Chapter 4 — PTSD (Numb in an Anonymous Embrace)

"Psychology. Even though it falls more under social studies than biology, I want to discuss PTSD.”

Books were opened, pens at the ready. I gazed at Mr. Orion’s back from behind. The screech of the marker on the whiteboard filled the room, embracing the ticking sound of the clock. The cursive handwriting caught my eye: ‘Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.’

“PTSD is one of the mental disorders within the cluster of stress and trauma-related disorders,” Mr. Orion explained. “This disorder affects the psychological state after a traumatic event occurs. It isn't always a physical wound, but a wound stored in the memory.”

Desperately trying to focus on the lesson, my concentration was broken. Dimas, the rowdy boy sitting across from me, was busily folding paper for heaven knows what. My head was bowed as my pen busily took notes, when suddenly a paper duck origami was tossed onto my desk.

Turning my head, my eyes widened. Dimas was repeatedly mouthing something, though no sound came out. His lips kept gasping like a fish.

“Peen. Peen.”

“What?”

Clearing his throat for a moment, Dimas straightened his collar. “Pen. Borrow a pen.”

All attention turned to us as Dimas’s bass voice echoed through the classroom, interrupting Mr. Orion’s serious lecture. It invited a confused look from him as he glanced back and forth between us.

I was paralyzed with embarrassment. How could Dimas borrow a pen every single day? And during class, nonetheless. Unable to stand being the center of attention, I hid my face behind my wide book.

The book was tapped, and a head was nudged. Mr. Orion tapped Dimas’s desk with a pen.

“Buy one next time, Dimas. Don’t just rely on having the ink,” Mr. Orion remarked jokingly, filling the awkward silence that had begun to spread. It sparked laughter throughout the classroom.

“May I continue?” Mr. Orion asked.

“Yes, Sir,” the class answered in unison.

Several subtypes of PTSD were written on the board.

“PTSD is divided into several subtypes...” Mr. Orion continued. “There is Acute Stress Disorder, Uncomplicated PTSD, Complex (CPTSD), Delayed-Onset PTSD, and Comorbid PTSD.”

I opened the psychology book I had "borrowed" from home, the one belonging to Ara. I flipped to the middle pages. My eyes rounded as I looked at the two-dimensional records—faces of the wounded. A sticky note fell out. It read: ‘CPTSD sufferer, feels like her child hasn't died yet.’

“Sir! If someone is sick, where should they go...?” asked Dion, Dimas’s seatmate, breaking my concentration. His hand patted Dimas while he acted out a dramatic sob. “Poor Dimas here, Sir. His medicine has run out.”

I couldn't help but giggle. The classroom felt like a marketplace as the two boys traded antics. Mr. Orion covered his mouth, unable to mediate. I bit my lip to suppress a grin as I watched Dimas smack Dion with a biology book.

“To a psychiatrist. I’m serious, you can go to a psychologist or a psychiatrist,” Mr. Orion pointed out in a serious tone, ending the scene of the pair hitting each other with books.

Maya, my seatmate, raised her hand. The girl ranked number one was always curious. “Sir... can a psychiatrist get sick too?”

I fell silent; suddenly my ears were ringing. My eyes stared at the misty window. Speaking of psychiatrists, I found myself thinking of Ara. Had Ara ever been sick and treated herself?

“Psychiatrists are humans too...” Mr. Orion answered. “Emotional exhaustion, work pressure, the social environment, even home life can cause anyone to experience depression or trauma,” the explanation drifted vaguely through my head. If only my ears couldn't hear.

“Those who are sick do not just heal by themselves, but also through the support of parents and the love of those around them.”

The bell rang loudly, transforming the quiet classroom into a busy one. It cast a spell that cleared the books from the desks. The marker marks were quickly erased. It quickened the students' steps to submit their assignments. The stack of books was neatly arranged. Mr. Orion looked around.

“So... which good child wants to help me?” A thin smile was plastered on his face as his hand patted two tall stacks of books.

“The birthday girl, Sir. Karina.”

My daydream drifted away as my name was mentioned by Dimas. Smiling playfully, I stepped out from my desk. I tucked my damp bangs behind my ear.

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Clouds gathered, painting the sky blue. Hearing the downpour, painting the dusk, a drizzle began to fall. Meanwhile, a soft breeze brought a chill, accompanying the sun that faithfully warmed the skin.

I walked with Mr. Orion along the school corridor, carrying a stack of books toward the teachers' lounge. Many students were scurrying about with scout poles, pushing themselves in preparation for the competition.

“You weren't chosen for the competition?” Mr. Orion asked as small talk.

