The Alpha's Stolen Mate

Chapter 8 - I'm not crazy, really I'm not

I smiled at the perky blonde as she greeted me from behind her desk, grabbed the closest magazine, and assumed the waiting position. Thanks to David and his hospital connections, as he put it, Dr Whittaker was able to squeeze me in at an ungodly hour first thing in the morning. As far as he was concerned, my mental state was more fragile than a quail's egg. There was no point in arguing, so here I was, again.

"Katarina, please come in." Oh great, what had David told her? A sense of foreboding washed over me taking up residence in my chest.

I plopped down on to the beanbag and braced myself for the onslaught of emotions I knew were coming.

"David tells me you've been having some funny turns at work, what can you tell me about that?" No tiptoeing around the nicities, I noticed, straight to the point.

"I think I feinted, that's all. David is making way more of a deal about this then is necessary."

"David is concerned about you, and for good reason. If there is too much stress on your mental state it could greatly damage or hinder your recovery." She looked up over her clipboard and waved her arm at me in a 'please continue' gesture.

I took a deep breath and swallowed, relaxing further into the beanbag and accepting the inevitable. I was about to be mentally poked and prodded and pushed as far as she could.

"I started to feel really hot, like my blood was about to boil and my skin was all tingley. I had flashbacks from the cage room and a voice in my head was screaming at me to run away as fast as possible."

Well if I didn't sound like a crazy person before, I definitely did now. Dr Whittaker was furiously jotting down notes making me cringe.

"Do you remember what happened directly before you started to feel hot?" The judgement in her eyes, that I expected to see, wasn't there. Genuine sincerity with a desire to help, was all I could see. She was not here to judge, or to listen to the ramblings of a crazy person so she could have a good laugh with her colleagues later. No, she was here to help me look for my memory and support me each time I stumbled.

That look was all the reassurance I needed. Dr Whittaker would need to hear the uncensored version of yesterday if she was ever going to be able to unlock my brain. You can't solve a puzzle if you don't have all the pieces.

From Buck's scent, to the voices in my head, and the familiarity of my escape survival plan. I told Dr Whittaker everything. She scribbled furiously on her clipboard, flicking over pages once they were full. Every now and again, one of those thinking sounds would escape her lips like hmm or argh but the pen never stopped scribbling. I sat up as straight as a beanbag would allow and waited patiently for her verdict. Patient quickly moved to scraping the dirt out from underneath my fingernails with a folded piece of paper I'd found hiding under my beanbag. Finally she put the pen down and looked at me.

"From what I can gather, these episodes appear to be linked to your mental state and high levels of stress you are experiencing."

"I haven't been doing anything out of the ordinary, why now am I getting highly stressed?" As soon as the words left my mouth I knew the answer. Buck. Would her answer be the same?

"There is only one new variable and I'm not a hundred percent sure of what his presence is influencing."

"Okay, so what does that mean?" I was more confused then ever and by smirk Dr Whittaker gave me, I was pretty sure that was written all over my face.

"Let me explain. It was either the sight or smell of this Buck that triggered memory reactions. The physical symptoms are memory fragments. They can be related to both positive and negative memories but I'm not sure which symptoms are related to what reaction." Yeah that was as clear as mud, I thought, glancing down at the remaining dirt under my nails.

"What I want you to do," she said, standing up and heading towards her desk, "is to keep a journal of your feelings and reactions. Specifically the event or experience that triggered your response."

Rifling through the numerous drawers and cabinets, Dr Whittaker pulled out a small, plain looking book. "Here, use this." she stated handing me the book.

"So you can feel completely safe and secure with your entries, this padlock will ensure your privacy." She handed me a sturdy looking, gold padlock with a fingerprint sensor at its base.

I rolled the padlock through my fingers, admiring the craftsmanship, while the good doctor tapped away on her iPad screen. "Right, all ready to go. Put your finger on the sensor and don't move it. "

A red glow lit up the sides of my thumb as the sensor recorded my fingerprint. The arch clicked open and a tiny green light blinked twice.

"It's set to your finger now so make sure you use it for your journal."

I picked up the book, turning it over and over in my hands. The cover was hard and unbending with a thick clasp resting on the front cover. The front page had space for my personal details and the following pages were lined. Threading the lock through the clasp, I locked my new journal and smiled up at Dr Whittaker.

"Write anything and everything in that journal, and write as many times as you like. We can work out any patterns or triggers next time I see you." Her arm gently guiding me to the door.

"Thanks so much for this." I told her raising my new journal in the air as I headed for the elevator. I couldn't believe how much better just holding the journal in my hands made me feel. It was like the Fort Knox of journals. The keeper of secrets and judger of no-one. I could feel the stress relieving possibilities already keeping me sane.