Hold Me

Prologue:

-2046

Psychology. The study of thoughts, emotions, and behavior. How people feel, why they act the way they do, and what invisible strings pull those decisions behind the scenes.

I once thought that understanding it would make things clearer. Like pulling apart a knot and finally seeing where each thread begins and ends.

I poured my energy into it like it was a case file that could explain everything else in my life. All the words and actions that never matched their cause. As if there was always an explanation waiting to be uncovered, if I just studied a little more, thought a little deeper, looked a little closer.

Maybe with enough knowledge I could understand why things had happened how they did?

If only it was that simple. If only things worked like that.

Chapter #1:

-2034

The cafe below is always closed too early.

Kuroda leaned against the metal railing at the bottom of the narrow apartment staircase. One hand tucked warmly into his coat pocket and the other battling the elements to hold a rolled cigarette. A habit he had sworn, very recently, to quit.

“I’ll stop after this pack,” he murmured to himself.

Snow drifted all around, nearly covering the street lamps and casting a dim, golden light onto the sidewalks. It melted in his dark hair and against his collar. The cafe sign read closed, the windows fogged with warmth and earlier patronage. Cars whisper past in the wet sludge that filled the streets.

Kuroda exhaled a thin plume of smoke into the cold night air.

Faint laughter filtered out from the apartment above. His sister and her boyfriend would be celebrating her promotion. They might even start planning to move somewhere better. He knew how much Lyndi wanted that.

As for him, he actually didn't mind this area. It was sleazy and the neighbors were too loud, otherwise, it was quiet and old, something he appreciates immensely.

“I’m a freeloader,” he smiles to himself. “Student sounds better but it doesn’t pay the rent.”

He shifts, brushing snow from the sleeve of his oversized coat. An old brown thing that looked like it belonged in a vintage shop.

Behind him, the old stairwell gave a familiar, complaining creak.

“Its so cold,” Lyndi’s voice whines playfully beside him. “Why are you standing out here?”

Lyndi stands a few inches taller than him still, her silhouette outlined by the dim glow spilling from the open apartment doorway.

“Because your boyfriend probably wanted to congratulate you without me loitering in the hallway like a sad third wheel.” She scoffs but doesn't correct him. They had had that conversation before and it was more trouble than it was worth.

“Can you come inside and help me finish the pizza at least?” She retreated, leaving the door open. Standing straight, Kuroda crushes the cigarette under his heel and begins climbing the stairs.

A scream tears through the air, followed closely by a stream of sirens.

It cuts through the quiet like glass breaking.

Kuroda pauses, listening.

It was too late for the neighbor’s kids to still be up.

Maybe the old lady’s grandson had come back to visit? Kuroda had already warned the guy earlier this week to stay away from her. If it really was that jerk again, he didn’t want another scene like last time.

He breaks into a run, cutting down the stairs and turning right onto the sidewalk. The Cartwrights live just a block down. He might as well confirm it’s Luke making the noise…before it turns into something worse.

His shoes slide in the slush, cold seeping through the thin soles. He barely notices. The scene comes into view first, just around the block on the curb of a busy intersection crosswalk. Traffic is faster here. The wind is fiercer. There is a small crowd gathered, voices, forms tense.

“Hey, hey. Stop her!”

“Someone call–did anyone call?”

“Don’t let her…!”

Kuroda presses forward, “Excuse me, sorry, coming through.”

The crowd was gathering quickly, forcing him to push through.

That's when he sees her.

A woman was at the center of it all, swaying like she might collapse.

Her hair clings damply to the side of her face. Her fingers are red, almost raw from the cold, wrapped around something sharp and metallic.

Keys.

More alarming is the blood trickling from shallow slashes at her wrists. Her hand shakes, leaving messy streaks across skin.

Tears fill her eyes as they dart anxiously around at the surrounding people.

“Don’t!” The woman’s voice cracks, sharp and desperate. “Don’t touch me! Leave me alone– just–just leave me–!”

This is not what Kuroda expected to find. Slowing at the edge of the crowd, he lifts his hands in a careful, nonthreatening gesture. In that split second, sharp, uncalculated, and painfully naive, he makes the decision to step in. Armed with eight lectures of psychology counseling, he convinces himself he can help.

“Hey,” he said gently. Voice low and even so as not to frighten her, but clear enough to be heard. “Hey, it’s okay.”

She flinches anyways, taking a step back. Closer to the road, slipping slightly in the wet.

Kuroda does as he is told. He pauses where he is, lowering his shoulders, softening his posture. Plans formulated in his mind, disappearing just as quickly and leaving only a rising, desperate need to do something, before it was too late.

