I watched as the clock on my bedside table changed minute after minute. At this point, I was wishing I didn't disregard the pizza and beer earlier tonight. The beer would at least let me shut my mind off long enough to pass out. Or I would pass out from the beer, either way I wouldn't be laying here completely pissed off and anxious.
I tried counting sheep, I tried telling myself that each individual part of my body was tired like I learned as a kid, I tried to count backwards by threes. Anything and everything to keep my mind focused on something simple. No matter what my thoughts kept circling back to my interactions with Gage.
He was infuriating. For some reason he had it in his head I needed to be saved and he was going to be the one to do it. I grew up with the personal belief that the princess saves her self. There was no one I could count on to save me so it had to be me. At 28 I certainly did not need some knight riding in on his supped up cop car trying to save me from what lurked in the dark. Besides, you can't fight what can't be seen. And at this point the only thing troubling me is my memories.
After hours of laying there I finally stormed to my kitchen for something to drink. I had to have some alcohol left in here, no way did I drink it all while I was on my unwanted vacation. Pulling a chair up to my counter, I climbed up to check the very back of the cabinet. One of the disadvantages of being just over five feet, I could never see what got pushed to back.
In the very back corner of the cabinet above the fridge I had a bottle of butterscotch liquor I had no intention of drinking. But it was what was hiding behind it that had my breath stuck in my throat. In the shadow of the bottle was a porcelain statue that I mentally blocked from memory. It was a boy and a girl, mirror images of myself and my brother, a gift from my mom when I hit double digits. It was meant to represent the love between my brother and I, the two kids frozen in an embrace, him protecting her in a tight hug.
Taking the dolls in my hand I could feel a panic attack clawing at my insides. The feeling of two large hands reaching inside my chest and squeezing my lungs and heart, I had to fight to breath as close to normal as possible. Why this doll made the move with my to every place I have lived since moving out is beyond anything I can currently comprehend.
The sweat is starting to bead on my forehead and palms. If I'm not careful, the porcelain will slip from my hands. A grin spreads on my face and I know I look maniacal without even looking in a mirror. My pulse is pounding in my ears and my vision is starting to get spotty. Still standing on top of my counter, I look to the floor. It seems so far down now, but rationally I know I'm not even ten feet off the ground. The tile floor seems to sparkle now, looking like a mirage. This panic is completely fucking with my head because between shallow breaths and the blood racing through my veins, I determine my personal version of Chucky doll has to be destroyed.
Nothing has ever made more sense to me than that does at this moment. I have been labeled crazy, insane, lost, broken and a multitude of other things, but never once did I embrace those words like I do in this moment. With a disturbing amount of glee, I raise the offensive doll above my head and one by one raise my fingers off the cold surface.
With a sick fascination I watch it tumble to the floor below me. It's like it happens in slow motion and I cannot wait for the final moment when it meets the ceramic tile. There has to be something clinically wrong with me that I am enjoying this as much as a normal person would enjoy fireworks or a carnival. Finally, with a crack that makes me shudder, it feels like something clicks into place. I watch with that same sick smile on my face as the pieces of the boy and girl shatter and spread across my kitchen. It's beautiful.
Sighing, I step down onto the chair and then to the floor. Not as carefully as I should, considering I am barefoot. I slowly spin around and take in the destruction scattered around my usually pristine floor. My OCD is screaming that I take care of this immediately, but the more dominate part of me the part born when the doll cracked calmly says to leave it. Let it lay here, where it belongs, hundreds of pieces of something so much bigger than a doll. A significant part of my childhood, the birthday my mother decided I was becoming a "big girl", is now in shambles.
My heart rate has returned to normal and my hands have stopped trembling. My breathing is no longer rapid and the sweat that formed on my face feels cold now. I can't think of a time that my panic attack has come and gone that fast. It is usually quite an ordeal to come down from one as bad as this was. Instant gratification is not something that exists with a panic disorder.
With a deep breath in then out, I chuckle to myself and even though it sounds slightly psychotic, I feel peaceful. Suddenly, I am bone tired, like I haven't slept in days. Slowly, I make my way back to my bed and before my feet even have a chance to warm all the way up again, I am sleeping.
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A/N: This chapter is clearly shorter than the first two, but it has everything it needed. To make it longer would take away from the "scene" in the chapter. So, here it is. There is so much hurt and pain that is evident in Meadow, have any of you done anything like she did in this chapter? Taken something from the past or something that triggered a memory and destroyed it as a way to get over it?
Let me know in the comments! Thank you all so much for reading this. :-)
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Where My Demons Hide
General FictionMost little girls were afraid of the monster under their bed. I was afraid of the one who crawled under my covers. Parents are supposed to protect you from the nightmares that keep you up at night. My mother was one of the reasons I couldn't sleep...
