At First Glance

Chapter 3: Amber

The breathing in the beginning is my form of box breathing, by the way. Box breathing is typically done for four seconds each step, but I do it longer because I like the feeling of having full lungs when holding my breath (just in case you read it and are wondering why its done differently than normal).

WARNING: This chapter includes an autistic meltdown. This includes screaming, crying, overwhelmed senses, and hitting (both on self and on others). Read with caution, and if you feel that you don't want to read that, go to the end for a quick summary of what happened and skip to the second section separator (the part after the three asterisks "*") to continue the story.
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Breathe, Amber.

In for seven.

Hold for seven.

Out for seven.

Repeat.

* * *

"Breathe, Amber." His voice is soft, but it still pierces my ears painfully as I desperately suck in more air. Hot tears trail down my face. I try to push them off, they're so sticky, but I can't get them to stop falling.

"Take a deep breath." He shows me how, but I can barely focus on it. "It's okay."

I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them tightly as I rock back and forth. I push my tears away again, trying to get them to stop, but now my hands are sticky too. I roughly rub my hands against my legs, trying to get the tears off of them, but it makes my pants stick to the sweat on my legs, and my hands don't feel any better.

In a futile attempt to take the sweat and tears off of my palms, I reach out to the older boy in front of me. He moves slightly closer so I can wipe my hands on his shirt, but it's still not working. I wipe my face again because the tears won't stop falling, but I can't get the sticky feeling away.

My clothes feel like they're burning my skin. I stomp the floor and kick my legs out to try to get them to stop. To get everything to just stop. I hit the side of my head with my hands to reset my brain, to make things feel okay again, but that's not working either.

"Stop, Amber, stop." His hands reach out to move my arms away from my head. His hands are usually so gentle, but now they just feel like sandpaper. Rubbing and chaffing away at my already dying body. "Can you tell me what's wrong? What can I do to help you?"

I flap my arms in an attempt to get him to understand, but he doesn't.

The lights are too bright, even though I try to shield my eyes from them, and the sounds are too loud. The scuffle of shoes against tiled floor, the chatter of people across the room, the annoyed mutters of the people walking by, even the gentle words from my brother.

"We're gonna go home, can I pick you up to bring you to the car?" I can see him reach his hand out before I rub my eyes again.

I don't want him touching me right now—I don't want anything touching me right now—but I want to go home so badly. So I nod anyway.

He places his arms around my waist and lifts me into the air. He tries to bring me to his chest, but I'm crying harder and I kick my legs out. I hear him let out a big breath when I accidentally kick him in the stomach. He puts me back down.

I try to say I'm sorry. That I didn't mean to kick him, that I love him and that I didn't mean to hurt him. That the world is just too loud and too bright—that it's too much— for me right now. But I can't bring myself to get a sound out, it takes too much of my energy to even bring it close to my lips, and I don't have much energy left to spend.