“Addie? Oh my God.” My feet run towards her before I can think straight, falling to my knees opposite her.
My heart drops at the sight of her looking like this. She looks so uncharacteristically vulnerable and it's shaking me. Her face is red, her hands shaking and she's struggling to catch her breath.
She's having a panic attack.
“Name three things you can see, baby.” I instruct her gently, careful not to touch her just in case she becomes more rattled.
I have prior experience with panic attacks—my mother used to get them all the time after my father left. I trained myself as a child to try and diffuse them when they happened.
Her jittery eyes are darting around the room and I can tell she's trying her best to answer, but she's struggling.
“How about three things you can hear?” I try to subdue the desperation from my voice.
“Y—your voice.” She breathes out shakily and I exhale in relief.
She only names one thing, but she's managing to calm her breathing right now. I assess that it's safe to begin touching her now, so I start rubbing circles on her back.
Clearly, that helps, because I feel her breathing calming down to its usual pace. I can't believe I almost left her here, she was probably having this panic attack for a good few minutes.
Thank God I came back.
“It's okay,” I tell her encouragingly, controlling the tremble in my tone.
“I'm sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“For being so fucked up.”
My heart tears a little. “You're not fucked up.”
Dyke. Pervert. Unlovable. Abomination. I've called her so many things but I draw the line when she calls herself fucked up? Oh no. I can feel the guilt slowly seeping out of my bones and I'm so preoccupied trying to understand the reason for her panic attack that I cannot bring the guilt back.
“Why were those headphones so important to you?” I ask gently, changing the subject.
“They were the only thing that stopped it,” she says, devoid of any emotion.
“Stopped what?”
“My father’s voice.”
She's mentioning her father to me again, of her own volition and its sort of rattling me. My heart is beating thunderously.
“It's okay, you can tell me.” I urge her gently, as I stop rubbing her back.
After a few beats she begins, her eyes downcast. “Adam bought me the headphones when I was a kid. I used to wear them when my father used to scream at me.”
I hold my breath. “Why did he scream at you baby?”
“Because I killed my mother.” The words leave her mouth apathetically and she continues. “She died giving birth to me.”
Oh.
“I'm so sorry.”
I can't say anything else—nothing to convey how truly shocked and rattled I am to hear her say those words. She's opening up to me, for once, and I feel my heart tearing more and more.
I listen intently as she continues. “My mother was suffering from too many complications and she told the doctors to save me over herself. My father was against it, but he got to the hospital too late.”
