When the Camera's Aren't Rolling || Elizabeth Olsen x Child Star

Every future has a past.

SUNDAY  || AUGUST 1st  || 2021

Elizabeth Olsen's POV ~

White sink.

Blue soap.

Gray trashcan.

Black shoes.

Elizabeth Olsen kept repeating these four phrases in her mind in a frivolous attempt to ground herself, trying desperately to focus her energy on her surroundings and not the wave of panic that was threatening to drown her.

She found quickly that police station bathrooms were not the best distraction. Everything in this stupid room was white or black or some dull shade in between, which only drew more attention to the striking red that was covering a significant amount of her torso.

Red.

The water swirling down the drain was tinged with it, and no matter how hard she scrubbed, the crimson refused to wash away. Her hands—her blood-soaked hands—were a gruesome reminder of tonight's events.

Frantic sobs tore from her throat as she furiously rubbed at her skin, bent over the sink, trying in vain to erase what had happened. The scent of metal and soap clung to the air, suffocating her.

The thudding of her heart pounded louder in her ears with each breath, the rise and fall of her chest jagged and out of control. Panic had wrapped its icy fingers around her, squeezing tighter as her mind betrayed her, showing her glimpses of terror that she wasn't fast nor strong enough to repress: the unexpected ringing of her phone; the pleads of a child; the screeching cries of a baby; the blood... so much blood.

"W-white sink... blue s-soap...grey trashcan...black s-shoes..." Elizabeth gasped pitifully through her panic. "White sink... b-blue soap... grey trashcan... black shoes..."

The words were slipping through her grasp, like sand falling too fast through her fingers.

She was not a stranger to panic attacks. They had begun early in her twenties, forcing her through years of trial and error to find ways to ground herself, techniques that had eventually helped her to overcome the worst of it. But now, as the 32-year-old stood alone in the middle of a unisex bathroom in a Los Angeles Police Station, she felt just as lost and helpless as she did at 21, experiencing the claustrophobic embrace of anxiety for the very first time.

"...White sink, blue soap, grey tra-"

A knock at the door shattered her mantra. Her whole body seized, her breath freezing in her chest. For a moment, she couldn't speak. She could barely think.

"Uh... um, it's o-occupied," she managed, hating the sound of her own voice. It was weak, trembling, a far cry from the confidence she normally tried to carry herself with. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that whoever was out there would just go away.

A muffled male voice answered from the other side of the door, "Lizzie, it's me. Are you alright? Can I come in?".

The familiar tone of her husband washed over her like honey, a soothing balm to her cold panic. Scrambling over to the bathroom door, she willed for her shaky hands to cooperate as she fumbled with the lock, until it finally clicked open. And there he was, his concerned brown eyes searching hers.

She had only been separated from him for a handful of minutes, but that didn't deter the sheer relief that filled her body. "Robbie..." Her voice cracked, and with it, so did the last of her composure. She couldn't hold back the flood anymore.

He didn't need her to explain. He stepped in, shutting the door behind him and cupping her tear-streaked face gently in his hands. "Breathe with me, love," he murmured, his voice soft but steady, like an anchor amongst turbulent waves. He inhaled slowly, deeply, and she tried—tried so hard—to follow. But her breaths were shallow, shaking, interrupted by sobs she couldn't stop.