The Runt of the Litter

Feeling Far Away, No Space, No Time

Note: Hey, guys, I'm back. I had been planning to do a Christmas chapter but didn't make it in time. Then I wanted to do a New Years chapter but got Covid and was bed ridden for about a week. Basically things are going as great as ever lol. But I've missed you guys so so much, and I really appreciate all the kind words on the last update. I'm gonna answer everyone individually bc y'all are awesome I just have been busy and sick so it's been hard. Anyways...

I had a pretty bad panic attack and wrote this to cope lol. When I was in high school, I used to imagine having one of the boys there to help me whenever I had panic or anxiety attacks, and so I guess in that way, this chapter is a sort of tribute to my younger self. She needed a hug. To any of you who struggled as a kid or struggle now with mental health problems, you're amazing and you're strong and I wish so badly that I could give you a hug. <3 or a Sam and a Dean.

Title comes from Lipstick by Willow. The song kind of matches this story perfectly, but I didn't even realize the connection until afterward when I was looking through my playlists trying to title this story. Play it in the background as you read, if that interests you.

Anna is eighteen.

Feeling Far Away, No Space, No Time

She was losing her mind. She had to be.

It was the only reason Anna could think of that would explain why her own green eyes in the mirror looked so foreign to her. Her pupils were blown, but her mind lagged trying to find the word for what that meant. Fear, her brain drawled, and she lifted her arms shakily to either side of her head, fingers digging cold into her scalp.

She watched a tear slip from one of her eyes. That girl, she thought, is sad. No. Her pupils are blown. She's scared. I'm scared.

Her arms flew down to wrap around her own stomach. Skin against the blue fabric of a shirt that she recognized– didn't remember. There was something wet on her face. Her fingers brushed against her cheek, cold enough to startle her. She flinched so violently that the movement in the mirror made her scare herself again. Another flinch. Her heart beat faster, hit her ribs. I'm scared.

She sought out those eyes. I'm losing my mind. She couldn't look anymore. But she couldn't stop looking. Her eyes slid lower, and she shrunk at the sight in the glass. That girl looked like a puppet. She was a puppet– holding her own strings but unsure of how to use them.

Her attention shifted inward. Short breaths. Her heart hurt. She was nauseous. What was wrong with her? I'm losing my mind. An anxiety attack? No. They didn't feel like this.

Her mouth was moving, but not of her accord. It moved the way her fingers twitched when she'd had too much caffeine. But she wondered idly if there were words there, if they could tell her something about that girl. That puppet. Herself.

She touched the mirror, but didn't notice she was doing it until the cold sweat pressed itself between her fingertip and the glass.

She tried to think of a word for that. Her brain short-circuited. Her breath was so loud. Since when did she breathe so loud? Since when was she crazy? She felt so crazy.

I'm losing my mind.

Her eyes held themselves at gunpoint in the mirror. Pupils wide, tears still there. I'm scared.

She slammed her eyes shut, arms back to squeezing tight around herself. The hug hurt her ribs, and it hurt her brain, and it hurt her fear. But that didn't make sense.

She needed a real hug. But she was too crazy. She looked crazy. She looked like a puppet. Who could hug a puppet? Nobody could hug a puppet, or they would look crazy too. They would look like they had strings.