Never Said

4. CAN I HELP YOU [Pick, Rome]

★ WARNING: anxiety, panic, soft P'Pick

.oOo.

It hurts.

Breath hitching, chest pain.

Ache.

Fire.

Wait.

A weight that won't lift.

Full lungs that press against the confines of a chest in agony. Terror compounds the hurt, breathing becomes difficult, limbs become numb as the torment rolls, like waves, through the neck and arms.

It hurts so much.

Sweat forms on the brow, hair dampens as the body processes the pain.

Worst of all is the nausea. The need to release the hurt to an almost inhuman degree--a need almost larger than the body itself.

It hurts too much.

It started with a throb, something like soreness, and then slowly, over weeks, escalated. Pressure compounded, mentally and physically, as the episodes became more and more frequent.

More and more insistent.

Even more painful.

Early on it was easy enough to hide the aches. They didn't last long, and they were, in retrospect, not that difficult to mitigate.

A stretch here.

A deep breath there.

A few extra minutes in the bathroom to slow things down and get back to normal, then flash a smile and go back to class or the club room or the photo lab or the mall.

But then it just kept happening...and then there was no way to hide it.

After breakfast.

On a walk.

Running errands.

On the phone.

In the darkroom the red light seemed to magnify the pain. Seeing red, feeling hot, sweat and tears mixing with relief to know no one was nearby to see the pain...

Even at night, tucked in bed, soft and supposedly safe...

And all he could do was suffer through the pain.

Alone. He had to do it alone. No one needed to worry.

Worry.

Wondering...if this was the time he'd have to call the ambulance. If this was the time it was more than a panic attack.

If this time he wouldn't be able to come back from that anguish.

.oOo.

Pick pounded on the door again, concern growing in his gut as he stood waiting for a reply. Shifting his weight, arms folded across his chest, the college senior pressed his ear to the door listening for any sound--a cough, a sneeze, a toilet flush, a microwave beep--anything indicating activity and life on the other side of the very locked door.

But there was nothing.

Just...nothing.

He huffed in frustration and squinted, scanning the area. Late afternoon and surprisingly quiet. Casually running his hand through his hair he made his move.

No one nearby. That makes things easy.

He pulled out his wallet and palmed the lock picks he always carried with him. Once he was certain no one would see, he dropped one knee to the ground and went to work, swiftly adjusting the angle and depth of the two slender picks in order to manipulate the mechanism within the door lock. A sharp 'click' signalled his success--the door was unlocked.