PROLOGUE

February 13th, 2009

I’ve sat on a ledge between sanity and insanity for as long as I recall. One false move and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men wouldn’t be able to put Humpty Dumpty or me back together again. Little did I know today would be that day.

It all began when my unit deployed to set up a mobile command post in support of Operation Phantom Phoenix—a continuing offensive to drop a planned 40,000 pounds of explosive by two B-1 Lancers and four F-16 fighter aircraft on al-Quaeda positions in the Arab Jabour area of Baghdad. It was the third month of my second deployment and my team’s three-month rotation when I was briefed along with other non-commissioned officers that we would participate in an operation-based emergency preparedness exercise. I would supervise our replacements in the new mobile command post before passing the baton and rotating back to our base. The airman, seated at the console, was to walk me through each step he would take in real-time if such incidents occurred on his shift. Everything was going according to regulation. Real airplanes were taking off, flying actual sorties, then landing. Men and women with enlisted and officer insignia standing over us watched every move without saying a word but writing notes on their notepads. The young airman correctly flight-followed the aircraft missions, coordinated in-air refueling, and disbursed first responders to the runway where an aircraft with supposed disengaged landing gear prepared to make an emergency landing. With phones ringing, radios screeching orders to aircraft, and ground crews disbursed at time-saving intervals—a simulation began with insurgents attempting to overtake the command post. A real M18-colored smoke grenade was tossed into the room, simulating a biochemical agent. Having trained, each person prepared their M25 chemical warfare mask and placed the mask over their head, pulling it down over their face—all but me. I stood frozen, mask in hand, while the smoke caused my eyes to water and made breathing difficult. I was stunned at my reaction when I thought about what could’ve happened if it were an actual biochemical agent. I realized my fear of dying was less terrifying than my phobia of suffocating from the mask or being confined in a small space. My supervisor rushed me out into the fresh air as he screamed at me, “I expect this from a newbie, but not an NCO. What the hell is the matter with you, Sergeant?”

“I can’t put this over my face. I’ve never had to.” My hand grips my knee as I cough and spit and hold the mask out for him to take. “I’ve carried it around in my mobility bag for years, and I’ve never put anything over my face,” I managed to sputter. Escorted to sick call and subsequently excused from the rest of the exercise, I didn’t understand why I froze in a time of crisis. I did, however, understand the adverse effect refusing to wear the mask had on me physically. Never before had I faced such a choice. I always knew I didn’t like small spaces, my head covered, or crowds, but this was a bigger fear.

As soon as nausea, headache, and general fatigue passed, and I was well enough to travel, the USAF “powers-that-be” returned me to my base, RAF Alconbury, Hinchingbrooke, England, to undergo relaxation therapy. The Mental Health Clinic counselor quickly discovered I had never participated in chemical warfare training during the six years of my career. The deeper the counselor dug into my life and past stories, the more mole-like she became. Beginning with stories from my first deployment and ending with my very first memory, she concluded something traumatic must have happened, which I’d blocked out. Still, when no number of breathing exercises could break through my iron-clad type-A personality and desire for control, someone above my pay grade decided it would be a good idea to fix something in me that wasn’t broken. 

As a new airman and when awarded my Top Secret SBI/SCI security clearance, part of the briefing included that hypnosis was prohibited. However, I recently learned the Air Force was not referring to their doctors protecting their interests. I’m told I have two choices: my medical file meets the Medical Evaluation Board today, or after I actively participate in my own recovery by voluntarily submitting to hypnotherapy.

My doctor is entirely aware that this is not voluntary; it is a means to an end on my part. I want to stay on active duty and fulfill my enlistment, but the United States Armed Forces can’t allow individuals to remain in the service if they are non-worldwide capable. It would’ve been nice to know this before now. I’m two years into my second enlistment with four years left, and I had never heard the term “non-worldwide capable” used until three months ago.

As I sit here and wait for my name to be called, all I can think about is changing my mind and walking out of the clinic. As I stand prepared to leave, Major Smith opens the door to his office, “Staff Sergeant Frost, are you ready?” 

“Ready as I’m going to be,” I answer as I slowly walk into the office and take a seat.

