18 Months -- Michael Langdon x Reader

Chapter Seven

Your fingers clutched the porcelain sink before you, your body shaking with the heavy breaths you took. You were hiding away in the bathroom belonging to the stranger -Madelyn- who had taken you in, while she hovered over Michael in the living room. For the past two hours, she had been questioning him incessantly, and dotting over his every need. You understood the excitement, but it all became too much after a while. Using the disguise of having to clean up, you managed to excuse yourself a while ago, successfully escaping Madelyn's suffocating behavior. Although, you knew the wounds that covered your face, chest, and arms were already infected, and there was little you could do to fix that now, but it was the best you could think of.

Currently, however, you were too focused on preventing a panic attack from happening to do any actual 'cleaning up'. You hadn't had a moment to breathe in what felt like months- being surrounded by a single person for three weeks had definitely done a number on you. You could hardly believe, that just a month ago, you were in your room at Miss. Robichaux's, reading House of Leaves, practicing spells, and texting Michael non-stop. It made processing your current situation event harder; Michael being your only company for the past few weeks, being disowned by your mother, voluntarily switching loyalties -something you never thought you'd do-, being stranded in the woods for days (not eating, drinking, or sleeping), and now, you were in some lady's house, while she fawned over your best friend. It was all too much.

Your grip tightened on the sink dangerously, and if you were any stronger, it would be cracking under your fingers. You couldn't pull yourself out of the neverending whirlwind of your thoughts, no matter how hard you tried. Even as you turned on the faucet to blast cold water into the sink, you couldn't hear anything over the roaring of your mind. Shaky hands dipped under the water, and you knew that you should be able to feel its coldness, but you just couldn't. You felt so numb, so lost, and so alone, that you couldn't even process the typical heat burning through your body, caused by your panic. Your motions were now becoming robotic and set in autopilot. Once the water had filled up your cupped hands, you tossed it against your face, drenching your shirt and hair in the process. You did this a few more times before shutting off the water, keeping your hands pressed against your face. After releasing a hesitant sigh, you removed your hands so you could stare at your reflection in the mirror.

You looked broken- you could hardly even recognize yourself in the mirror. Droplets of water fell from the high points of your face, hitting the sink with drip-drops falling on deaf hears. Your face was covered in red blotches, trailing all the way down to your chest. Your hair was a tangled, dirty mess atop your head, with a few leaves and clumps of dirt matted in. The makeup you had been wearing the day everything went to shit was smudged around your eyes, even a week after the incident. Cuts and bruises that littered your body were a mixture of ugly yellows and purples, with dried blood beginning to flake away.

"I walked around California looking like this?" you whispered to yourself, reaching out to press the tips of your fingers against the mirror.

You stared at your reflection with wide eyes for a moment longer, before your lips were cracking into a painful grin. A quiet, breathy laugh escaped your lips as you ran your hand down the mirror, smearing water over the glass. Slowly, your quiet laugh morphed into over-exaggerated giggles, until you were crashing to the floor with uncontrollable, maniacal laughter. Your knees slammed to the floor with a painful crack, but you paid them no mind. With your hands refusing to let go of the sink, you were forced to hunch over yourself, pressing your head against the cabinet, as the laughter ruptured through your body.

Because you were so out-of-it, you didn't recognize the bathroom door opening or closing, until a pair of familiar, pointed dress shoes were stood before you. Michael knelt down beside you, gently grabbing onto your hands and attempting to pry them away from the sink. You didn't make it easy for him, and when he finally got you to let go, the force of it sent you flying to your ass. You let out a quiet oomph at the motion, your laughter dying down at the sudden change in position. But, as soon as you looked up at Michael, the panic set in. You were already out of breath from all of your unwanted laughter, so it didn't take much for your throat to metaphorically close up. You stared at Michael with a gaping mouth, your hand coming to grasp at your neck in a desperate attempt to breathe again. Hot tears ran down your face, stinging each cut as they passed.