The Broken

"Remember, don't speak unless someone directly asks you a question, okay? And be vague when you answer. The more detail you give them, the easier it'll be for them to pick apart your story or find holes," Agent Cooper said.

It was the day before the conference, one day since I'd come home. The two agents assigned to my case were with me in a small room at the hospital. They'd commandeered an office from the psyche ward where my counseling sessions were to be held.

And, apparently, my "interviews".

I nodded mechanically, staring down at the table next to me. I was supposed to talk with the therapist when they were done, but the two agents didn't seem like they were going to stop talking anytime soon.

The therapist was next to me, sitting on the desk chair while I was on the couch across from the desk. She was good at peppering encouragements to me when I needed them, and she often reprimanded the agents for being too boorish.

Ava Rogan, my counselor and impromptu guardian, was a tiny thing, smaller even than me. She had a welcoming smile and a commanding way about her that made up for her height.

As expected, she had her handy dandy notebook and a fancy pen with which to write in it.

The room we were in wasn't that big; a small side table was at my right with some Kleenex and a fake potted plant, and a plethora of posters with various coping mechanisms and stages of several common mental illnesses hung from the walls.

Agents Cooper and Rawlings were standing, going over a list of things on an iPad.

"Let's run through it one more time," Agent Cooper said, scrolling across the screen with his finger. They'd read through that thing about a million times now.

I just wanted to go home if I wasn't going to receive any actual counseling.

Ava narrowed her eyes and leaned forward in her seat. "You will have time to run through it again with her later tomorrow. Why don't you give her a break and skedaddle so I can do my job?"

Rawlins hadn't said much this whole time and it seemed as if he wanted to be there about as much as I did.

Cooper was the one who liked to hear himself talk.

"We have to make sure she has this down so well even she believes that it's what happened," Cooper insisted. "She still can't get her means of escape down right, so we have to go over it until she—"

"Agent, give her your notes as homework. She'll do fine! Get out of my office so I can have time with my client alone!" Ava snapped, swinging her own pad of paper like she meant to hit him.

"Look, you work for us and you should know that we need—"

She cut him off again. "I am here in lieu of her parents. Her best interests are in my hands, and she's had enough of you."

Cooper looked like he was going to argue, but Rawlins stepped in. "She's right. We've done what we can. We shouldn't rely on her anyway, since I'm sure she doesn't even want to go."

"I don't," I muttered. The idea of going to a damn press conference was sickening.

"Look, I'm just trying to make sure we get it right so it's less painful for everyone," Cooper huffed.

After his partner gave him a stern glare, Cooper sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, alright. Sorry, you're right."

Agent Rawlins let Cooper leave first and then turned back toward us. Rawlins said, "We'll be in touch sometime before the conference."

Both Ava and I watched the door until it clicked shut, and then I turned back toward her and stared at the area around her feet.

"I'm going to mess this up and get in trouble," I muttered despondently, leaning against my hand.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll be just fine," Ava assured me while moving to the desk. "How have you been feeling lately?"

I pulled at a loose string dangling from the hem of my shirt and sighed. "Not great."

The commanding air Ava had adopted with the agents was gone. She crossed her legs at the knee and leaned forward, her expression full of so much pity it made me uncomfortable.

"I can imagine. Do you want to tell me 'what' you've been feeling?"

It was hard to pinpoint the most direct answer to her question. I was feeling a lot of things. I averted my gaze to stare at a poster about depression.

"I dunno. Sad, mad, scared."

"Do you feel scared all the time?"

I shook my head. "Just at night. In the dark. When I wake up . . . if I hear certain sounds."

She scribbled in her notepad. "That's perfectly normal. All of these things you've mentioned, all normal. You shouldn't be ashamed of having these reactions."

"What if I am?" I asked.

A faint smile graced her distinctly Asian features. "That's normal, too. Whenever you start to feel ashamed, though, just recognize that feeling and try to let it go, like setting free a butterfly. These emotions are all part of the process."

"I'll try," I muttered, skeptical of her advice.

