The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 425

Blue. Truck.

Sloane's pupils contracted to pinpricks.

The world in front of her shattered like a brick through a window, splintering into a thousand jagged pieces, every single one reflecting the exact same nightmare. A sunny afternoon. Her mother holding her hand as they crossed the street. The sticky sweetness of an unwrapped lollipop in her hand. The clean scent of laundry detergent on her mother's skin.

And then, the blue truck. The exact same shade of blue. The shrieking, metallic scream of brakes tearing through her eardrums. Her mother's hand being violently ripped from hers. The entire world drowning in red.

Her body instantly turned to stone.

She knew the truck was barreling straight for her. She knew she had to run, to dive, to do literally anything. But the connection between her brain and her limbs had been brutally severed.

Her PTSD had triggered.

She was violently dragged back to that exact second in time. Every nerve, every heartbeat, every inch of her skin plunged right back into the moment her mother died. She wasn't an adult anymore. She was a ten-year-old girl standing in a pool of blood, screaming until her vocal cords tore.

The headlights surged closer. She could see the rusted metal on the front bumper. The deafening roar of the engine swallowed the entire alley.

Her canvas bag slipped off her shoulder, crashing into a muddy puddle. The freezing water splashed violently against her ankles.

Run! her mind screamed. Run!

But her legs were filled with lead. She couldn't even bend her knees.

In that split second between life and death, a shadow launched itself from the darkness, hitting her with the force of a hurricane.

She couldn't force a single word out. Her lips were trembling, her teeth chattering violently. She felt like she had been dunked into an ice bath and hauled out, shaking so hard she couldn't command a single finger.

The flashback wasn't over. The horrific imagery of her mother's face and the blinding headlights kept violently overlapping in her vision, stuttering like a broken VHS tape refusing to play anything else.

"It's over. You're okay."

Garrison's voice rumbled against her ear.

He kept her entirely encased in his arms. One hand cradled the back of her head, the other anchored firmly around her back, stroking her spine in a slow, rhythmic, impossibly gentle motion. He became an absolute, impenetrable fortress, completely blocking out the wind, the freezing rain, and the blinding terror of the outside world.

"You're safe now. You're safe."