“This is safe and quick. It is similar to a dream. It’s a relaxation technique that should allow you to wake up and see what is blocking your ability to practice self-relaxation while wearing the M25 mask, something that will aid us in helping you,” Major Smith assures me. The overhead lights turn off, leaving the dimly lit desk lamp near the corner of the room. He smiles, “Relax. It will be fine.” He sits facing out from his desk, looking at the wall, and I am sitting to the side of his desk, looking out toward the room. “Staff Sergeant Frost, do you see the red dot on the ceiling?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stare at the red dot, please. You need a clear mind, free of the task for today or the fight with your other half last night. Picture the most peaceful location you know.”

I think of the beach; it’s sunset, and I’m watching the waves roll in, washing over my feet and carrying my worries away. Major Smith’s voice softens and becomes monotone. “Relax. Focus.” His voice becomes distant, a faint whisper in the background until no longer audible while I stare at the red dot on the white ceiling. 

My eyes open to a cloud of nothingness. I blink. Maybe, I’m in the shadows, not surrounded by light or dark, more like a haze. I’m an intangible object cut and pasted in a cloud of black and gray. Even though I see the wind whipping the clouds around me, there isn’t a breeze touching my skin. My hair isn’t blowing, and neither are my clothes. I move closer, curious about where I am and what is happening around me but not to me. I kneel, using my arms to brace myself as I peek over the ledge. It’s an endless black hole. I am looking down a funnel to a bottomless abyss. Suddenly afraid of holes and falling, I attempt to back away, but a greater force pushes me forward. The same force I couldn’t feel at first has pushed me into a downward spiral. I outstretch my arms hoping to slow or stop my fall but instead, I am forced against a wall of spiraling downward movement. It appears I have descended from the clouds and am now in or part of a tornado. There is nothing to grip as I stretch my hand open, and it passes through a cloud of smoke. I can’t capture the wind; instead, my arms flail about me as I fall, not straight down at a speed one would imagine if falling from a great height, but gradually whirlpooling down into the darkness. My extremities tingle as electricity travels through my body. The hairs on my arms stand up, and my long hair, loose, not braided or secured, flies free, making circles of its own, whipping around my face. 

Something as ordinary as drawing a breath challenges me. The sheer force of the wind makes it impossible to inhale or exhale, preventing a scream. I am the tornado, or at least a part of its chaos. It is out of control. The sound of a train whistle deafens the last of my senses; I can’t taste or smell the air and only see in black and white. A blanket of overwhelming sadness engulfs me, and my last breath is strangled from my body. I’m exhausted from the fight and defeated, I succumb as my body descends, and I watch my soul hover above me, giving off a transparent glow of red. I welcome the color and the rest. My virtual reality is ending my life; I force myself to fight and gasp for one last breath. 

Opening my eyes again, I am in the dimly lit room with the red dot. Major Smith turns on the fluorescent ceiling lights. My senses are heightened; the room is engulfed in color, and the taste of stagnant water lingers on my tongue. The air smells of a storm. My body stings, and I liken it to being showered by a sandblaster. After describing my vision, I was told to return to my dorm and write down any memories I may have.

Back in my dorm, I am overcome with nausea; I kneel over the toilet until I have nothing left except a sore abdomen and a bad feeling. I have limited movement, wandering from bed to bathroom, bathroom to the desk, desk to the bed, stretching the confines of my new anxiety leash. I draw in the unfamiliar air of defeat. I’m never defeated and won’t be this time, either. I’m unsure how much time passes as I pace the room until I finally sleep due to sheer exhaustion, waking from a nightmare. My sheets are soaked, and my skin feels clammy. I didn’t realize I had a fever until I woke in a pool of my own sweat. Sitting up in bed, I immediately can’t recall anything. I shower, washing away the heaviness of the hypnosis, the past, and my uncertainty. While towel drying my hair and staring into a mirror, I see the tornado. Hurriedly I sketch the abyss, then search for answers. My fingers pause above the keyboard as I think of what to type. I type “hypnosis therapy” into the browser, which returns “a trance-like state in which you have heightened focus and concentration. When under hypnosis, you usually feel calm and relaxed and open to suggestions. It may help treat anxiety, phobias, and post-traumatic stress.” I continue to read that hypnosis can cause headaches, drowsiness, dizziness, anxiety, or false memories. Next, I search “tornadoes.” “Tornadoes don’t just pop into existence—conditions are already volatile; they merely escalate into something even more dangerous.” Then it occurs to me to replace the noun. Repressed memories—don’t just pop into existence—conditions are already volatile; they merely escalate into something even more dangerous. Something from my early years is missing, and I have peeked into the trauma. My answers lay at the bottom of the abyss I just crawled out of. I knew it; my nightmares mean something. Sylvia, my mother, always squashed and excused my nightmares as just dreams, but I knew better. I want to call her and demand answers, but she’s never answered my questions honestly. Why would she now?