"Now, why do you feel mad?" she asked, moving on.

I shrugged. "I'm not really sure."

The poster behind Ava was suggesting that perhaps I was projecting, but whatever.

"Okay. Maybe we can come back to that during a time when you're feeling angry. How have you been sleeping?"

"Not very well," I sighed, sinking further into my chair. Even then I was feeling exhausted.

She canted her head, a strand of her short black hair fell in front of her face. My heart throbbed and I had to look away; she'd reminded me of Wolf.

"Have you been given any medicine to help with that?" she asked me.

"Yeah."

"And does it?"

Again, I just shrugged. "I mean, I guess. If I take them."

Her pen bobbed as she scribbled that down and asked, "Do you not take them?"

"No. I mean, not very often. I don't . . . want to sleep. I can't stand the nightmares."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know." I rubbed the side of my face. "I don't think there's anything to talk about. They're just nightmares."

Ava watched me quietly.

"The worst is the sleep paralysis," I continued.

Her face brightened somewhat and she was up, flitting around the room. She searched drawers and racks of pamphlets before coming back with one and giving it to me.

"The good news," she stated, "is that there are things you can do about that at home. We can also start you on an antidepressant if you want, and of course anxiety meds and your sleeping aids should help."

Her excitement seemed misplaced but maybe it was just because she could start helping. I skimmed the sleep paralysis pamphlet: it seemed straight forward. Go to bed at the same time, avoid sleeping on my back, de-stress before bed . . .

Maybe I could do that.

She offered me a reassuring smile. I looked away from her. "Do you want to talk about the things that make you sad?

My throat tightened and I stared at my lap, trying to will away the tears. "I don't want to do the conference. I don't want to talk about anything that happened."

"Did . . . something happen that you're afraid to talk about? Or is the whole thing too much to relive?" she asked in a quiet voice.

I hesitated before answering, unsure I was ready to admit to anything even to my therapist. "Both."

"Both," she repeated. That pitying expression was back.

When I offered no further insight, merely sat there and tried not to give into my despair, she said, "Do you mind if I tell you something?"

I heaved a sigh and nodded. "Yeah, okay. That's fine."

She smiled and leaned back in her seat. "Alright. First, I need you to understand that none of this is your fault, okay Nichole? The last thing you should do is blame yourself."

Despite myself, her words brought the familiar sting of pre-tears to my eyes.

/Michelle had fallen. Jess pulled me back so we could help her. I tore my hand out of hers and kept running—running—running—/

/"Nichole, wait!"/

"You did a miraculous thing that night and should be proud of yourself for pulling through it. Saving others is not your burden to bear," she continued.

/Jess hunched over, coughing blood-tinged spittle into her hands./

/Michelle, screaming, her boyfriend holding her back. Jess' ribs cracked and I froze with fear—/

My gut wrenched and I clenched my eyes shut, reminding myself to breathe. I put my hands on either side of my head.

A whimper escaped me. "I left them . . ."

Ava left her seat and came to me, kneeling down and taking my hands in hers. "It's an awful feeling, I know, but do not blame yourself. You were as brave and strong as you needed to be."

/"Nichole, wait!"/

/Run . . . don't look back . . . run . . . they'll slow you down . . . run . . ./

I took a deep breath and blinked away the tears threatening to spill. I didn't want to deal with any of this. The memories—the emotions—my trembling hands—

Recognition flit across Ava's face and she said, "Nichole, come back. Focus. What are five things you can see?"

I hadn't realized it, but I was gasping for air.

"Five things you can see, Nichole."

My eyes darted around and I announced the things that caught them. "I see . . . I see you. The window, and the trees outside."

Slowly, I gained control of my breathing.

"The, the posters on the wall. And . . . and . . ." I floundered for one more, unique thing, and then pointed it out. "And these tissues."

"Good," Ava cooed. "Very good. Four things you can hear, now."

I sniffed and wiped my eyes, listening hard. "I can hear my voice. The, uh, the AC." The fan was droning in the background, pouring cool air into the room.