Risk assessment.

De-escalation.

Move to support patients.

He wanted to perform correctly but guidelines and reality scramble in his mind. It wasn’t him and the professor. It was him and this woman. If he fails, blood will be on his hands.

“That’s fine,” he said calmly. “I won’t come closer.”

A lie.

He tries to move forward, but she only retreats more. Someone whispers, “Is he a doctor?” Another voice muttering, “Just keep her talking…”

Reluctantly, the crowd eases back a bit. The extra space seems to calm the woman a little, but not enough. Her clothes are ragged, worn down to uneven edges. The sight doesn’t offer answers, it doesn't help Kuroda to analyze the situation.

“Cold night,” Kuroda continues, grasping desperately for a string to hold. “You must be freezing.”

She shook her head, more tears falling, more blood. Kuroda knew help would arrive soon. All he had to do was keep her here that long.

Her grip tightens on the keys.

His eyes flick from her to the keys and back, capturing her gaze as well as he could.

“Hey,” He said softly.

“What’s your name?”

“No–no–no,” the woman shook her head frantically, backing up another step.

“Don’t–don’t ask me that–just go away–why won’t you just go away?!” Kuroda’s breath grows more rapid as she nears the road, farther from him.

“I will, but first can I have those keys? I promise I just want you safe.”

She freezes, breath hitching.

“She wouldn’t let me,” she says suddenly, words tumbling out unevenly. “I was just walking and she grabbed me–she wouldn’t let me,” Her voice rising, panic sharpening it again. “She wouldn’t let me go!”

“I know,” Kuroda says quickly. “That must’ve been frightening.”

“She touched me!”

“I know.”

“I told her to stop!”

“I know.”

He answers each question with nothing but simple acknowledgment. He needs her to calm down.

“She wouldn’t listen…”

Kuroda takes one slow step towards her.

“Don’t–!”

Another step towards her.

“I’m just coming a little closer,” Kuroda says shakily.

“I said don’t!”

The keys lift, too fast, too certain.

Toward her throat.

The crowd gasps. Someone is moving to stop her.

Kuroda closes the distance in one quick motion, catching her arm before it could touch skin. He wrenched the keys away with a rough fumbling grasp, flinging them backwards. In the same instant he pulls her into his arms. Both limbs pressed against him, he hugs her firmly.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.” The woman struggles immediately, panicking.

“Let go! Let go of me!”

The sirens grow even closer, lights flashing in Kuroda’s peripheral as he gets punched and bitten by this woman he can barely restrain.

“Someone help me hold her–!” A few others from the crowd were already rushing over and helping to subdue her.

“Let go!”

“We will,” He whispers even though she hasn’t stopped howling to hear what he’s saying.“We will, just…”

He wasn’t sure what he should promise her. His plan was at its end. This is all he can manage. The voices of others trying to calm or silence her fill his head. Footsteps approach, hands replacing his own.

“It’s okay we got her,” someone says beside Kuroda’s ear. He releases her fully and she struggles between the paramedics, still shaking, still crying, her voice fading into hoarse protests as they move her toward the ambulance. The curb grows quieter and louder all at once, sirens fading once again.

– — — —

“Did you see that,” another says. Kuroda turns numbly to listen. A man from the crowd lingers nearby, rubbing his hands together rapidly.

“Woman came out of nowhere,” the man says, voice hushed now that the chaos has passed. “Barefoot like that. Walkin’ straight for the road. Some lady tried to grab her, to pull her back, and she just…snapped. Grabbed her keys and…” He gestures vaguely, not finishing the thought. “Right there.”

Kuroda can’t hear whatever else the man says after that. His vision is blurring slightly at the edges. He can feel the pounding in his chest and the shaking in his hands. He can see the smudge of red on the corner of his sleeve. He wants to throw up and punch a wall at the same time. It’s a disgusting, overwhelming feeling!

After a moment, he turns back towards the apartment and begins walking. The snow continues to fall.

Chapter #2:

-2034

As Kuroda is leaving the scene, he is startled by a heavy hand on his shoulder. Looking back, he found one of the men from the crowd standing behind him. Shaking the hand off Kuroda took a step away.

“Hey man! You need something? Can I help you?”

The man gestured nonthreateningly, giving Kuroda some space.

“No, just thought the cops might want to talk to you, that's it.” The man walked away before he said something he would regret.

Rubbing his forehead in frustration he paced unsteady until eventually an officer approached.

“Several witnesses say you were the one who helped prevent things from escalating further,” the officer said, glancing at his fidgeting fingers.

Nodding, Kuroda shoved a hand into his pocket to hide the movement. “Yes, sir.”

