Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

shopping. Even flipping through the countless catalogs that kept showing up in my mailbox was anxiety inducing. Beyond the cost of things—which was stupid high when all was said and done—the seemingly limitless choices were intimidating. Browsing through aisles and aisles or pages and pages of items was a new, fresh torture.

I’d never been on my own. I’d never had to keep track of bills or a budget. I’d never had to decide what I wanted to do with a room.

I didn’t even know what I liked.

How sad was that? To be twenty-one and have no clue what my own preferences were.

Derrick was still talking. Even though the specifics of his words were lost in the blood roaring in my ears, the negative penetrated my mind, sending my panic and anxiety soaring as my sense of self plummeted.

Like a dimmer switch being turned, I could feel myself shutting down. Detaching.

The room seemed eerily quiet except for his voice which had an odd edge to it in my head. Almost like he was speaking through a tin can on a string attached only to my psyche. “Remember, it’s normal to feel overwhelmed or even scared. It can be a difficult transition. The important thing is to reach out if you need help. That’s what I’m here for.”

That’s nice.

He studied me for a moment. “Do you need help?”

I shook my head, desperate for escape. More desperate than I’d ever been, even after one of Dr. Linda’s most intrusive and in-depth sessions.

Reaching out, he squeezed my upper arm. “Good. Moving into your own place and being able to live alone was one of your therapy goals, so it’s important you achieve it. If you change your mind or think of something you need, remember I’m here and can put you in touch with some resources to help.”

That should’ve been comforting. It should’ve been calming. Maybe if I were normal, it would be.

But I wasn’t normal and it wasn’t comforting.

The reminder of my goals made failure lurk over my shoulder, chumming it up with the constant specter of Death.

Dropping his hand, Derrick stepped back. “I’ll let you go so you can run your errands. Let us know what progress you’ve made next week. Maybe share some pictures.”

I wasn’t sure how I looked—whether I was a zombie or if I’d managed to fake a polite smile. I wasn’t even sure I said anything before my wooden legs carried me from the room and out to catch my bus. I felt as if I were dreaming, the edges of my vision and mind hazy. Or maybe floating above myself, watching my body move.

The bus ride seemed to last for hours before we finally reached my stop. I hurried into my building to find another vase in front of my door despite the larger note I’d left with extra tape. I didn’t bother with the junk mail or the flowers. I just stepped over them in my rush to get inside.

Usually, closing and locking my door was cathartic. My space was my haven. I didn’t have to be ON in order to fit in or fear raising red flags. I could just be myself.

Not right then.

The stress of the day didn’t melt away. There was no decompressing. No peace.

No sanctuary in my solitude.

Tension and panic and anxiety filled every inch of me, leaving my extremities numb and tingly. Turning on the TV, I tried to sit, but it was a futile effort. The buzz vibrating through me had me bolting back upright to pace. Needing an outlet for the itch and burn that crawled under my skin.

My gaze landed on the stupid flowers in front of my TV, and I narrowed my eyes to glare at them with misplaced anger.

They aren’t even mine. Why are they my responsibility? Why should I take care of something that doesn’t belong to me when I can’t even take care of myself?

Snatching the vase off the entertainment center, I was planning to march it out to the lobby or dump it in the garbage. But my frustration at the flowers, the responsibility, and life bubbled over to mix with the buzz of anxiety.

Like a full bottle of vinegar had been dumped into a container of baking soda, I exploded.

Hauling back, I barely choked back a scream as I launched the vase across the room.

It hit the wall and shattered into a million tiny shards, dropping to the floor. The fading sun hit the droplets of water just right, making the matte black shimmer like deadly confetti.

Pretty and damaged and useless.

Just like me.

Whatever release I felt from the fit of anger and destruction was momentary. When the burning under my skin returned, it was tenfold, growing the longer I stared at the sharp glass.

My legs moved before I could tell them to. They kept moving even when the little voice in the back of my head pleaded with them to stop. I chanted my mantras. I practiced my breathing. Mentally, I followed the steps and protocols, but physically, I dug around in the back of my closet with a desperation that seemed to fill the room with its acrid stench.

My fingertips brushed across the coarse glitter, and a semblance of peace edged in for the first time all afternoon.

I stood like that for a while. Not looking. Not moving. Just touching.

It was enough.

For then…

Chapter Nine

Giddy

Briar

For succulents, sucka

DREAD COURSED THROUGH me, as if my blood had been replaced by poison.

It wouldn’t be the first time toxins and rot had flowed in my veins.

But my dread wasn’t from that. It was because I had group again, and I didn’t want to go. Well, I never wanted to go, per se. I went because I’d promised Aria and because, without the nominal help it offered, I feared I’d do something that would destroy her.

But that week the trepidation was worse. I couldn’t shake the feeling everyone knew I’d been unraveling. That someone had spent the week watching me and hearing my thoughts.

I couldn’t get