Tales From Hell | ✓

» 0 | Crimson «

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βυσσινί :
Greek, hues of all the wrong memories.

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πριν:
Greek, shadows of what could've been.

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The wind stilled.

And the world around him grew silent; the sound of the waves crashing against the shore became the only thing he could hear.

Until he couldn't anymore.

The moment he opened his eyes, the reality of all that had transpired in the last twenty four hours finally sunk into his head. It took him a moment to realize that he was not in Greece, in the rustic shack a walking distance away from the Ionian Sea, rather he was back home in Nigeria- miles away.

The air conditioning of the luggage carousel waiting area was as good as nothing due to the large amount of people waiting for their luggage to arrive. The weight of the two-year old girl draped over his shoulder did nothing but increase the heat he felt, his flimsy, striped shirt drenched in sweat.

From his peripheral view, he could see that the girl was no longer asleep, she was babbling to herself whilst staring at the VIP lounge across the room, her emerald eyes fixated on something. He glanced at the VIP lounge; visions of cool, proper air-conditioned rooms, comfortable chairs, chilled refreshments and free Wi-Fi service danced before his eyes, wishing more than anything to walk there, reveal his identity and have them wait on him, hand and foot; but he couldn't risk anyone finding out that he was at the airport instead of the conference his wife had used to hide the fact that she hadn't seen nor heard from her husband in over a year.

The mere thought of going back to his sprawling estate in Guzape and meeting his wives and children after he disappeared on them was frightening, and it had been making him anxious since he woke up to find a note and the space beside him on the bed empty.

His heartbeat quickened in trepidation, his stomach knotted and suddenly his clothes were slowly strangling him, the walls of the waiting area started closing in on him, the people multiplied in numbers, his hands were shaking and his throat had closed up, his cry for help dead on his vocal chords. The room started spinning, increasing its speed by the minute, his lungs refused to accept more air; he started breathing heavily, panting for oxygen, he was breathing but he couldn't feel the air through his nostrils.

There was no way he was having an anxiety attack at the moment, only he truly was having an anxiety attack at the moment. In public. Where everyone could freely dissect him and judge him.