Chapter 3
The next morning, Harold woke Alex at 9:00 AM sharp, practically dragging him out of bed before handing him a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon with a glass of milk. “Alex,” Said Sara as Alex devoured his breakfast at the table, “Are you alright?” Alex stopped mashing food into his mouth and stared at her.
“Yeah, why?”
“Last night, you ran into our room yelling about your wrist, screaming that ‘It was here’ You were visibly disturbed.”
“Just a bad dream,” Alex said nonchalantly.
Sara nodded, but still seemed doubtful. After he finished his plate, Alex got up and got himself a stack of sixteen pancakes, he then proceeded to drown them in a gallon of syrup and promptly buried his face into the pile. “Alex, that’s disgusting!” Admonished Harold, “Are you that hungry?”
Alex stopped and wiped his mouth, he didn’t even notice that he was tearing into his food like a malnourished beast. Huh, I don’t feel that full. Besides, I don’t usually eat like this, how strange. “Sorry,” Alex mumbled, he felt embarrassed even in front of his parents. He got up again and retrieved a fork and knife, then made sure that he ate slowly.
They went out after breakfast, taking a walk at the local park. “So Alex,” Said Sara, “Since our vacation went so badly, we’ve decided to have a make-up vacation with the Millers! You know, that Samuel boy’s family.”
“Okay.” Said Alex nonchalantly, he didn’t slow down.
“Alex, we’re getting you that go-kart you wanted. No need to thank us, because it’s the least we can do for our severely traumatized child.” Crooned Harold playfully. Alex stopped and turned.
“You know, if you didn’t add that last part, I would’ve reacted enthusiastically.”
“What? It’s true.”
“Mention it again and I’ll throw your childhood diary as well as anything of any sentimental value to you into the fireplace.”
“Symptoms of untreated PTSD,” Harold muttered behind him as Alex resumed walking. They reached the pond at the park and chose this time to stop and rest. “So, mom.” Alex said, “When is this little ‘make-up vacation’ going to happen?”
“Oh,” Sara looked thoughtful, “When we’re prepared, I guess, which is in a week unless you want to wait longer.”
“No worries,” Alex shrugged, “We can start packing when we get home, organized or not.”
*
The neighborhood had obviously heard of the accident, people either stared or whispered to each other about the mother and son who survived the plane crash. Alex felt like an outsider in the neighborhood that used to treat him like a family member. It made him feel more lonely than he ever had been, like a freak that escaped the carnival. A hand on his shoulder popped his thought bubble. “Alex,” his mother said, “We forgot to tell you, you have an appointment with Dr. Miller on Friday with Samuel and some others.”
Alex’s room, as usual, looked like a grenade was thrown through the window. Clothes littered the floor, papers, books, and posters were everywhere, his pillow was under his desk. He sighed, his room needed tidying.
By the time he finished, Sara had called Alex down to dinner.
“Alex, we should probably quit therapy, don’t you think?” Sara asked him as he noshed on his mashed potatoes.
“No, no, I think therapy can help make some more friends.”
“Well, it’s your choice.”
Alex stopped eating.
“Why is it all about me? Is it because of the plane crash?”
“Well…” Sara fiddled with her fork,
“Of course it is, you’re the one that is emotionally fragile and suffering from PTSD.” Joked Harold
Enough was enough, Alex stood up so abruptly that his chair fell back. He leaned menacingly close to his father and pointed his finger at his chest, “Not. Funny.” He snarled, then stomped up the stairs.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he reached up and rubbed his neck. Hey, it’s gone!
When Alex was four, he saved up enough money in his piggy bank to buy his own “Finding Nemo” disc from a classmate’s older brother. He loved the movie and found the underwater world fascinating. He mistakenly thought that anyone could breathe underwater if they had gills, and he wanted to see the underwater world for himself. So that night, Alex took the kitchen knife, went to the bathroom, and made “Gills” on his neck, four on each side.
His parents had rushed him to the hospital where the doctors said that the cuts weren't too severe but still required stitches, a lot of stitches. All Alex was left with eight scars, four on each side of his neck, each two inches long. Those scars were a lifetime reminder that one needed to think before doing anything. But now… The scars were gone.
Alex gasped, his mind went blank as he fought for air. He stumbled through the bathroom doorway and dropped onto the bed. Nothing mattered anymore as Alex grabbed at his chest, his thoughts were scrambled, incoherent. He gasped, he groped himself, he squirmed, but Alex couldn’t find a shadow of a hint that there were scars, scars that he wore for nearly a decade.
Alex cried out in terror. What’s happening? What is going on? What is wrong with me? I’m crazy! I’m losing my mind! He launched himself out of the bed and crashed through the bedroom door and scrambled to the stairs.
He stopped dead.
Maybe the scars faded, maybe he didn’t see them, maybe they had faded to the point where they no longer stick out, he hadn’t checked his neck in a long time. Why was he so calm? Just seconds ago he was in an uncontrollable panic. Something muted that voice in his brain before he could get himself worked up again. Weird, he thought. He staggered somewhat dazedly to the bed, then promptly collapsed.
Dr. Calvin Milton always straddled his chair, he wore glasses and never failed to keep his facial hair to a stubble. He looked relaxed in every manner, but that was not gonna fool Alex. Crossing his arms, he slumped in his seat. He and Sam and another teen were the only children on the plane. The teen had dark hair and eyes, with broad shoulders and a strong posture, his name was Miles or Max or something, he was 19 and he- wait, there’s nothing more to him that Alex knew of.
“Mark,” so that’s his name! “Can you tell me and Alex and Sam something traumatizing that happened in your life and compare it with this?”
Mark thought, “When I was seven or eight, my dad let me sit in the front seat of the car and I remember being really excited because it was my first time. Then a car hit us head-on and it gave him a bloody concussion.”
Alex sighed, four weeks in this hellhole and they’re still on step one. “I refused to sit in the front seat for five years. And my parents had to drag me to the DMV to get my license.”
“Now, compare it with this incident.”
“It’s obvious, I’m never getting on another plane. Ever.”
“I expected that.” Said Dr. Milton.
“I know.”
“So did you have any dreams that are related to the accident lately?” Dr. Milton asked the three of them. Sam raised his hand, “I had one on Wednesday,” he said, “but it got weird quick.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Dr. Milton was curious as always,
“Sure, it wasn’t a nightmare,” Sam shrugged, “not really.”
“So you don’t mind talking about it.”
Sam shook his head, “I dreamed that I was on the plane and Alex was sitting next to me, then the plane crashed and suddenly there was this bright green light and then I think I was knocked out… Wait, I did see a green flash when the plane actually crashed.”
“Really?” Dr. Milton sat up.
“I think it could be one of those highway emergency flares.”
“Oh, okay.” Dr. Milton nodded.
“Anyway, I woke up in this cave and I heard this noise.”
“And I assume that this is where it gets fictional and weird?”
“Yeah…” Sam scratched his head, “ …I think so.”
“Keep going.”
“So I heard this noise, and then I had to limp towards where the noise came, and then suddenly there was a scream and the dream ended.”
“That is a horrible way to end a dream.” Dr. Milton scratched his chin. “Anyway…”
While the man was talking, Alex got out a pen. Dr. Milton had provided them with drawing pads so that they could draw whatever they wanted, to pass time. I need to talk to you about something. He wrote, and folded the piece of paper and passed it to Sam.
Sam read the message, and then scribbled something, then passed it back. What is it? The message asked, Can you invite me over to your house or something? I can’t explain it over this piece of paper.
Sure.
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