Page 52 of Nemesis

My father.

The man who created me. The one who condemned me to this life of pain and hurt and loneliness and…

No, you know what? I am not going to think about that right now, because I’m pretty sure any therapist would agree that surprise daddy issues should wait to be processed after a panic attack passes, not during.

Dirt, Octavia. Think of dirt.

It’s not my first rodeo. At least this time, I’m not panicking in the dark stage wings, seconds from one of the most important performances of my career.

Dirt below my feet.

The soft grains sifting through my fingers, returning to the ground below me.

No, I’m not on stage. I’m just in a room of armed murderers, most of whom are likely related to me, who are watching raptly as my lungs liquefy between weak breaths. My blood congeals in my veins, forcing my heart to squeeze impossibly hard to push it along.

I think someone is speaking in the background, but the words fall short.

Not in the cage.

Not in the darkness.

The reassurances don’t help, because despite the sunlight that filters through the drapes in playful streaks, my skin grows cold. I don’t like the brightness. I want my comforting shadows. I want to be held.

My sight darkens.

“Octavia!” a voice demands, finally cutting through the sound. “What’s wrong?”

Oxygen pounds into my lungs, but not enough flows out.

He needs to come back to me.

I hear my name shouted, but it sounds impossibly far away. Quiet and withdrawn compared to the squelching sound that carves through my memory. Copper twists in my nostrils.

Where is he?

Hands cup my cheeks. My own green eyes stare back at me.

No. Not my eyes.

“What do you need? Please, tell me how to help,” my father begs.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. My throat pinches closed, driving my lungs into a burning panic.

“Shit. Alex, what do I do?”

I climb off the bed, pushing away the arms that reach for me. I need the floor. I need stability. And I would really like some goddamn dirt. A pile, or a bucket, or something.

Liquid streams down my cheeks in a helpless drizzle. I hate crying in public, but I’m too lost to care.

Wood cracks against the wall.

“Octavia…” A gasp. “What the fuck did you do to her?”

The voice is familiar. Solid. A life raft in the cold, blue ocean.

“I didn’t do anything,” someone insists. “She just started panicking! Fix it!”

Hands, rough and familiar, weave under my knees and around my waist. Calloused skin scrapes my own. Suddenly, my useless limbs are trapped against a wide chest in a position my body remembers all too well.