During my follow-up appointment, Major Smith looks down before speaking. A tell-tale sign I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear. He informs me that my medical file will meet the Medical Evaluation Board to determine if I will be allowed to complete my enlistment. The thought of waiting to find out if I will lose all I have worked for and return to the United States as a civilian, combined with leaving Roland, my boyfriend of six years, paralyzes me with fear. Failure is not an option for me. I have witnessed too much failure, and I am not about to start a downward spiral at twenty-four years old and end up stuck like my mother.

The idea of returning to my dorm feels like returning to the crime scene. Instead, I stop my car at the large field, looking out over the airfield. I’ve driven by here every day for nearly six years, but this is the first time I’ve ever taken the time to stop. There is a large boulder; I climb on top of it to watch the airplanes take off and land. It reminds me of another boulder, looking out over a river where I used to sit and contemplate life. Of course, that was six years ago, in another city and another country, where my friend, Tracy, told me of her plans to join the Air Force. The life I imagined back then didn’t include staying in my small town. I wanted to attend college, so the military was my best option. I had a curiosity about the world and looked forward to running as fast and far away as possible. I wanted to experience a life free of dysfunction and abuse. At eighteen, I recognized some classmates were ready to vow their lives to one person and marriage. I knew then I wasn’t born with that gene. I made a vow, too. I would never allow a man to hurt my child or me. I would never be stuck in a situation and unable to care for myself financially, emotionally, or physically. I would succeed, travel the world, and be kind, especially to those who couldn’t protect themselves. 

Climbing down from the boulder, I leave with a plan—no matter what the medical board decides, I won’t stop searching for the truth. People usually lie for one of two reasons: to protect themselves or the one they’re lying to. I want to know whom Sylvia was trying to protect.

Resigned that the future of my military career is no longer in my control, I pack this new depression and anxiety in my overnight bag as mindlessly as my toothbrush. If I am stuck in a holding pattern until the Air Force decides my fate, I will do it, enjoying what time I have left here in the UK. Now, sitting behind the wheel of my hatchback, putting the car in gear, and refusing to look back until the base gates are in the rearview mirror, I barrel south down the A1 toward London. Roland is the only person in this world I trust completely. I push my favorite CD into the player; I’m Like a Bird by Nelly Furtado blares from the speakers, and I extend my arms, impersonating my best bird wings. The irony is overwhelming as it occurs to me; I flew as far as I could from the dysfunction of my family, only for their reach to cross an entire ocean and touch me here. 

Three months later, none of my other acts of meritorious service, awarding me with a USAF Commendation Medal and an Achievement Medal, are considered in the Medical Evaluation Board’s decision to separate me medically. Something happened during the hypnosis that can’t be undone or unseen. What happens next is the impetus for what my life is to become. I’ll know the truth no matter the cost.

Chapter 1

Everything I Wanted

Present Day, May 10th, 2022

Do you want to know how to kill monsters? Desire nothing, feel nothing, and fear nothing. I used to believe monsters only came out at night, so the darkness frightened me. But that was before discovering monsters live among us; they don’t just hide in closets and under beds. They come in the form of everything we want, declaring they love us.

I regain consciousness, not all at once, but one eye at a time—my left and then my right. Confused, I blink several times, attempting to clear the darkness. I try to lift my head, but the pain is excruciating; I immediately imagine a bowling ball whirling down the lane and striking the pins. Panicked and believing the pain in my head has somehow caused me to lose sight, I slide my hand through my hair and find a golf-ball-sized knot beneath a spot of sticky matted hair. I can’t see it, but the copper smell tells me it’s blood. I slide my hand to the left side of my forehead and follow the stickiness down the side of my face, releasing strands of my hair dried in the blood. 

I reach out and touch what is around me, becoming aware of the tingling in my left arm and fingers; I use my right hand to free it before shaking it back to life and stretching both arms out in front of me. A glow of red and green lights shines under the sleeve of my jacket. It’s a welcome light in this world of darkness—my watch. Grasping my Garmin watch, I push the button near my right pointer finger, and it offers a dim light. At least I haven’t lost my sight.

