Fear

14

I ended up pacing around the room, doing laps around the bed until I miscalculated and slammed my thigh against the metal frame, causing me to stop cold. But my mind didn't stop. I was spiralling.

It wasn't just fear now. It wasn't just anguish, or guilt, or anger.

Now it was about survival.

I didn't want to let psychosis take over. I didn't want it to consume me. Because this place had ways of doing that to you, relentlessly eroding you, whether or not you let it. But I was trying to hold on. Just a little longer. To my sanity. My agency. Whatever shreds of autonomy I had left.

If I let it, I'd transform. Completely unravel. I'd stop being Emily Parker, and I'd become the shell of her. The bare bones. My body a vessel of fear, anxiety, and paranoia.

I didn't want to become like those poor souls in the cafeteria — empty-eyed, twitching, lost. I didn't want to be that girl I saw rocking violently with her leg bouncing under the table like a ticking bomb. I didn't want to be that man I heard repetitively mumbling something, schizophrenic. I didn't want to be that man hunched over his tray, convinced someone might steal his food. That disgusting, barely edible food.

'Food.'

Only then did I realise how hungry I was. I'd been so afraid that my body had forgotten to feel hunger — like survival had overridden every other function. But the moment I let myself think about it, the cramps twisted in. A gnawing hollowness bloomed deep in my gut, urgent and raw. Like my body was waking up the brain connection to my stomach.

Suddenly, I was excruciatingly starving.

But at the same time, I didn't have a choice. I had to wait. And wait. And wait. Until someone finally decided to walk through my door. Someone I could ask for food. Not Dylan or Tyler. Someone like Lee or James. Someone I could trust.

The pain in my thigh flared as I sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing. It would definitely bruise. I grunted and shifted to find a spot that didn't ache.

Finally, my head turned to the door again, eyes trained on the handle.

How long did I sit there? No idea.

But, eventually, the door creaked open again.

—————————————————————

I recoiled and braced myself to see the scarred, grinning face of Dylan, or the cold, detached face of Tyler. Or anyone else. My body seized up, tight and ready.

The lock twisted — click.

And then — I relaxed.

I could breathe.

James.

He silently stepped inside and closed the door behind him, a clipboard tucked under his arm. I sat up slightly, gauze-wrapped arms still hugging myself, not quite ready to meet his eyes.

Then, he spoke.

"Good morning, Emily."

I just stared at him.

'Morning? Have I been awake all night? Fuck, I don't even know the time in here!'

James was quite observant. I mean, he had to be for his job. But it was like he could read my mind, sometimes. And just like he had, he said:

"Yes, it's morning now... I would get you a clock... but Tyler likely wouldn't allow it."

He said that almost bitterly. Like he'd asked before for other patients. After a thoughtful pause, he nudged the thin-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose and wet his lips slightly, as if grounding himself, before looking back up at me. Properly this time. Like he actually saw me.