First Light

51 tiny invisible daggers

Friday 18th of March 2022 (the following week)

Marlo:

I envy people who get to sleep quickly. It must feel so great to drop off a few minutes after your eyes are closed.

I have been trying to get to sleep for nearly 3 hours now. The room is pitch-black, and I've tried to lay as still as possible and slow my breathing, but nothing's working. My eyes have only been opened to occasionally check the time. To check how much time is being wasted by me not being able to sleep.

My mind is not quiet right now. Thoughts racing around my head quicker than I can properly keep track of. One thought has to link to another thought, and another, and so forth that it feels like it'll never end. That my mind will not want to shut up.

I think of Faye, who told me I can call her if I need to, but I don't even think I want to be around her. And that's not aimed at her specifically, I just don't think I want to be around anyone right now. This mood I'm feeling currently is definitely an isolation-type.

After another few minutes of incessant thought-racing, I decide to get up. Maybe being in my room is the problem.

I check the time on my phone as I'm putting on my coat: 5.05am. I'm not even surprised.

The walk from my room to the elevator makes me think of Faye, and I hesitate with my finger over the buttons, thinking about whether I should press her floor. I push the number 0.

I hear voices outside the doors as the lift slowly comes to a halt on floor 4, and they open to a group of drunk students. My eyes quickly flick over each of their faces to see if I know any of them, but I thankfully don't, so I back into the corner while they stumble in, laughing at seemingly nothing in particular.

"You alright, mate?" I hear one of the boys direct this at me over my music.

I don't even so much as look at him, instead watching as his friend fumbles over trying to push the ground floor button, despite it having been pushed previously by me.

"Suit yourself." The same boy grumbles at my lack of response.

One of the girls notices and looks - no stares at me. I pull out my phone so I can avoid eye-contact.

"He's got headphones in, Jer, leave him alone." She says this to the first boy, presumably about me.

Jer huffs, going to lean against the wall but falling slightly against me. This annoys me way more than it should.

"Watch it, will you?" I snap at him.

He stares in astonishment, stuttering out an apology while his friends fall silent. One by one, they all burst out laughing, but I'm not sure if it's at him or at me.

Either way, once the lift doors open on the ground floor, I push past them, walking fast towards the gates of the accommodation. I feel completely wide awake, like I've just chugged a million espressos.

I don't even pay attention to where I'm going until the floor underneath me changes from concrete to dirt and twigs, and yet I'm still walking, rushing like I'm late to be somewhere. I don't know how long I walk, but I'm suddenly winded, leaning against a tree for some sort of support to keep me upright. The bark is wet and rough against my hand, and it scratches my skin as I feel myself lean slightly.

Something is wrong, very wrong. Every cold intake of breath seems not to be working, like my lungs aren't filling up with air as much as they should, and it's like drowning, almost, just not with water.

And then there is water. Not from around me but falling from my eyes, warm tears spilling down my face, turning my vision blurry. Every desperate gasp of air is painful to my chest. My lungs have either suddenly shrunk significantly or the air is toxic, containing tiny invisible daggers that scratch at the inside of my throat, my lungs, my stomach.

I can't seem to control them either, my breaths. They are becoming quicker and quicker, and I've long since forgotten what it's like to be able to breathe through my nose. The cold air is drying my mouth so much I have never craved water as much as I do right now.

I wonder for a second if I'm dying, if this is how I go. If I had wanted to see Faye, could this have been avoided?

Faye.

A memory of her floats to the surface of my mind, of her telling me about her anxiety. Mentioning having panic attacks a lot when she was a kid. She described them to me; how she felt like she couldn't breathe, losing track of it, everything feeling overwhelming.

This is it, this is what is happening to me now. I am having a panic attack.

I remember her telling me that the only way she could stop it was by holding her breath, so that's what I do now. As long as I can, even though my lungs are screaming at me. I physically feel my heart quiet and slow down, so I repeat it a few more times until I feel steady enough to stand up properly. My whole body is shaking, but I don't know if it's from the cold or what just happened.

I wipe my face dry of tears, my hand stinging suddenly, and I wince, pulling it away from my face. In the soft moonlight, I see my palm has been cut. It's only small, not deep enough to have drawn blood. It must've been from the tree, from me slipping and struggling to keep myself upright.

For the first time since I got here, I take in my surroundings. My heart plummets into my stomach, thinking I've discovered a secret place in the forest and am therefore lost, but this area of the woods is definitely familiar. All of it is familiar to me. The intake of breath is a relieved one, and I am thankful to find that it feels normal, like it should.