Dear Diary | Proxies

xxxi. panic attacks and matted fur

Dear Diary,
Do you think that dogs should vote?

I awoke with a gasp, throwing myself forward and out of the hold the boys had on me. I looked around wildly, chest heaving and throat burning. It was still dark, though morning light was beginning to peek through the tree line. I craned my neck around, shakily throwing the boys' arms off from around me. Toby's was the worst. He had been curled up with almost his entire upper body on my stomach, but he was out cold, obviously tired from the exercise from yesterday.

I pushed myself to a standing position, looking wildly into the surrounding area. The fire had died out long ago, but there was still a bit of smoke rising from it, and the smell filled my lungs uncomfortably, putting me even more on edge. I felt claustrophobic even though I was in an open space, and I felt watched. I continued turning, searching frantically for whatever it was that was making my skin crawl uncomfortably. There had to be something. Someone.

I took a few steps back only to trip on a limb sending myself flailing to the ground. It had been Brian's arm that had been stuck out to try and reach somewhat for me in his sleep even though he and Tim had shifted off to the side a bit sometimes during sleep. The man made a noise of discomfort, face twitching before opening his eyes. He looked confused for a second, and then his eyes fell on me, but I was already looking far off into the tree line. There was someone; there had to be someone, but where-"

I crawled back a bit, breathing stuck in my throat. If I moved faster, I could get away, but the boys - I couldn't leave the boys. Who was there? What was there?

"June?" Brian's voice seemed muffled far-off as I clambered to stand, palm hitting a tree behind me and helping me push myself up to a stand as I continued my search.

A distant sound was heard, almost like a lullaby, as I stumbled back a bit more, now farther away from them than I'd like to be but not exactly sure what to do? Even as I moved though, the music continued. It was like a wind-up box - one that my mother had given to me as a child. I didn't recognize this song, though. I clutched a hand to my chest, bunching my shirt fabric into my tight fist.

Then, jerked my head to the side as a hand was placed on my shoulder, my entire body freezing in fear. I took a few more gasping breaths as I realized who it was. Brian. Brian? He didn't look right - he didn't.

I took a step away from him before falling flat on my ass again. He moved slowly, hands raised in front of him like I was a wounded animal. Was I? Why was I so afraid? Why did my back burn like there was someone behind me when there wasn't as far as I could see? Why was his face blurry - a mash of blobs and incomprehensible shapes.

But there were his hands, palms out flat, each finger separated slightly. His fingertips were red, hands obviously scuffed from being out in the woods. There was a scar right in the middle of his right palm.

I had been tracing his hands one night when Brian had told me it came from Toby. He had asked Slender to keep it because he thought it was funny.

"He was particularly rowdy one night, and we had gotten into a play fight. We had forgotten that we were still very much in work uniforms, and I ended up trying to grab at him and got the blade of his hatchet instead. Tim lost his shit, and it hurt like a bitch, but I thought it was hilarious." He trailed off for a moment. "That's the only time Toby's won a fight with me - the night that I fuckin' stabbed myself."

Brian's hands. Brian's calloused, always slightly dirty, scarred hands. He twisted them, holding them out for me to take instead, and I shakily placed my palms onto his. His face was still blocked, but he moved closer before dropping onto the floor in front of me, sitting close enough to watch but far enough that I was comfortable.