"Two more," Ava murmured.

"Your voice . . . and someone outside. Waking and talking."

The footsteps and faint voice passed by our closed door and my heartrate started to stabilize.

Ava smiled. "Three things you can feel."

That one I had to think about, but it took me out if my own head and I came up with them after a moment.

"My heart beating in my chest and . . . my knee is aching. I can feel your hands," I said, able to keep my voice even. The tears had stopped.

"Almost done. You can do it. Two things you can smell," Ava coached.

"Something fruity," I murmured after taking a deep breath in through my nose, "and . . . and bleach."

Ava chuckled. "The 'something fruity' is my hairspray. Last thing, Nichole. One thing you can taste."

At first, I couldn't come up with anything. I hadn't had anything to eat or drink for a few hours, so I was at a loss. I went so far as so swipe my tongue around in my mouth.

"There's a sore on the inside of my lip. I can taste that," I said at last. I'd taken to chewing on the inside of my lips and cheeks as of late and made a mental note to try and stop.

"That's great, Nichole. You did so well," Ava said. She finally let go of my hands but didn't move from where she was kneeling. "Feel better?"

"Kind of, I guess."

"If you get caught like that again, in a panic attack, just remember to do that. The 5-4-3-2-1 method," she explained, finally standing.

I nodded.

"It's supposed to pull you back into the present and make you more mindful. It should help you if it happens again," Ava elaborated, sitting at her desk.

"Thank you . . . it did help."

Ava smiled at me and my hands balled into fists. "I'm glad. Do you have any questions for me about anything?"

Though I did have some questions, I wasn't sure if she could answer any of them. There wasn't any harm in asking, at least.

"This isn't the first time, is it?"

Ava blinked at me. "The first time for what?"

I scratched absently at a scab and glanced around, looking everywhere but at her. "Y'know. That aliens . . . and stuff."

Forming complete thoughts was obviously beyond me.

She took a deep breath. "Well, it's not the first time someone's encounter aliens but it's not a common occurrence, either."

Now she had my attention. I sat up straighter in my chair and said, "With the same ones I saw on the ship?"

"I'm never privy to that much information, unfortunately," she admitted. "They don't tell me specifics, just that my patients have had a close encounter and to . . ."

"Fix them?" I offered.

"So to say. I help them process their feelings and give them someone to talk to about the truth. It helps them heal." She brushed a strand of hair from her face. "And of course to prescribe certain drugs to help manage their symptoms."

I nodded slowly, digesting this information. The fact that I wasn't the first person and wasn't going to be the last person.

How many of them were abductees from little gray men with big eyes?

Maybe I'd ask the agents, though they probably wouldn't want to tell me much.

"Of course," Ava added after a moment's thought, "there are different types of encounters so how I help people depends on that, too. Your encounter is somewhere between the Fourth and sixth kind."

There were different kinds? I'd seen the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind and another alien movie called The Fourth Kind but I hadn't really thought much of it.

Ava was still talking. "You were technically abducted, there was direct communication, and there were deaths. Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth."

"What are the others?" I asked mechanically. It was somewhat intriguing, but I was left with the tight feeling of foreboding in my gut.

She considered the question, then explained. "In order; visual sightings, physical effects, and the presence of an animated creature. There is, I guess, a Seventh kind, which yours might qualify for . . ."

"What's that?"

Her confidence and certainty were replaced by discomfort. "It basically means that there was the creation of a human/alien hybrid. Which, from what I do know about your encounter, the aliens used humans to reproduce."

It all seemed straight forward enough, though it was still odd to me that they categorized alien encounters. I supposed it made sense.

To change the subject, Ava retrieved more pamphlets to go over with me. For what time we had left, she went over them with me and wrote a couple of prescriptions.

Then, I was sent home to have those filled and get more rest. Mom was waiting for me outside in the cart and we didn't talk much on the way home.

The next day, I was going to have to go to the press conference. I used all the time I had to go over everything the agents had told me. Overall, though, I was feeling a little better.

But not by much.