Person Of Interest. [GoodGuyFitz]

Stalker. (2)

"I need to move on, and if that entails me getting drunk where I was almost murdered, then so be it."

~

"You're fucked. You're all fucked, and demented, and.. and," I trailed off, staring at the women in front of me with wide eyes. My heart felt like it was about to explode from my chest as the millionth sob racked my chest.

"We're not fucked, Aurora. We've just come to terms with our death," Annabelle, one of the beaten women said to me with a sick smile plastered on her face, "We've been here for weeks. With nothing. No food. No water. No fucking sanity. So sit down and shut the fuck up before you get beaten to a pulp like the rest of us."

"No. I'm getting out of here. I don't want to be here!" I cried and screamed, smashing my fists against the basement door. Three of the women grabbed me wherever they could- my hair, my shoulders, my feet. Anything to stop me from banging on the door. Anything to shut me up.

It didn't work, though. I let them down. The ten women scattered to the opposite wall as the door opened. Harry appeared, looking down at me with a frown on his once happy, inviting face. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Aurora. You should have listened to them," he grabbed the collar of my shirt and lifted me up to meet his height, "You're dumber than I though. How unfortunate."

~

"Fuck off!" I jolted out of bed, screaming into nothing but my empty room. No women. No Harry. My hair clung to my forehead along with the beads of sweat that poured out of me. My breathing felt labored and I started to cry, meaning one of my anxiety attacks were going to happen. And soon.

I swung my legs over my bed and trudged to the bathroom, taking large gasps of air in between my sobs. The cold water in the shower always helped. I sat in the tub and curled up in a ball, letting the water pour over and calm me.

Breathe in for ten seconds. Breathe out for eleven seconds. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Breathe breathe breathe breathe. Harry is not here. Harry is in prison. He can't hurt me. Those women are gone and no longer suffering. I am okay.

"You should have died with them," I croaked, then started violently shaking my head, "No. I'm lucky to be alive. They would have died anyway. No. I'm guilty I could have saved them. No. NO," I choked on my own words, feeling a familiar sensation build up in my stomach. Chunks of half digested food and vile made its way up and out of me, slipping down the shower drain.

I battled back and forth with myself for an unknown amount of time before my breathing went back to normal. My trembling hands reached for the shower handle after I had managed to finally calm myself down. I sat up slowly, then shakily stood up.

After drying myself off I stood in front of the mirror and started at the monstrosity of my body. The bags under my eyes had become more prominent and puffy, my face felt swollen and ready to burst. My neck was red and blotchy from where my anxiety induced scratching had taken place, and my plain, brunette hair was half wet and half dry. Tangled like a rats nest. An ugly, nightmare fueled rats nest.

I retreated back to my bed and turned on my bedside lamp. The clock told me it's three in the morning, which was odd considering the majority of my night terrors happened around one or two. This is the first time one has happened around three. I reached for my notebook, Sam wants me to keep track of every night terror and the times they happened. Simple, yet daunting.

Exhaustion paid my head a visit as I got up to get myself some water. My held felt swimmy, and almost non-existent as I made my way towards the kitchen. It always felt like that after an attack. Was it the lack of oxygen from hyperventilating, or my brain trying to recover from reliving trauma for the nth time. Who knows?