CAMERON MONAGHAN IMAGINES

Anxiety. (Cameron)

The world is closing in on you. All of the pressures condense and unfold inside you. Your throat closes, making the intake of oxygen impossible. You pace around in your spacious, tidy room, grasping chunks of hair. Your scalp is in pain. You must have pulled out a sixth of the hairs on your head, deeming by the strands sticking to your sweaty palms.

You lean against the wall, heaving.

*Buzz* *Buzz*

Your phone vibrates.

Your shaky fingers prick the phone from your red carpet and you bring it to your ear. "H-Hello?" You tremble.

"Hi! Y/N! Thank god. Are you home?" Cameron's alarming tone increases your pulse, bursting from your wrist.

You inhale irregularly, lungs sounding broken. "Yes." Don't cry. 

"Alright. I'm coming over."

He hangs up.

You're relieved that someone will be your knight in shining armor, but you feel bad for causing Cameron more maintenance. This isn't your first anxiety attack. It won't be your last. Usually, you just cry yourself to sleep or rock back and forth in the fetal position until it ends. Making someone else your problem is hard for you. Asking for help isn't what you do. You don't like to be taken care of.

---

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

"Ah, Fuck!" Tip of your fingernail snaps back. A teaspoon of blood drips down your finger.

That ritual ended like it always does; deep scratches on your tacky wooden walls, a broken nail, and a hand covered in splinters. Your fingers might as well be cacti.

At least pricking the wooden pieces from your flesh would give you something to do with your fidgeting muscles.

With each peice extracted, the release of pain gives you a weird sense of relief, satisfaction even.

"Y/N!" Your pink door swings open, slamming against the scratched wall behind it.

You choke with a gasp.

"I'm just glad *insert best friend's name* called me. I know you didn't' want her to, but you have to understand that someone needs to help you!" Cameron braces your shoulders.

The density of the sun weighs in on your lungs "I c-can't" gasp. "Breathe."

Cameron glares at you with pity. If you could see through his skull, you'd say his mind is racing over  ways to bring you down to tranquility.

You whine and groan to hold back unwanted tears. Twisting around, you impulsively scrape the wall. The wooden peices drive into your skin and your nails bend backwards.

Anyone can tell you do this often. All of your walls are blanketed with gash marks.

"No, fuck, Y/N." Cameron reaches both arms on either side of your shoulders and snatchs your hands from the wall, having a firm grip on your wrists.

You ribcage tightens. "Make it stop." That's the only clear sentence you've spat since the attack began.

Cam's chin rests upon your shoulder, chest against your back. He embraces your hands, pulling them into your collar bones. His teddy-bear actions would normally calm your muscles, but this is no time to be comfortable. No, your body won't allow that.

"Don't scratch anymore, okay, baby?" His lips peck your jawline.

Your shaking is out of control. You tremble so hard, he's forced to unlatch himself from you. You turn your sitting body around.

Don't cry. Don't. Cry.

You look at him, only for a second, before feeling the guilt of being a burden on his day. You glue your eyes to the floor and return them to their position on your head, tugging at chunks of hair.

"Look at me." Cameron breaks the silence. "Baby, look at me."

You lead your eyes up from the ground, afraid of confronting him.

Upon greeting his green eyes, another wave smacks you hard. You thrust back, slamming your skull on the wall. Your chest heaves up and down. With your heart rate, you should be outrunning kidnappers or playing a sport; not sitting in your bed with a helping friend standing over you.

Your blurry vision can still see Cam's image rushing at you. "Fuck. Fuck." He whispers. He clearly wants to assist you, but doesn't know what to do. He's panicking. You're a burden while he's panicking.

Images fade, your world is dark, and vile. The simplest objects in your room appear demonic, hostile. They're all coming at you.

Including the pair of eyes charging your vision.

Cameron's mouth locks onto you. You're urged to hold your breath with it. This wasn't something you'd fathom doing. You need to store new breath, not harbor it.

He keeps himself still to give you the time to realize what he's done. It's like candy stuck to your lips. Minty candy.

Your pulse lowers.It's time to open your eyes.

You see the room as light and calm. The white furniture always brings you to bliss.

Cameron unstitches himself from you, wiping his lips as he pulls back.

Your lungs are clear. The scratch marks on the wall are in high definition. The wood is slashed all around the room, like a tiger came through and tore it up.

Cameron gazes at you, in question of 'did what I do help?' You decide to ease his thoughts.

"How did you know that would work?"

"I read somewhere that an anxiety attack goes away if you hold your breath." He sits on the bed, lost in some thought about the gashes on the wooden. He traces his fingertips along the ones you'd just made.

You hang your head in disapointment of letting your emotions and disorder take over. You hate people seeing you in that condition, but rational thinking is never something that occurs during an attack.

"No.." Cameron's soft voice is match with his velvet fingers lifting your chin. "This." His other hand points at the ground to insinuate 'This situation'. "You can't help this. Your brain chemicals are all kinds of messed up." His hand travels to your jawline, cupping the side of your face. "It's not you, it's genetics. Don't you ever feel bad about this. I will always be here."

You stroke his embracing arm reassuringly and smile weakly. "Thank you."

Cameron veers in, setting a doughy kiss on your forehead.

-----

Hi. I have anxiety disorder and that's why I wrote this. I felt like I could accurately depict what an attack was like so I wanted to do that. 

I was diagnosed when I was 15 and my doctor thought it was a situational anxiety disorder which basically just means it'll go away and the pressures of school/dance/sports would diminish as my brain matures. Well hey. I'm nearly 18 and it's still here. Untreated. So that's fun. It's also one of my biggest secrets so if any of my friends are reading this...Hey there. Now you know :) 

FUCK SORRY I DON'T LIKE TALKING ABOUT MYSELF ALL DEEP LIKE THAT. I thought ya'll should know that imagine was legit. XD 

I love your beautiful...uh...hips? Your...placenta? Maybe........tailbone? Ugh, I give up.

I love your pretty face bye

-Bambi ;)