Note: This piece was created for High School Writers Craft, and has themes of panics attacks. Take care!
The floor is cold against my left check. The mound of fat is squished, becoming best friends with the lacquered surface. Very soon it and I will become one; I will no longer be visible atop the surface, but underneath it. I will be the insect and it will be my amber cocoon.
My body is laying across the wood. The separations are imprinting pathways into my skin, pathways that beads of sweat will stroll down. My hairs will be houses the liquid may attach themselves to. Houses where they may grow before leaving to other places. Maybe they’ll move to the city of fabric draping my body. Maybe they’ll move to the jungle of hair on the top of my head. Maybe they’ll fall off and splat.
My mind only focuses briefly to the passing thoughts of living sweat and amber casing. For the most part, it hums with void. Void almost ringing in my skull, the void in between each thought. A void that can be seen in the limbo of sleep. I feel the calm after the storm. The calm after the panic.
Leo cries softly.
Luka whines softly.
The only noise made is from my breath. It’s soft as it gently passes through my lips.
A puddle of phlegm seeps into the wood. I can still taste it on the back of my tongue, the slimy mucus that stopped my breath. It held my airway in its grasp, and was the bouncer to the club of my lungs. He guarded my trachea from the one guest I needed most. Oxygen. My body fired the bouncer. The bouncer now runs through the crack in the floor. It runs through the alleyways of the slum.
My cat paws once at my face. Twice.
Luka is quiette.
I am lucky. This time I did not bite. This time I did not scratch. This time, I left no marks on my arms. No bruises. Nothing that will scar.
But I missed school. Again.
I can already hear the disappointment in my mom’s voice. Already hear the words she’s going to say. About how this won’t happen again; how it can’t happen again.
She and I both know that it will.
In the glossy wood, where my cat doesn’t pace and my phlegm doesn’t seep, I can see reflections. Reflections of the popcorn ceiling. The reflection of the carpet bordering my brother’s room. The reflection of my pale face. My swollen nose. My blotchy eyes.
I roll onto my back. The mentioned area and the balls of my feet press against the cold floor; I have severed the friendship between it and my swollen cheek.
My body is almost at the edge of the stairs, their gloss shines in the sun streaming from the window. I’m trying to connect the dots, to make shapes in the bumps on the ceiling. It’s futile. I can’t see that far. Not without my glasses.
I can barely remember what caused all the puzzles to fall into place. What brought on this attack that I failed to fend against. Was it anxiety at it’s finest? Homework that loomed over my head? Maybe it was the weight of my self-loathing. Or perhaps all forces combined and broke through my barricade.
They were many and strong.
I was weak and one.
I lost the battle.
My eyes are glossy, and reflect off the shining ceiling. It is no longer the speckled one I’m familiar with. Instead, I stare up at a girl. A girl sprawled out like a starfish, with dark curls a halo around her head. A girl defying the laws of gravity.
We both get up. First bending up from our cores; then pushing our limbs up from our arms; then, as we shift weight to and from the balls of our feet, we finally come up and land-centered. Her movements perfectly mirror mine. We both stroll to the elevator located at the far end of the room. My feet are lead. I wonder if hers are too.
We don’t look back upon the room or what happened. We enter the moving box carved out of the crystal wall.
We both leave through it, and I pray to never return.