Guilt and shame slices through my belly a million times, and the urge to drown myself in a pool of whiskey is as strong as the urge to drown myself in water after baking in the sun.

I’ve been sitting on Hannah’s leather couch in her office for a whole five minutes, and I’m ready to haul my ass out of here. My feet tap against the carpet, and I want to vomit all over my expensive loafers.

I don’t tell her the nightmares are back, and I don’t tell her I relive this very day. If I tell her everything, she’ll encourage me to join a fucking support group, and I’m not about to showcase my demons to a bunch of people I don’t know.

“Let’s take a stroll down memory lane. Do you remember what happened today?”

She smacks her gum loudly as she taps her black ballpoint pen on her notebook. Her jet-black dreadlocks fall down her shoulders, and she has on a creamy blouse and yellow pencil skirt.

“Will it help my PTSD?” I murmur.

“Yeah.” She writes something down on her pad. “Sometimes walking yourself through the event can help you remember. Some people who suffer from traumatic events only remember bits and pieces.”

“Blood everywhere, the smell of gun residue, Rylee banging on the door begging for Ellis to open up, and me . . .” I close my eyes as tears tickle the insides of my lids. “Fleeing the scene.”

I grind my molars so hard that they throb, my chest tightens, and my heart beats rapidly as if I downed twenty drinks of Red Bull.

“It’s normal to experience the exact same emotions all over again.” Calm flickers through her eyes.

“I want to fucking drink until I’m unconscious,” I blurt out. “I want to sleep this day away.” I’m so fucking pissed I want to go apeshit on this furniture and punch a hole in the wall.

“Do you need a minute?”

I shake my head.

“If you want to go to sleep, then by all means do that, but don’t drink. It isn’t a good coping mechanism. How often are you drinking?”

“Four to five times a week.”

“Every week?”

I nod.

“You’re experiencing dissociation again, aren’t you?”

I finally admit to it and nod.

“How often?”

“More frequent than usual. Maybe two to three times a week.”

Last week, I had one moment of dissociation in the middle of a conference call with Darien, and I had to end it early because I just couldn’t tell what was real and what was my imagination. When will this shit stop? My soul weeps, and I’m so fucking exhausted.

“You’re following in the same pattern as when you first started our sessions. You need to take your anti—”

“I’m not taking that shit again.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes.