𝔟𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔩𝔲𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 ; 𝔢. 𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔬𝔫

¹¹

After heedfully venturing through the school, we found Miss Kelley's office in a nearby locker bay. Although Max and I were frequent visitors, it was still difficult to navigate through the dimness of the school.

Eddie followed in my wake, and I could sense his unnerved, wearisome aura, even from behind me. He tapped my shoulder multiple times, but I scorned him, nevertheless.

After we had found the minuscule office of Miss Kelley's, and Max had foraged and tested the cluster of keys, we entered the cluttered room.

The beam of my flashlight skims the posters pertaining to mental health, the ones my eyes would scavenge to tune out Miss Kelley's drawling voice. The one that would speak of things I didn't want to talk about.

The light shone on a pile of papers, all of Miss Kelley's brain exercises to utilize during panic attacks, relapses, manic episodes. Pretty much anything where it feels like your mind is blown to smithereens. And those bullshit habituations never worked, anyways.

During a panic attack, the last thing you'd think of is: hell! I'll get up, go sit on a chair, and apply pressure upwards for ten seconds! Oh, and then downwards, ten seconds also! You think about your chest — and the way it feels like a fist is wringing it, severing all your arteries and tendons — expelling the blood. Your limbs — that shaky, nebulous feeling. The disorientation — how nothing feels real, not even you. And most of all, the harrowing foreshadow of death, dallying before your eyes. Because frankly, it feels nothing like a panic attack. More like a heart attack. The mind's attack on the body.

I'm interrupted by the aroma of Eddie's musk, and I turn around, scowling.

"Can we just talk?" He pleads, his flashlight's beam lodged on me, as he skittishly rubs his neck.

I exhale. "No, Eddie. I told you." I hiss under my breath, picking my nail beds. "I don't need your help. Or anyone's, at that."

His brows flick up, as he toils with one of his ringlets. "Listen, Wheeler. I didn't mean to come off — rude, or — intrusive. I just — care about you. I want to help."

I scrunch my nose, ransacking through a drawer of writing utensils and ornamental stationary. "I'm touched, Munson."

He crosses his arms, cocking a brow and reclining against the caddy I'm looting through. I'm suddenly hyperaware of the veins coiling up his vast forearms, and it's becoming majorly difficult to sustain this indignant front.

"So we're back on last name basis, now, are we? Just like old times — hm?" He taunts.

"No," I retort, finding an ornate pen and stuffing it into the pocket of my sweater, "I'm the one on last name basis still."

"That's how I know you're mad. You never call me 'Munson.' I didn't mean to come off as rude, those weren't my intentions." His aura shifts from a more flirtatious, taunting one to a more solemn one. "I didn't know it was still a touchy subject."

"Well, it is." I say haughtily, scouring the room for any suggestions of Miss Kelley's involvement in these murders.

"Guys, I found the files." Max announces, staring at us all mundanely.

Dustin, Steve, Eddie, and I all bustle over to the filing cabinet, targeting the beams of our flashlights on the arrays of files. Her determination to find answers remains unfaltering, and she collects Chrissy and Fred's files. Her fingers ghost over my file, her face sinking into contrition as she glances at me.

"You're seeing Miss Kelley, too?" She inquires quizzically, an almost perplexed, audacious look on her face.

I shrug, a torrid pulsation rippling through my body — as qualm scampers in my stomach, like a trivial little animal. My eyes gander around everyone, and I'm kind of shocked that no one looks even a tad bit shocked. Like — this wasn't a weird thing to them. They didn't think being counseled made me unstable — or even deranged.