saints and soldiers » klance

37: The Good Left Undone

All because of you
I haven't slept in so long
When I do I dream
Of drowning in the ocean

There wasn't enough air in here. He kept breathing, fast, but there were still spots dancing before his eyes, he wasn't getting enough air, not enough air, and it was so, so hot-

He bolted upright in bed, gasping, fingers clawing weakly at the sheets. They were tangled around his legs, and he was so- he couldn't think straight, but he was so- not scared, that wasn't the word- anxious, this was anxiety, he was having a panic attack- he was supposed to breathe when this happened? Something about breathing in and holding his breath and breathing out again but he couldn't- could not remember...

Anxiety clutched at his stomach, twisting it violently, and he struggled against the sheets, scrambling to get out of bed. They wouldn't let him go, wrapped around his legs, tangled up somehow- his breathing grew still more ragged as he shoved at them and finally broke free, tumbling from the bed and onto the floor. He wanted to get up, to move- even just pace the floor, do something, he really needed to move- but he was dizzy and his vision was blurred- not enough air-

He collapsed back against the hardwood, ignoring the sting in his shoulder blades. His shirt was gone, on the floor somewhere- he'd been taking it off as he slept lately, and waking up later drenched in sweat, the sheets kicked to the floor. He didn't always scream from his nightmares anymore, though that happened often- too often- far too often. Now, there were other things- there was waking up with his hair plastered to his forehead and leaning over the edge of his bed to retch from the strength of the phantom pains attacking his body and the panic clutching his stomach. There was waking up unable to move, watching his old master raging around him, feeling the pain of blows landing and being unsure if that moment was the dream, or the last few months had been. There was being unable to sleep at all- still- and thus having no way to escape the hallucinations, no way to flee the concrete walls closing in on him and the miserable old man screaming foul words, no blissful escape into unconsciousness, even for a few minutes.

His thoughts were a mess, he couldn't think couldn't breathe couldn't feel his legs, couldn't speak or yell even though he saw- there, in the corner- walking toward him- belt- no, no, no-

He thought he must have passed out, because when he could think again, he could breathe, and his master was no longer stalking toward him. Slowly, he stretched his fingers, working up his arms- elbows, shoulders, neck, and then down his legs. Taking a shuddering breath and trying to toss away the lingering shreds of anxiety tugging naggingly at his gut, he sat up, groping in the dark for his bed. He had shut the blinds, hoping it would help him sleep, and it had- but now he regretted it, because the room was too dark, too claustrophobic, even though he could still hear the city moving along outside. So, so loud here, and that had its comforts- but he wondered what it would be like to be somewhere quiet, somewhere secluded. Somewhere where it was just him and his thoughts, somewhere he could know, for sure, that there was no master lurking in the corner, waiting to reclaim him and drag him back to the hell that seemed to have taken up most of his life.

It was strange, really, that it seemed like so much of his life had been in that place. Six years- about a third. And still it felt like he'd hardly ever known anything else. His mother's string of abusive boyfriends, the dead look in her eyes, the way she used to scream at him- they'd all been long since replaced by vastly more frightening nightmares, nightmares that suffocated him even when he was awake; nightmares that he couldn't outrun or escape, no matter what he did. They haunted him, prodding at the edge of his conscious. It was as if they were living things, waiting for his guard to drop so they could slip through the cracks and pounce- hallucinations, bad dreams, even just memories that froze him to the spot. He was trying, so hard, because, against all odds, he'd found something worth trying for- he had friends, had... something like a family. But he didn't know how he could ever win against something intangible, because the demons that plagued him never got tired... and he was exhausted.

He hadn't told Lance and the others about the number of panic attacks he'd been having. The hallucinations and screaming nightmares and sleep paralysis scared them enough, and there were others here, he knew with certainty, that went through worse than he did. There were other things to worry about, other people who needed their concern more. He should be able to do it on his own. He couldn't... he couldn't rely on other people. He had to do it on his own. He had to do things on his own, that was how it worked.

He collapsed back against his pillow, thankful that the sheets were cool now. He hated when they were warm, hot with the fear of his nightmares; they felt more suffocating that way, closer, restricting, like snakes binding his arms to his ribs and his legs in place until he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't even think. His thoughts did that to him enough; he didn't want his bed to do it to him too.

He'd already counted all the cracks in the ceiling a million times, but he counted them again. And then again. And then again. He knew he wouldn't sleep again before breakfast, probably not for a few days. There was no point in trying.

He passed the time like that for hours- first counting the cracks in the ceiling, then the floorboards, then the number of cars honking outside, and on and on until breakfast. He attended almost every meal now, though he didn't eat much. It made his friends happy, he could tell, and that rarely failed to make him feel a little better- like he was doing something, making some progress, even if he was fairly hopeless about his prospects of recovery.

He trudged down the stairs a few minutes early to beat the rush; he hated getting caught up in crowds as everyone on the higher floors headed to the cafeteria. He felt, irrationally, as though he would be crushed by the mindless, food-driven herd. He had learned, in his months here, that people lost their minds at the slightest prompting when food was involved.

A familiar lanky figure slid in front of him, blocking his path, as he reached the door to the dining hall.

His heart skipped a beat as he met Lance's blue eyes, twinkling with a smile. "Hey buddy," Lance greeted, far too chipper for the hour, but voice laced with that comforting, familiar energy he had. "Don't go in there," he added, ushering Keith away from the door.

Confused, Keith glanced back through the open door, where volunteers were setting up the food for the morning. "Why- where? What?" he stuttered as Lance urged him toward the door that led outside.

Twisting around to look over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Lance's smirk.

Leaping out from behind Keith, Lance jogged to the door and pulled it open. Cool morning air rushed inside, pale gray light illuminating the street.

Turning back to Keith, Lance grinned.

"Jailbreak."