Castaway ➳ cth [EDITING/HIATUS]

Chapter 20

*June's P.O.V*

The first change I noticed on myself were my usually delicate and soft, crème colored fingertips. Instead, the mirror reflected pale, almost white branches.

Eye circles became more prominent. Chestnut-brown eyes were dull and expressionless. Spots on my skin were covered by different shades of red, contrasting strongly with the almost transparent, grey-ish rest of my face.

Not to mention, my dyed hair turned so dry, you could almost mistake it as blue hay. These past days had its costs. My motivation sank every hour I spend doing nothing in particular. I already gave up on sudden miracles.

The constant anxiety that found its way into my daily routine made it impossible to appreciate life and take bold risks. My palms became sweaty and I started to feel like someone wrapped a thick rope around my frail neck, cutting the blood circulation and make it impossible to breath.

Heartaches, as if someone backstabbed me with an eight-inch knife. My lungs turn heavy and it feels like someone pinches me from the inside. Drowning, you're trying to inhale a full breath to come to senses, but the lungs prevent you from doing so. Your right lung begins to feel like it is collapsing and you get overwhelmed by all of the different pain levels that take place in either your head or torso or both.

Yes, anxiety and panic attacks are frightening, yet unpredictable. It happens wherever you are, at a random period of the day, without knowing whether you can calm down easily or you have the potential to black out.

Due to the fact that I have to go to therapy once again, I tried out those breathing exercises I found on the internet. Breathing in 'til the count of seven, breathing out 'til the count of ten. Drink a glass of water, do your makeup to distract yourself.

I found myself sitting on the floor, my fingertips resting slightly below my lower waterline, stretching the skin delicately to create a neat eyeliner-wing. After a good amount of time I was half-heartedly satisfied with the result, but I took it as it was.

My mother was, as expected, already waiting for me in her Range Rover, humming absent-minded to a track by The Strokes. Her shiny brown hair reflected the sun that was about to set in the horizon, indicating the day will be over in any moment.

Arriving at the building were my weekly therapy took place, I instantly searched for Calum, but the whole level appeared to be empty. The only person that accompanied me while waiting was the old lady behind the front desk, who yet just announced the therapy began in around ten minutes.

Those ten minutes were seriously the longest ten minutes I've ever waited. At least other patients arrived one by one, some of them I didn't recognize from last time. They didn't add up though, some of them from last session were missing.

My therapist Miss Miller finally granted us access to Room 7. "Good evening, guys. I hope you had an awesome and sunny week, although...", she hesitated and gazed outside through the window, "the weather seems to be quite rainy and humid lately. But that's not the point right now. We are about to use our imagination today. Who loves to draw, or paint?"

Only two people raised their hands shyly, excluding me. I was never an artistic or creative person. Maybe I will discover new aspects of my life I yet never had noticed.

Miss Miller handed us an enormous piece of art paper, and guided us to the colors that resided on the surface of a tiny, baby pink plastic table.

"I want you to create a picture of your emotions throughout the week. It can be an animal, a type of weather, it doesn't really matter. Just bring something that fits your emotions from this week onto the paper. You don't have to be the most talented artist."