“Brave words,” Malik murmurs.
After giving me one more squeeze, he pulls his hand back. I think it’s because the contact might have been weird, but it turns out he’s just hungry. The sandwich is back in his hands, and he takes another bite.
“One more thing,” I say as he chews. He lifts his eyebrows to indicate he’s listening to whatever sage advice I might have. I lean in, giving him a pointed look that means business. “Give Corinne a chance. I saw her for several weeks after Jimmy’s death, and it made all the difference to be able to process my feelings in a healthy, private environment. I’m always here for you to talk to, but Corinne is a professional who is good at what she does.”
Malik can’t hide the slight grimace, telling me he’s against having to counsel with her. But he’ll thank me for it later if he gives it half a chance. He has deep issues to work through… more than just losing his friends. He went through torture and isolation. I hope he understands that processing everything safely, while learning how to accept it, is going to be crucial to his happiness in the future. I’m determined to help him figure that out.CHAPTER 7Malik“And how did that make you feel?” Corinne asks.
It’s a dreaded question, and it isn’t the first time she’s asked it. It’s our second full counseling session this week, and she has me talking a bit more today. Admittedly, Monday was a little stilted. She’d done some gentle prodding around the edges.
Today, when I sat in her chair, she point-blank said, “We’re going to talk specifically about your captivity today.”
Which was fine.
Monday, we talked about torture.
Today, we could talk about captivity if she wanted.
Neither event was more important than the other in my mind because they both sucked.
“I felt hopeless,” I say truthfully. “I figured the chances of being found and rescued were near to impossible, so I didn’t hold out hope. I set the bar low, resigning myself to die in that hole or being executed.”
We had been focusing on the months of isolation I had to endure with no one to communicate with. Yes, it was horrific being freezing cold, filthy, and hungry all the time, but the worst was truly not being able to talk to anyone. The guards hadn’t spoken English. Or, if they did, they’d refused to engage with me. The only time I heard spoken language had been when they yelled for me to hand up my shit bucket or threw my food down.
The worst had been hearing their conversations filtering through the door—hearing them joking with each other. I couldn’t understand them, but by their tones and laughter, I could tell they’d been happy and having a good time while guarding me. Knowing happy human beings were within spitting distance and I couldn’t have any part of it had made the loneliness a million times more unbearable.
“You sound so matter of fact,” Corinne points out.
“Is that wrong?” I counter.
“Not at all.” She glances at the clock. I do as well, noting we are out of time. She clicks her pen closed, then places her hands over her notepad and angles her body toward me. “That was a coping mechanism. The feeling we’ve lost hope is how our minds start protecting themselves from further hurt and disappointment. It’s natural, but it’s also incredibly depressing. And when you suffer that feeling for such a long time, it takes some time to bounce back from that dark place.”
“Well, being rescued and the sheer joy that comes with it helps a bit,” I offer.
Laughing, Corinne nods. She rises from her chair, indicating our session is over. “Indeed, that would definitely help dispel some of the depression. What I’d like you to do for me is journal specifically about that. Are you still feeling bouts of hopelessness or anxiety? Residual feelings are more than commonplace. The best way to lessen their effects is to confront them.”
Just fucking great.
Homework.
Corinne motions me to the door. “And since Friday is a holiday, we won’t be able to meet again until next Monday. Same time?”
Shit. I’d forgotten. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, which means Jameson is closed down for all nonessential personnel, including Corinne and me. While I loathe the idea of counseling, I want to tackle this bitch so I can move on with my life.
I don’t show my disappointment, though. It’s my job to convince Corinne I’m happy with my life, so I merely smile. “Of course. See you on Monday. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Big plans?” she asks.
I shake my head, smirking. “I’m Canadian.”
“But you’re half American,” she counters.
“Well, growing up in Canada, we only celebrated that country’s Thanksgiving, which is in October. The American holiday hasn’t ever been a big deal to me.” And because it’s the polite thing to inquire, I ask, “You?”