Invictus || Book 1

C.01 - Hestia

Breathe, please breathe.

There is a split second, a small shift that isn't entirely dependent on Hestia struggling to drag a ragged breath into her lungs where she thinks, this can't be my life.

Because it can't.

It can't just be anxiety attacks in bathroom stalls of too-bright convenience stores without any logical cause; just the seconds before -the quiet calm of scanning the overpriced chocolate bar selection and then the after -a suffocating thick sludge smeared in between the gaps of her ribcage.

Please bloody breathe.

"Hestia!"

Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, heavy with shame -with exhaustion. Still, Hestia can't bring herself to call out to the voice, can barely bring herself to take another breath.

Breathe. Don't cry. Just breathe and do.not.cry.

"Sorry, wrong stall...Hestia!" Her sister's voice carries across the restroom, persistent, shrill, yet still somehow comforting and familiar. It acts as an anchor, strong enough to tie Hestia down so that when she takes in a breath this time not only does she feel the air seep into her lungs but she knows that's what is happening.

It's still only a flitting pause of relief and then Hestia is placing her hands on the sides of the stall, trying not to fixate on the tacky sensation under her palms.

"Hestia, I swear if you don't answer me I'm going to-"

Hestia knows she can't hide in the stall forever but she'd rather run head-first into a brick wall than walk out looking like she's just spent fifteen minutes spiralling. So she scrambles to gain some fragile sense of control over herself, even if it's just a faint illusion of it, and she holds on tight. Just enough to school her features into something vacant.

Seconds after she deems herself ready Hestia whips the door to her toilet stall open. "You'll do what, Francis?" Knocking her shoulder against Francis on her way to the sink, Hestia momentarily enjoys the satisfaction only a sibling can get from watching her sister's face morph into a contorted mask of immature irritability.

"Whatever."

Hestia tries to be discreet in observing her sister as she washes her hands but seconds into the task their gazes lock. Hestia watches as the snotty expression on Francis's melts into something softer, something an awful lot like concern. 

"Have you been crying?" 

It would seem Hestia has done a crap job at appearing fine if Francis of all people -a girl not usually aware of anything outside of her orbit can see that something is wrong.

"Nah." Hestia shakes her head and quickly dons a broad smile that feels as nightmarish as it probably looks on her face. "The dumpage sesh was just really intense."

It incites such intense disgust in Francis that the younger sibling storms out of the toilets, concern forgotten as she hurls a 'grow up' Hestia's way.

The smile drops from Hestia's lips the minute Francis is out of view as she stares down at her hands, frustrated when they tremble against the cool surface of the sink's marbled countertop.

For one horrifying second, Hestia swears she can feel her heart trying to crawl its way up her throat. She scans the bathroom and tries to pin something down long enough to blame it for that heavy dread, but there isn't anything, just her.

And that's the problem. Isn't it?

The door to the restroom squeaks open and Hestia quickly hides her hands in the pockets of her hoodie.