It was me in there( 9-1-1 )

Police Station

Buck stared at the glass doors of the police station, his heart hammering so loudly it drowned out the sounds of the world around him. His car keys dug into his palm as he clenched them tightly, the metal biting into his skin a small anchor to reality.

You need to do this, Buck, he told himself, but the thought didn't bring him any closer to moving.

The building was a monolith of authority, its gray stone exterior cold and imposing. It was supposed to be a place of safety, of justice. Instead, it felt like a prison—a place where the truth he'd locked deep inside himself would finally be set free, leaving him vulnerable and exposed.

"Mumma would want you to be safe," he whispered, his voice shaking. "She would want you to be brave."

The reminder of her steadied him just enough to take a step forward. Then another. And another.

By the time he reached the doors, his hands were trembling so hard he had to shove them into the pockets of his hoodie. He paused, staring at his faint reflection in the glass. His pale face looked gaunt, his eyes red-rimmed from too many sleepless nights.

Just get it over with, he thought. You can do this.

But as he pushed the door open and stepped inside, the sterile smell of the station and the low hum of activity hit him like a physical force. His chest tightened, and the familiar weight of panic began to settle over him.

The receptionist at the desk looked up, her professional smile faltering slightly when she saw him. "Can I help you?" she asked gently.

"I—" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, trying again. "I need to report something. It's... it's urgent."

Her eyes softened as she took in his disheveled appearance and the obvious distress in his voice. "Of course. Can I get your name?"

"Evan Buckley," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Alright, Mr. Buckley. Please have a seat. I'll let someone know you're here."

Buck nodded stiffly, his legs feeling like jelly as he lowered himself into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs along the wall. He stared down at his hands, his vision blurring as his breathing began to quicken.

The receptionist's voice faded into the background as his mind raced, replaying everything that had brought him here. His dad's fists. His mumma's screams. The gunshot that hadn't hit him but might as well have.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts. He could feel the panic building, a storm gathering strength inside him.

A door opened, and a male officer stepped into the room, his notepad in hand. "Mr. Buckley?" he said, his voice calm and steady.

Buck forced himself to stand, his legs trembling as he followed the officer down a narrow hallway. The walls seemed to close in around him, the air feeling heavier with every step.

They entered a small interview room, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over the metal table and chairs. Buck sat down, gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"I'm Officer Daniels," the man said, taking a seat across from him. "I understand you're here to report something. Can you tell me what's going on?"

Buck opened his mouth, but no words came out. The weight of everything he needed to say pressed down on him, suffocating him.

"It's alright," Daniels said gently. "Take your time."

"I... I don't know where to start," Buck whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Why don't you start with what brought you here today?"

Buck's hands clenched into fists on the table. His head was spinning, the words tumbling over each other in his mind. "It's my dad," he said finally, his voice breaking. "He's... he's dangerous."

Daniels' pen hovered over his notepad. "Dangerous how?"

Buck's breathing hitched, and he shook his head. "I can't... I can't do this."

"It's okay," Daniels said softly. "You're safe here."

But Buck didn't feel safe. The room was too small, the walls too close. His chest heaved as he tried to take a deep breath, but the air didn't seem to reach his lungs.

"Mr. Buckley?" Daniels' voice was distant, muffled.

"I can't breathe," Buck gasped, clutching his chest. His vision blurred, the room spinning around him.

"Hey, look at me," Daniels said, his voice growing more urgent. "You're having a panic attack. Try to slow your breathing, okay?"

But Buck couldn't slow it. His breaths came faster and faster, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. His hands clawed at the edge of the table, desperate for something solid to hold onto.

"I... I can't..." His voice broke, and a sob tore from his throat.

Daniels stood, moving to his side, but Buck stumbled to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"I can't do this!" he cried, pushing past Daniels and bolting out of the room.

He didn't stop until he was outside, collapsing onto the curb as he gasped for air. His hands shook uncontrollably as tears streamed down his face.

The world around him faded into the background, the sound of his ragged breathing filling his ears. He wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forth as he sobbed.

"Mumma," he choked out, his voice raw. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He didn't know how long he sat there, his body trembling with the force of his sobs. By the time he managed to catch his breath, his throat was raw, and his head throbbed from crying so hard.

He looked back at the police station, the glass doors reflecting the broken man he'd become. He couldn't go back in—not now.

With a shaky breath, he stood and stumbled toward his car, his legs barely holding him up. He climbed into the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he stared straight ahead.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice breaking. "I tried, Mumma. I tried."

He drove away, the weight of his failure pressing down on him like a crushing wave. He hated himself for not being able to do it, for letting his fear win again.

But the echo of his mumma's voice stayed with him, a fragile thread of comfort amidst the storm raging inside him.

"I love you so much, Bucky. Never be afraid."