Adjusting my position, I stretch my legs as far as they go until they meet resistance. My imagination conjures the worst scenario and my biggest fear as I suck all the air out of the room and slowly become aware of my predicament. Breathe. I focus on how I got here and where I am.

* * *

Jane and I arrived at the bridal boutique at the same time for my final wedding gown fitting. While we nibbled fresh fruit, the ladies and I sat on overstuffed duvets, sipped morning champagne, and discussed “l’arte del vestire,” the art of dressing.

Later, while standing in front of the ornate mirror, dressed in the white A-line, satin, forever in my heart, plunging and extravagantly expensive gown, the reflection appeared; the room faded into the background, the dress sparkled, but my face was shattered. 

Shaken by the vision, or whatever the hell that was, my future mother-in-law and I stopped for a lovely lunch and nibbled on stories faster than our salads as we discussed the loving attributes of one man, her son and my future husband. I described the reflection I saw in the mirror, and she assured me it was just pre-wedding jitters. I accepted her reasoning, not wanting to taint the morning with my mental clutter. 

Jane left first; then I headed home only to decide to clear my mind with a walk at the last minute since I had time and hadn’t gotten my daily steps in. I was halfway back from the farthest point of the walking trail and approximately half a mile from my car when I experienced a stabbing pain in my lower abdomen, decreasing my pace to a leisurely crawl. Then the rain came. I stopped to untie the arms of my jacket from around my waist and removed my AirPods, suddenly becoming aware of my surroundings. My mind was preoccupied with the pre-wedding to-do list and disturbing vision until I noticed the path was nearly empty of pedestrians other than the man following me.

The huge man with long legs had no reason for the slow crawl he maintained to stay behind me unless it was deliberate. I became highly aware of the predicament I’d let myself get into. The threats and warnings we’d received over the past months immediately became my uppermost thought; I had let my guard down. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket to speed-dial my fiancé, but he didn’t answer, so I spoke extremely loud to the voicemail, “I will be home in a bit. I changed my mind and walked the Falkirk to the Kelpies Trail today, but I’m almost back to the car. Yes, I’ll….” Even after I heard the beep signaling the end of the allotted time, I continued talking to air the rest of the way back to my car just in case the huge man intended to cause me harm. I picked up my pace as the cramping subsided but kept watch behind me while making a mental note of the man’s distinguishing features. He was huge in stature, wearing a gray jogging suit, gray trainers, and a black stocking cap, and he didn’t have facial hair. 

Finally, I paused to look over my left shoulder near the car park, but the man was gone. I twisted to look over the right; he wasn’t there either. He didn’t disappear to the right unless he swam across the canal. He had to have exited the path and ventured into the woods to the left. The water dripped off my coat and soaked the car’s front seat. I pushed back the hood of my jacket and fumbled to place my water bottle in its holder. I laid my cell phone on the passenger seat beside my purse and on the top of the white garment bag holding my wedding dress. I shook the water from my hands and searched the glove box for something to dry them and my face. Safely locked inside my vehicle, I scanned the car park questioning my paranoia, but I quickly wondered if I had escaped something meant to harm me. I shivered.

The rain stopped. I started the engine and put the car in reverse, moving slightly backward before stomping the brake. I saw someone dart past the rear of the vehicle. When I turned my head to check, I saw a child soaking wet, no more than nine or ten years old, standing at my driver-side door. Believing myself safe, I parked the car and rolled down the window to speak to the crying child who could not find his mum. I shut the engine off and stepped out. 

Suddenly, someone behind me put a hand over my mouth. I felt an excruciating pain in my head and heard a crack.

* * *

I learned a long time ago to heed warnings. There hadn’t been threats for over a month, and I believed myself safe. I dampen my finger with spit and try to rub the dried blood from around the side of my face. Taking a deep breath is painful, like sucking broken glass through a straw. I recognize an anxiety attack and remind myself to take slow breaths. Breathe in through my nose and out my mouth. I stretch my arms up, relieved they only meet space. I begin to stand slowly, unsure how much room is above me. I meet resistance when fully standing erect. I’m 5’ 6” with my palms touching the top; I guess whatever I am in is six feet in height. I molest the walls and determine that there are four sides, not round. Relief. What is worse than dying? Being placed in a hole and not dying instantly, or perhaps a mask over my face.

