Fuckinghell.
He’s actually fuckinghere.
The note slips from my fingers, and both palms dive into my hair, my fingers tangling with the strands and squeezing them tight until my scalp pricks with pain.
Lionel didn’t just find me. He wasin my room.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Panic completely takes over, and the world blinks out for a moment.
Then, I’m on my knees, my arms crossed over my stomach, hands gripping my shirt in tight fists as I bend forward, pressing my forehead into the thin carpet. My head swims, and black spots fill my vision. I’ve no recollection of collapsing, nor of several stints of time after.
The only thing I’m aware of is my inability to breathe.
My chest refuses to expand, no matter how loud my lungs scream for it to. I’m no longer in the driver’s seat of my body. Now, I’m in the back, forced to watch as it loses function, helpless to stop it, to stop myself from careening over a proverbial bridge and slamming into the black waters below. Helpless to stop the water from filling my lungs and preventing me from taking a breath. I’m helpless to it all.
To my father.
To Dread.
They sit on either side of me, staring at me with evil smirks on their faces as they watch me drown. Instead of helping me, they strap me down with a seat belt, ensuring I never escape.
Because that’s my reality.
I willneverescape them.
My body pitches sideways, and I land heavily on my side. It’s enough to jostle my body out of its self-imposed paralysis, allowing me to take a single breath.
I inhale deeply, the sound loud and strained. Oxygen floods my lungs, expanding them painfully and causing me to curl deeper into myself. Of its own accord, it greedily takes in another sip of air, and another, until my chest is pumping too quickly.
I see nothing, hear nothing, as I tremble violently. I’m no longer sure if I’m shaking or having a seizure, but my consciousness is incapable of stopping it from happening. All I can do is ride it out.
Eventually, my extremities slowly relax while my vision creeps back in. My face, fingers, and feet tingle with numbness, but my breathing is evening out.
By the time I regain control over myself again, my stomach continues to roll with nausea, and tears have soaked my cheeks, plastering strands of hair to them. My upper back aches, feeling as if my lungs are constricting around a rock with every inhale.
I’m given no further warning before my stomach lurches, and vomit rises. I’m scrambling to my feet and into the connected half bath in my dorm. My knees hit the tile with acrack, but I feel nothing outside of the awful pain of purging my stomach into the bowl. The little amount of lunch I ate earlier comes right back up, then nothing but bile.
For several long minutes, I dry heave, having nothing left to give despite my body demanding I expel more. I’m happy to spit out every one of my organs as long as it puts me out of this misery.
Finally, my body calms, and I spend an indistinguishable amount of time with my head on my propped-up arm, my world spinning, just trying to breathe. I have no energy left, but I scrounge up just enough to coerce my muscles to stand and take the two steps over to the sink, squeeze a dollop of toothpaste onto my brush, and scrub my tongue and teeth, leaning heavily on the porcelain as I do. If I die, I refuse to go out tasting vomit in my mouth.
Then, I convince my legs to carry me back into the room and collapse on my bed. Sloppily, I pat around the mattress until my palm slaps my phone where I haphazardly threw it before getting changed.
I’m unable to see a damn thing I’m doing until I rub the tears from my eyes and quickly find Barry’s contact number.
The phone rings and rings before going to voicemail.
“Fuck,” I mutter beneath my breath, hanging up and instantly redialing. My other hand flies to my North Star necklace, anxiously sliding it back and forth on the chain.
It’s nearly midnight in California, but I know for a fact that man always has his ringer on high, just in case he gets called in.
Just when I think it’s going to go to voicemail again, his voice comes through the speaker.
“Rev? Is everything okay?”
Within four words, it went from riddled with sleep to alert.
