Begin Again

The panic attack strikes again, this time harder than it ever has before.

I have to squeeze my eyes shut as my vision blurs, and I sit down on the edge of my bed, gripping the sheets so tightly that my fingers ache, but the ache is good; it reminds me that I’m still here, and it gives me something to stay focused on.

I struggle to inhale, but my lungs feel as if they have stopped working, and I gasp, my breath coming in short, shuddery pants. The lump in my throat grows bigger and bigger, and I force myself to relax, to breathe. I get the urge to claw my skin off, to just shed it and run, run as fast as humanly possible. But this island is small, and I wouldn’t get far, anyways.

I feel as if time has been distorted. I suddenly feel trapped, as if no matter where I go, or what I do, I can't escape. Escape from what, I have no idea. I just want to be free. My thoughts have become disjointed, and it's hard to keep track of things because I'm so focused on the random thoughts flickering through my mind. A pair of vivid green eyes flash into my mind, clear as daylight, and I shudder, my stomach heaving in disgust. But then they're gone, replaced instead by a single, haunting thought. I'mgoingtodieI'mgoingtodieI'mgoingtodieI'mgoingtodie.

Breathe, Tori! I instruct myself.

In, out. In, out.

Slowly, I get my heart to return to a normal rhythm, a familiar one, and yet my fingertips still feel slightly numb. I sit there for a few minutes, my eyes closed, the sound of waves crashing against each other drifting in through my open window. I focus on that sound, on the feel of the cool breeze against my overheated skin, on the everlasting smell of saltwater that always seems to follow me everywhere, clinging to my hair, my clothes, my ski...

... middle of paper ...

...y about, and, seeing as it’s about 3:29 in the morning, naturally my mind would much rather stress out than sleep at this point.

You have a doctor’s appointment at ten. Then you’ll know for sure if you have something.

My heart starts beating faster at the prospect of going to the doctors. Most sixteen year old girls aren’t afraid of going to the doctors. But I am. Because they always ask those personal questions. And I just know that they’re going to ask that question. Because they always do. And I’m not sure how to answer it. At least, not since three months ago, when…

No.

I take a deep breath, keeping my heart rate at a normal level, although it sure is a struggle. No, I will not allow myself to think about that. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.

I turn around in my bed, and glance at the digital clock on my nightstand. 3:33. Great.

This is going to be a long night.