Light floods the space, chasing shadows to the corners. Slowly, my breathing steadies. I focus on the details of the room—the faded Harley-Davidson poster on the wall, the worn desk by the window, the small clock showing 3:47 AM. Real things. Present things.
I reach for the notebook Doc gave me, recording the nightmare in bullet points. The clinical exercise helps distance me from the terror, transforming lived experience into documented data. The pages are filling up too quickly.
Throat/breathing nightmare again. Third time this week. Worse than before.
Doc says writing them down might reveal patterns we can address. So far, the only pattern I see is that they're getting more frequent, not less. Two weeks since the rescue, and the nights are still battlegrounds.
Sleep won't return now—it never does after that particular memory. I slide out of bed, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders against the pre-dawn chill. My legs are steadier now, the weakness less pronounced. Small victories.
The club is silent at this hour, everyone is either out on business or collapsed in alcohol-induced slumber. I move through the hallways like a ghost, touching walls for both support and grounding. Real. Solid. Here.
In the kitchen, I make tea, the routine calming. One of the few comforts from before that still feels the same. I'm stirring honey into the steaming mug when I hear it—a soft whimper from the common room.
I freeze, tea forgotten, as the sound comes again. Not threatening, but wounded. Cautiously, I move toward the doorway.
A figure sits huddled on the couch, knees drawn up, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Maggie. The woman I've seen around the clubhouse, who Doc mentioned was once like me. A survivor.
I should retreat, give her privacy. Instead, I clear my throat gently.
She looks up, hastily wiping her eyes. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Didn't think anyone was up."
"Nightmares," I offer by way of explanation.
Understanding passes between us, a current of shared experience. She nods, shifting to make room on the couch. "Me too."
I hesitate before joining her, leaving careful space between us. "Does it get better?" The question escapes before I can stop it, raw with need.
Maggie's laugh holds no humor. "Yes and no. The nightmares space out. The triggers get more specific, less random. You learn your limits, your warning signs." She glances at me. "But they don't go away entirely. Not for most of us."
The honesty is both devastating and strangely comforting. At least she isn't feeding me platitudes.
"How long?" I ask.
"Since I got out? Three years, give or take." She tugs her sleeves over her hands, a self-soothing gesture I recognize. "I was with them for eighteen months. Not as long as you."
Five years. The words still feel surreal, a lifetime contained in two syllables.
"How did you... after, I mean—" I struggle to articulate the question.
"How did I become more than what they made me?" Maggie fills in. "It wasn't a straight line, that's for sure." She studies me for a moment. "You're still in the fog. That first part where everything feels unreal, like you're watching your life through dirty glass."
The description is so accurate it steals my breath. "Yes."
"That passes," she says firmly. "I promise you that much. You start to feel present again. Then you start to figure out who you are now."
"I don't know who that is," I admit.
"No one does, at first." She uncurls slightly, her posture relaxing. "Look, I run a place. A shelter for women like us. Would you want to see it? Might help to meet others who've been where you are."
The offer catches me off guard. "You'd take me there?"
"Why not? Doc says you're physically stable enough for short trips." She shrugs. "Unless you're not ready. No pressure."
The thought of leaving the clubhouse sends anxiety skittering along my spine, but something stronger pushes back—the need to see beyond these walls, to glimpse what recovery might actually look like.
"Yes," I say, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. "I'd like that."
Maggie nods, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Tomorrow, then. Or I guess today, technically."