Under Pressure - Septiplier

Chapter Three

Mark clings to his mother's hand as they step into the building. With wide eyes, he takes in the waiting area: warm-toned walls, chairs lining the edges, a few neutral decorations. Nothing immediately catches his eye. It is all somewhat bland and inoffensive. There is nothing bold, neither modern nor old.

"Is this the therapy place?" he asks, and his eyes flit up at his mother, who nods with a soft smile that does not quite reach her dark, anxious eyes. She gently guides him over and tells him to take a seat in one of the many chairs. Mark climbs up into the one in the corner. He sits with his legs stiff, a foot wrapped around the other ankle, hands tucked beneath his thighs. He feels a tightness in his gut. His thoughts flashback to his mom's smile earlier; it had not felt right- she was nervous. The realization only makes Mark shift about, and he wriggles about in his seat as he stares about the room with his brows furrowed. A few people stare back blankly. Others quickly look away. They shift uncomfortably under the boy's gaze. He is the youngest in the room by at least two decades. Mark bites his lip, his chest tightens up, and his mind hurls through thoughts.

He was such a freak. This place was for grown people. This building is not meant for him. He is so abnormal compared to other kids that they had to go to a grown place where adults went for help, not children. He is such a burden. His mom was nervous. Her smile flashes through his mind. It never reached her eyes. He was the reason. He caused her so many problems. There is a rustle to his side, and he whirls around to see his mom sit down beside him after she had finished checking in. She sucks in a deep breath, but the way her shoulders sag makes it seem as if the air that fills her lungs does more to suck the life out, rather than rejuvenate. Mark whimpers and wriggles in his seat, trying to take a breath as his heart quickens. Someone rustles a magazine. Another coughs harshly. The abrupt sounds startle him further.

"What's wrong, dear?" his mother asks softly, and the corner of her lips crease down; the lines of her face sharpen with worry. Mark shifts, and he whimpers again as tears well up. He struggles to breathe. He begins to gasp for air, but his throat closes on itself before the inhale can make its way down. It curdles in his throat, the rush of his mind leaves essential bodily functions out of the equation as Mark grapples with his thoughts. He gags on the air and begins to sob between his cracked, broken breaths.

"Mark. Calm down. Deep breaths." his mother urgently directs. She feels the cold grip of panic claw at her heart. She does not know what to do. She did not know her child would be this way. She had not planned for it. She was unprepared for Mark, but she is doing her best. She knows she cannot help him, so she takes him to a therapist. But the therapist is not here at this moment, and she is clueless. Everyone in the room begins to stare. A woman shifts and looks away. A man covers his mouth and squeezes his eyes closed. Mark's actions, the feelings, the breaths were all too familiar to them. These people cannot help- as much as they want to.

"Mark Fischbach?" a voice calls as the dark brown door to the side swings open. The man is in a slate grey suit, dark hair combed back, and a purple tie tucked into the jacket. A silver watch glints on his wrist and the product in his hair glint with the light.

"Please, help!" his mother begs as her gaze darts up to the man. She is desperate. Mark clutches at his throat and gasps for air. Each breath tears through his throat, but it never seems to fill his lungs. They remain empty and dry.

The man's eyes bulge as he hurries over. His shoes rap against the wood, and the boy closes his eyes at the sharp sounds. He crouches down and looks up at Mark. He rests his hands on the boy's knees; his calm eyes look up and meet the panicked gaze of Mark's.

"Take a deep breath with me, you're safe, you're perfectly all right- inhale with me," he says before he takes in a deep breath. Mark chokes out a sob and claws at his throat. He shakes his head to explain that he cannot. "Imagine your lungs, imagine filling your lungs up with air like a balloon. Only you can blow up your lungs, breathe in," the therapist says. He repeats the same word several times to drill it into Mark's head. Whatever is going on, it is imperative that he shifts the boy's focus from whatever was the cause of the panic.