I press the button on my watch again, twice. It searches for a GPS signal, so I wait. I have no choice but to wait. It can’t retrieve a signal. Where the hell am I?

The first wall is rough, damp, and cold, with ridges my fingers can follow, similar to the pattern I traced on the floor. The second and third walls are not stone; they’re not wood, maybe, plaster? They don’t feel splintered as I would imagine the inside of a box or crate would feel. I force slow deep breaths at the thought of a box. The fourth side feels like wood. I continue moving my hand down it until I reach a latch, sending relief throughout my entire body. I sigh and carefully attempt to move the latch and open whatever I am inside of, but it doesn’t move, as I suspect. My fingers follow along a ridge that takes up much of the wall; it’s a door. I place my ear to the door and listen. It is eerily silent as I strain to hear the smallest decibel—nothing—no birds, no wind, no creaking old house, nothing but my labored breathing. I push the button on my watch again. 

12%

Tues 10 May

1:30 

I blink, still trying to adjust my sight to the inky darkness. Placing my hand in front of my face, I know it’s there, but it is invisible to me. Fuck calm; I lift a scream from somewhere deep inside and push it out of my trembling mouth before yelling, “Can anyone hear me? Is anyone there?” I scream again, louder and longer this time. Lightheaded, I kick and pound the door repeatedly until it moves slightly. I know if buried, the sheer weight of dirt would prevent movement. Besides, what is the likelihood I’m buried in a box vertically? My 140 pounds are on my feet, not my backside. Somehow, that knowledge calms me and slows my breathing. I brace my arms against the walls and lower myself to the floor. I slide my boney ass a matter of inches from corner to corner and calculate I’m in a four-foot by four-foot area. I assume a closet. Please, God, not a box.

I’m frightened, to be sure, but it’s larger than a coffin-sized box. More so, I’m terrified of what is on the other side of the door. “Let me out. Please, let me out,” I scream over and over. Tears begin to stream down my face. I fought them since regaining consciousness, but now I allow them to flow freely. I taste the snot in my mouth before wiping it away with the backside of my hand. I’m left with the taste of salt from my tears. My breathing is raspy as I place my head in my hands. 

I recognize this fear. The darkness is no friend of mine, but I am familiar with him. I inhale deeply, then slowly push the air out repeatedly.

I flinch, startled by the loud roll and clap of thunder above me. After the initial fright, I am grateful for the noise. I am also thankful for my stuffy nose, the smell of my bad breath, and the blood on my forehead as I cover my mouth and nose with one hand while pushing out air, hiding the scent of mold and dirt permeating my nostrils.

I’ve held the urge to pee since I woke. What do I do now? I don’t want to soil my clothing; who knows how long I’d have to sit in it? I hold it until I can no longer hold it, and the pain reminds me of the pain in my abdomen that slowed my walk while the man followed me. I remove my shoes, leggings, and underwear, then slide my feet back in my shoes before I squat. It’s not like I haven’t squatted before, but that was while road tripping with my girlfriends and a case of beer, and I wasn’t three months pregnant.

The urine spatters above my shoe and ankles; it feels hot on my cold skin. I tap the floor as cautiously as I would a hot stove to see if I’ve flooded the floor below me. The puddle follows gravity, spilling itself under the door to my relief. Redressed, I lower myself down to my knees and prepare to pray. Looking up, I wonder if God knows who I am. I haven’t exactly lived my life for Him. I’ve prayed my entire life except when I was on my way to sin. Maybe that counts for something. If there is any time I need a prayer answered, it is now. “Lord,…if not for me, please protect my unborn child.” 

After what felt like hours, I abruptly stopped praying and sat on the floor, becoming as small as possible by pulling into myself; I know how to do this. Now, propped in the corner with my legs up around my belly as far as my baby bump will allow, I rest my head on my legs. 

With no more tears to cry or prayers to pray, I flip the imaginary book in my mind over to the cover, verifying this isn’t my story. My story isn’t over until the last paragraph, the last sentence, even the last word. Besides, I write my story.

Unlike the vision in my hypnosis or the reflection, I wasn’t pushed, nor did I fall from the summit of my life; no, not me. I nosedived into this bottomless hell when I sought out and demanded the truth before writing and then publishing my novel, Daddy Issues. Was the truth worth the cost, Dahlia?