Cold At My Core | Johnnie Guilbert

Ch 4: Tight Spaces

Johnnie and I spent the day together. We walked around LA streets, saw sights that were unfamiliar to me because I had, like, just moved here.

Johnnie knew his way around, pointing and making sure I saw every little thing. From the flower bouquet (which he blushed at, a little) to the homeless man squatting in the alleyway (which we both snickered and grimaced at).

He made sure I saw it all. Every little detail under the sun.

And when shadows grew longer, when that sun began to set, we retired for the night, eating the last of our gelato.

"I heard gelato has, like, twice the sugar of normal ice cream."

"Just as sweet," Johnnie commented, gently wiping the corner of his mouth free of Italian ice cream.

"Hold on." And he was reaching to me. I froze like a deer in the face of an oncoming bus, letting him reach and letting the pad of his thumb touch my face.

One stroke. One simple, softly firm stroke, and he cleaned me up like a mother would.

I missed my family, but I was too much of a wreck to face them again. Especially now--I'd just started my primary form of treatment.

I wondered when I would need medication. If my doctor thought I was that whacko, to need pills in the first place. What would she diagnose me as?

"Hey." Johnnie's hand--the same hand he had used to help clean me--waved in front of my face.

The Denny's we were in remained brightly lit, the booth's cushions we sat on remained soft yet strong.

Just like his touch.

And suddenly the world was closing in around me. Suddenly everything was too small, too big, and breathing became too hard. Air became too scarce. 

I needed air and peace. I couldn't get either. 

Johnnie noticed, and I noticed him crouch a little--his face was viewable from the corner of my eye, while I stared at the table.

His expression was something I'll remember for a long time.

I didn't go to a hospital--I wasn't physically hurt. But with Johnnie's hand grazing against my back, and with the cool outside air enveloping every part of me, I felt as if I could function again. At least for now; at least for a little bit. 

I'd never felt like more of a wreck than I did at that very moment. Exposed completely, the worst and most secret part of me revealed.

I kept my mouth shut, holding the front of my lightweight hoodie close to my chest, until the lines of the zipper were touching. I just stayed quiet, and breathed like a normal person.

Sorry, hun. that train left a long time ago. Try when you were six.

But still I tried. And right now, despite those "negative head-voices", I think I was doing a pretty good job with coping.

"You know, I suffer from anxiety, too." Johnnie said, one hand reaching to the back of his neck. His voice was quiet and careful, like how his hand had been against my skin. Careful, quiet, but poseessing an underlayer of strength.

I had never wanted to run more than I did at that moment. 

I stayed put like bear traps held my feet. I stayed still, silently and internally bleeding, and listened as Johnnie continued speaking to me.

"I've struggled with depression for a while. Every day... It feels like I'm fighting myself. My thoughts, my impulses." And he showed me his scars, deep cuts to his skin. 

Every day... Feels like I'm fighting myself. 

I opened my mouth to speak. To say something, but what exactly, I don't know. I just knew that statement hit my core. Direct bullseye to my very soul. 

And with tears pricking my eyes, I enveloped Johnnie into a hug. 

I felt him stiffen, a straight-shot to the sky that made him a little taller than usual. But then, after a moment and after a small bit firm squeeze, his arms came around me, returning that embrace. 

I wouldn't take that moment back. Not for the world.