my fingers desperately gripping the freezing iron bars of the window.

“I'm going to die in here.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed Ethan's eyes.

Chloe leaned in and whispered, “She is catastrophizing the fear response. If you yield now, she controls the dynamic.”

He closed his eyes, his voice turning to stone.

“Mia. I am so fucking tired.”

I froze.

Ethan looked at me, his voice carrying the distinct, self-pitying resentment of a man who felt he had sacrificed too much.

“I just want the bright, sunny girl I used to know back. Can you not, for one second, have a little sympathy for me?”

My fingers slowly let go of the iron bars.

Chloe gently wrapped her arm through his.

“You’re doing the right thing, Ethan. Desensitization is a painful metamorphosis. She has to break out of the cocoon.”

Their footsteps echoed down the concrete hallway, growing fainter and fainter until there was absolute silence.

I was entirely alone in the dark with the mangled car.

I slumped against the wall, sliding down into the corner, my fingers slowly, mechanically digging into the peeling paint on the concrete.

The stench of rust, the sound of shattering glass, the screeching tires—every single horrific sensory detail exploded out of the darkness, violently assaulting my brain.

I bit down on the back of my hand until I tasted blood. I didn't scream.

For ten agonizing hours, I clawed at the wall until a massive chunk of paint peeled away. My fingernails tore backward, blood smearing across the cold, gray concrete.

Someone came to the door exactly twice.

The first time was Ethan. He stood outside the heavy door for a very long time, but he never turned the handle.

The second time was Chloe. Through the heavy steel, I heard her say: “Excellent behavioral charting. She has completely ceased her distress vocalizations.”

I heard my own laugh echo in the dark. It was incredibly faint.

I finally realized the truth. They didn't actually care if I survived this.

They just wanted me to shut the fuck up.

Sometime around 3:00 AM, a piece of paper was slid under the gap in the door.

It was a printed schedule for the next phase of the "Behavioral Desensitization Protocol." Written entirely in Chloe's handwriting.

At the very bottom of the page, on the authorization line, was Ethan's signature.

The date next to his signature was the exact day before he ripped the safety netting off our balcony.

I held the piece of paper with my bleeding, torn fingertips. The last remaining shred of warmth in my chest slowly, permanently turned to ice.

When Ethan finally unlocked the heavy steel doors, I was sitting quietly next to the crushed car.

I wasn't shaking. I wasn't crying. I just looked up at him and offered a faint, placid smile.

His eyes instantly lit up like a supernova.

“Mia!”

He sprinted into the room and pulled me into a crushing, desperate hug, his hands gripping my back.

“Thank God! I knew you could do it!”

Chloe stood in the doorway, a flash of genuine surprise crossing her face, before she quickly masked it with a smug, professional smile.

“See, Ethan? The clinical intervention was a complete success.”

Ethan hugged me even tighter.

“You’re finally cured.”

I rested my chin gently on his shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m cured.”

For the next half-month, I functioned exactly like a perfectly normal, healthy human being.

I woke up early to cook breakfast. I ironed Ethan’s shirts. When Chloe came over to conduct her 'clinical evaluations,' I smiled and poured her glasses of warm water.

The tense, exhausted vigilance in Ethan’s eyes completely vanished.

He started taking me out to dinner with his friends again, bragging to anyone who would listen that Chloe had performed a miracle and saved our lives.

His friends showered Chloe with praise.

Ethan nodded, his tone lighter and more buoyant than it had been in years.