In A Week I Will Be Dead

Chapter Eighteen: Gone

!!!TW!!!

Unkind thoughts, suicidal thoughts

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Myself

About Anxiety:

Ah, the beauty of pressure. You don't work, because you've been told you work too hard and you need to have down time. You feel guilty as you are not working, and this turns into panic. You panic, and have to calm down and stay calm, so you work. Another evil cycle that is inescapable. Whenever I don't do work, even if I'm sleeping, I will feel so ridiculously guilty that I will get up at 3:00am and do the homework.

Imagine you are in a black box, with windows on every side. Out of one of these windows you can see success, out of another happiness, out of a further one you see hope and the last one you see other people being cared for. You scream out, but nobody sees you. For the box does not exist in the physical form, but is your brain. Now imagine that the box starts to fill up with water. You panic. It rises over your feet, then your ankles, and finally your waist. You know the water will not stop. You bang your fists in vain on the inside of your little black box, and cry. Nobody through the transparent holes can hear you, because they don't care. You sit in the corner of the box, and weep. There's no point in trying to stop the water because it will always continue to rise. The sparkling fluid engulfs your head, and there is silence. You can see three rays of light spearing through the water, creating three little rainbows. The colours sweep over your hands, and everything becomes still and beautiful.

When you wake up, there was never any water. Your thoughts provided the filling sensation. Your head is light, and feels like a giant balloon. Your palpitating heart has sped up to an alarming rate. You stand up, and see that the emissions from the sun are hitting the glass of a window, creating a trio of arched colours.

This is what having a panic attack feels like. But there is also a burning in your chest, because your heart has decided to heat up from its cold unemotional state. I hate these. Sometimes, I can hear my inner voice playing like a broken record from the walls of the room. Their vocals reverberate around the space, memories form the past cutting into the present. They always talk about a light at the end of the tunnel. There is, but in the white light a black silhouette can be seen, advancing towards you. This is him, he is back from your partnership. He places his hand over your face to stop you crying out. He merges with your form, twisting around the inside of your bones and reversing your nervous system so it likes pain. Finally, the smoky shadow gives your brain a warm embrace. Your pupils contract so your soul can complete its transformation, for eyes are windows to the soul. Existence becomes relative.

Noah

I let her go, looking at her face, and I study it with my own eyes. I recall a quote, 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder'. I always thought it meant that beauty is objective. Beauty changes from man to man. But now, as I see my reflection in her eyes, I realise that she must be sitting in the iris of mine as well. Beauty, literally, is in the eye of the beholder. That beholder is me.

I try to find the right words to express this singular second in my life. But I stumble, and trip over the possible phrases and quotes. Instead, I just stand there, dumbfounded.

She places the jumper into my hand, and I put it back on. She then pushes me gently towards the door.

'Are you Anonymous Crow?'

She just stands and smiles at me, her eyes glistening over in the moonlight.

'Not anymore.'

I hope against hope this isn't the last time I see her.