“Hm.” I smiled, giving a casual reply.

Accidentally, my white shoe stepped into a puddle. Absorbing the grime, the white turned dingy. I kept walking; Mr. Orion didn't look back. My muddy shoe followed his black ones.

“Sir...” I called him. “Why does Karina feel so bored?”

He didn't reply; Mr. Orion was staring at the library across from the teachers' lounge.

“Sir...” I called again. “Karina is bored with school. I want to work.”

A glint of light reflected our shadows walking on the ground. Our height difference was vast, our distance was not close—perhaps my voice wasn't heard.

"If you were to teach at my tutoring center, would you want to?"

"I would, Sir."

My shoes screeched as Mr. Orion’s shoes came to a halt. My forehead nearly bumped into his back. Mr. Orion turned around with a furrowed brow. Whatever was in his mind, I wished I could see through it.

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“Where should I put the books, Sir?”

The books were neatly arranged. A photo of his father was framed at the corner of the desk. A laptop glowed brightly next to a full bottle of coffee.

It seemed Mr. Orion would be staying late at school. I could tell from his articles, which were still a mess. The stack of books in my hands moved to his left hand. Mr. Orion looked around. His right hand tucked a photo into the drawer.

Swallowing hard, I observed the surroundings. The other teachers had already gone home. Only the two of us remained. It was Mr. Orion’s habit: teaching until late, forcing students to join his free tutoring sessions. Strangely, all the students liked it.

Including me. Just as a student who liked her teacher. Maybe. Only that much.

His eyebrows arched as his smile spread. His hand touched the chair as he spoke, “Why are you still here?” He looked at me in wonder.

“Sir... let me help you edit the articles,” I pleaded.

“Weren't you chosen to join the scouting competition?”

“Hehe... I don’t like scouting, Sir.” Unable to lie, my "cat whiskers" smile bloomed.

The stack of papers on the desk sat perfectly beside a foldable phone. My fingernails were a mess from being picked at by my fingers as I waited for Mr. Orion, who was busily rummaging through a drawer.

“Dimas took my pen. I should have asked for it back earlier,” he explained as he sat down in the chair. His knee gently closed the drawer.

“Dimas is just like that, Sir... forgetful. He borrows my pen every day and often loses them,” I complained.

Mr. Orion chuckled. I just realized he had dimples.

“I bet your pens are being resold,” he replied, his laughter spreading. I went quiet for a moment. He had a point.

Reaching into my jacket pocket, a pen was gripped in my hand. “Here, Sir. Use mine.”

Mr. Orion shook his head while opening the drawer. “No, I’m used to using my own....” Pulling out a stack of forms, he continued, “Once I’m comfortable, I don’t want anything else.”

He handed the papers in his grip to me. “Unless it’s absolutely necessary...” His eyes met mine. “Just work on this, okay?”

I froze as my knee accidentally brushed against his.

“So... what do you like...?” His gaze was so intent. I almost choked. “You said earlier you don’t like scouting.”

Blushing. My smile was a mess; my "cat whiskers" were likely scattered. I held my cheeks with both hands. My face heated up; it felt like it was going to explode.

“I don’t know,” I answered with a giggle.

To be honest, I was always confused whenever I was asked about hobbies, interests, or dreams. Truly, I had no answer, or perhaps I simply didn't have the right to have one.

I stared at the sheet of paper in my hand. The title caught my attention: Myers–Briggs Type Indicator. There were several pages filled with questions about personality. The answers were on a Likert scale.

“What is this for, Sir?”

“The principal asked for help to assist students in choosing jobs that match their interests and skills. Because if a job doesn't match one's interests or skills, the result might be less than satisfying.”

I nodded. This was easy—just being honest about my personality, who couldn't do that? I capped my pen before starting to answer.

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“Karina!”

I had intended to go to the library to look for Wi-Fi, but my steps halted when my name was called.

Turning around, suddenly everything slowed down as our eyes met. The cheers of the scouts faded from my ears. The surroundings blurred, and my soul drifted toward him. His gentle gaze made my heart pound. Mr. Orion crossed through the drizzle, approaching me as I stood in the center. His hand held the top of my head, shielding me so the rain wouldn't wet me.

“For you,” he said with a spreading smile. “Happy Birthday.”

A mini box wrapped in stars was held in his hand. It teased the corners of my lips to pull upward. My cheeks flushed as I reached for the gift. Without a word to explain it, laughter flew to the clouds in the warmth of our shared gaze.

Before I knew it, the rain had been conjured into a rainbow. My name is Karina, I’m turning Seventeen. Tomorrow morning, I might not be able to be this happy again.

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