“Can I get your statement on what happened?” The officer produced a small notepad and waited.

It didn’t take long for them to be finished. Kuroda explained that he was a psychotherapy student and after hearing the commotion from a block down how he had rushed over and decided to attempt to assist as much as possible. That is all.

“I appreciate it. We’ll be speaking with the other individuals involved, but things are mostly concluded for tonight. You should head home, son.”

With a few brief pleasantries, they went their separate ways. Kuroda’s voice hadn’t wavered during the entire account. It would have felt like a personal failing had it. Maintaining a delicate composure he made his way back to the apartment.

The lights were dimmed and the television was turned down to a low murmur that drifted from the living area. Kicking off his shoes, Kuroda passed behind the couch towards the hallway. Lyndi and her boyfriend were laying together where they must have fallen asleep watching whatever soap opera had been on.

Kuroda’s bedroom door was never even opened.

He barely made it to the bathroom before his body gave out on him. Sharp, dry heaves left him gripping the bathroom wall. When it was over, there was nothing left to throw up. Just an ache in his chest.

Sinking down onto the cold tiles his back accidentally hit the cabinet. For a while, he didn’t move at all. He was angry, but he couldn’t find a place to put it.

Angry at the woman, then immediately not. Angry at himself, then unsure why. Angry at the crowd. Angry at the fact that there had been a crowd at all. The emotions kept arriving fully formed and dissolving before he could examine them properly. It was insanely frustrating and disorienting.

Did I do it right? The question came back again and again, but he never settled on an answer. It just circled him pointlessly.

He exhaled slowly, concluding that he was just tired. The night had been too loud; too real for comfort. All he wanted was sleep.

But when he tried to imagine closing his eyes, his mind refused to follow. Every time he drifted toward it, something in him snapped back awake. His eyelids remained open.

– — — —

“Kuroda Mason?” The voice came professional and slightly rushed through the phone speaker.

“Yes. This is him.”

Kuroda had been wasting away for three days straight. His bedroom door shut, curtains pulled to block the winter sunlight. There was a half empty energy drink that had long grown warm sitting on the desk. He had skipped two lectures and had no desire to visit the kitchen, certain that he would be ambushed by his sister. Just the thought of her pent up concern and frustration made him feel sick all over again.

“My name is Meranda. I work (I’m a social worker) for the hospital where Miss Sterling was admitted.”

“Pardon, but I’m not sure who Miss Sterling is?” A soft ahh escaped Meranda before she dove into an explanation.

“From the incident near Junction 9 Boulevard. She was the woman you helped to subdue until authorities arrived. Her name is Cassity Sterling.”

“Yea, ok. I remember her. How is she?” Kuroda’s controlled, polite tone wavered slightly.

“She’s doing well. Unfortunately she’ll be kept under observation for a few more days and then admitted to a psychiatric unit afterwards for long term recovery. I am calling because she has requested to speak with you. More specifically, the man who had helped her that night. If you would be so inclined it would be a short call?”

“Of course.” His response came very quickly.

A few minutes passed in moderate silence. He could hear the occasional muffled noise from the other side of the phone. Eventually there was a louder noise and then a voice already too familiar.

“Hello, Mr. Mason?”

“Hi—Kuroda is fine.”

“Kuroda then… h-how are you?”

“I’m doing pretty good. How about you?” He wasn’t sure what Cassity expected from the call, but he wasn’t inept either. A silence stretched between them, thin and uncertain.

“Better,” she said at last. “I wanted to thank you, Kuroda. I wasn’t—I wasn’t in my right mind the other night, and I owe you my life. Is there any way I can repay you?”

Her words carried a sincerity Kuroda couldn’t dismiss. Still, he knew that people struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts often experienced brief periods of clarity before relapsing. Others became skilled at masking their emotions, minimizing the severity of their condition to avoid concern. He understood that he was neither personally nor professionally equipped to help her any further, yet lately he found it difficult to keep his thoughts from spiraling beyond reason. He wanted to help her. He wanted to tie all her loose threads securely and sort out her existence so that it made more sense.

“It’s okay Miss,” he said gently. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“Cassity,” she corrected softly. “You can call me Cassity,” she hesitated. "Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you? Nothing at all!?”

He exhaled quietly through his nose, shifting the phone to his other ear. “Just… promise me you won’t go through anything like that again,” he said. The words came out lighter than what he felt. “That would be enough.”

There was a small, broken sound of a laugh on her end that was wet and unsteady.

“Of course,” she said. “Yes.” The call ended with misty eyes and a genuine goodbye that they both felt a little too much.