Chapter 6 - Shadows of Trauma
As the weeks turned into months, Maya began to bloom. She grew taller, her cheeks filled out, and she began to laugh—a sound that Damon realized was more valuable than any stock option he had ever acquired. He enrolled her in an elite private school that specialized in children who had experienced trauma, and he adjusted his work hours, leaving the office by 4:00 PM every day to be home for dinner.
However, healing is never a straight line. The trauma of the fire and her time on the streets ran deep.
It happened during a fierce spring thunderstorm. Damon was in his study, reviewing financial reports, when a massive clap of thunder shook the penthouse, followed by a sudden flash of lightning that caused the city lights to flicker.
Within seconds, the fire alarms in the building, triggered by a minor electrical surge in the basement, began to blare a loud, piercing siren.
Damon instantly dropped his papers and ran down the hallway to Maya's room. "Maya!"
The room was empty. The canopy bed was neatly made, but she wasn't in it. Panic gripped Damon's chest. "Maya! Where are you?"
He searched her bathroom, the closet, the playroom. Nothing. The alarm continued to shriek, a terrifying reminder of the night she lost her mother.
Damon ran into the living room. He noticed the heavy velvet curtains near the corner window were rustling. He rushed over and pulled them back.
Maya was curled into a tiny ball in the narrow space between the couch and the glass window, her knees pulled tightly to her chest. She had Barnaby shoved against her face, blocking her nose and mouth. She was hyperventilating, her eyes wide with sheer, unadulterated terror, staring at the ceiling as if she expected fire to rain down at any second.
"Fire... fire..." she gasped, unable to breathe properly. "The smoke... it's coming... Mommy..."
Damon didn't try to pull her out. He knew that forcing her would only escalate her panic. Instead, he squeezed himself into the narrow space right beside her, sitting on the floor, his long legs cramped against the glass.
"Maya, it's me. It's Damon," he said, keeping his voice steady despite the alarm hammering in his ears. He reached out and placed his large hand gently over her heart, feeling it racing like a trapped bird. "I am right here. Look at me. There is no fire. It’s just a loud noise. The building is safe. You are safe."
"I can't breathe," she choked out, tears blinding her.
"Yes, you can. Follow my lead," Damon said. He took a deep, loud breath in, then let it out slowly. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it with me, Maya."
He repeated the breathing exercise over and over, ignoring the alarm, ignoring the world outside. Slowly, desperately, Maya began to mimic him. Her erratic breathing began to slow. The terror in her eyes receded slightly, replaced by recognition.
"Damon?" she whispered, her voice tiny.
May you like
"I'm right here, sweetheart," he said, using the term of endearment for the first time. "I'm not going anywhere. The alarm is just a broken wire. There is no smoke. I promise you."
He pulled her into his lap, wrapping his large arms around her like a protective shield. She buried her face in his neck, trembling as the alarm finally cut off, leaving a ringing silence in the penthouse. They sat there in the dark for an hour, Damon holding her tight, realizing that the scars on her mind would take much longer to heal than the bruises on her body. He knew he had to be patient; he would sit in the dark with her for as long as it took.
