No, actually, Iamon the verge of panicking.
I just killed someone.
Who attacked me.
In my own house.
I can hear Aunt Em’s voice in my head.Deep breath. In and out.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then push it back out again.
I had my first panic attack the summer I turned thirteen. It was Em who talked me through it. I didn’t know what to do with that rising vibration in my throat, or the hot buzz up my spine, the way my head swam and my thoughts swirled and my body cramped up.
There was the overwhelming urge to run, but nowhere to run to.
Em took my hand and her warmth spread through me and she said,Right here. Focus on me and your breaths. I’ve got you. You’re safe.
Sometimes I would have nightmares where I was running, trying to get home, but home was always just out of my reach. I’d wake up shouting and Em would be there.
I thought I’d outgrown panic attacks. It’s been years.
Breathe.
You’re safe.
Am I though?
I take a few steps away from the body of the woman who attacked me.
I can’t look at her yet.
I can’t face what I’ve done.
I’m okay. For now.
I want to run.
I don’t know where to run to.
Get your bearings, Em would say.
I’m in the middle of a field with a picket fence running its length. I can see across the distance as if it’s daylight even though the sky is dark. There is a quiet hush to the world that reminds me of slowly falling snow, as if the thick darkness overhead has swallowed up all sound or pressed it down so low it can barely be heard.
My breathing slowly returns to a normal cadence. My heart stops drumming in my ears.
One thing at a time.
“What kind of darkness is this?”
One of the men steps forward. He has short black hair and, deep brown eyes, and wears overalls with stitched-on patches in a rainbow of colors. “It’s the Great and Terrible Curse. It’s a dark cloud that settled over the land many years ago.”
“Is it daytime then?” I glance over at him and he gives me a nod.
Just how far did the cyclone carry me and how do I get back home to Em and Henry?
I turn to the crowd. Another man comes forward and the others go quiet. This one is close to six feet with dark stubble along his jaw and a run of tattoos on his left hand. They looklike letters, but if they are, they’re a language I’m not familiar with. With the tattooed hand, he rakes his hair back, but the ends curl up, defying him.
He’s wearing a denim shirt, the top two buttons undone, revealing a flash of chest hair. His shoulders are broad, arms thick and strong.
