“Shh, it’s okay! It’s normal to have flashbacks, but you have to try to focus on me now.”
Rescued/escaped hostage starter sentences (no longer accepting)
Lydia wasn’t certain what it had been that drew her back. The sound of his voice? The way he spoke, like he had been exactly where she is now? Maybe a bit. Or perhaps it was the fluid motions he had taken to defend himself against her blows, each kick deflected and dodged, her fists redirected harmlessly away from him, the way his hands had briefly gripped her hips as she had leapt at him, raising her up and away and gently placing her on the ground again, as practiced and fluid as a ballet. Not just a man who knew how to fight, but one who knew how to fight her. A man who had practiced with her and understood the motion of her body. For an instant she wavered between lucidity and confusion, stepping backwards unsteadily once, then twice more; stumbles.
The warmth of an arm around her waist as he caught her, the safety of a hand against her back when she fell forward against him, the rush of air as he whispered soothing words against her hair. That was what finally pulled her back into the moment. Lydia leaned back, a hand against his chest, and he must have thought she was pushing him off of her, but she kept hold of him, keeping him close, and slid her hand up to touch her fingertips to his jaw, eyes sweeping over his face. Focusing, as he had said. There were three red lines along his cheek where her nails had caught him in the struggle, and cold shame settled in her gut. She pulled her gaze away from them and let it settle on his eyes, as though she could communicate through them and share a moment of his calm.
“Okay. Okay.” Tipping her head forward to lean her forehead against his chin, she braced herself against his shoulders. It felt childish, to imagine that someone’s embrace could keep her safe from her own thoughts the way a blanket over her head would guard against monsters, and for a moment she ached to sit on the floor and lean back against her mother’s legs while she braided Lydia’s hair. But her mother needed sleep almost as much as Lydia did.
The grass was prickly against her bare feet, and without a word, she looped her arms around his neck and leaned on him, and he understood, lifting her up in both arms and allowing her to lay her head on his shoulder. They weren’t far from her house. If he hadn’t insisted on stationing himself out front to keep watch, she might be halfway to the preserve by now. The motion of his steps toward the street was soothing, his thumb brushing back and forth against her waist to calm her. By the time he reached her front door, she was asleep.
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