Me & Her

Me

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

Each twitch of my lungs is too forced, too much of a feat. A filter has lodged itself in my throat, trapping my air. Cutting it off. I am crazy. I'm wrong. I shouldn't be here, I should be on a psych ward somewhere in a plain white gown. I shouldn't be here. Alyssa tries to calm me down, but I'm beyond saving. Maybe we both are.

The classroom, or Homeroom or wherever we are, has faded to a blur of colours and blank faces. The vividly coloured chairs are blotches, the carpet is a large blue smudge. Emma is the only person in focus, her face crinkled with worry. I can hear voices, but they're too far away. Everything is a thousand miles away. I choke, trying to push air into my lungs. I can't. Hands, hands are pulling me up. Gripping me tightly, yet softly. A thread of normalcy in the darkness. Emma, Emma is speaking to me. Telling me she's going to get me out of here, out of this mire. Noah is by her side, but his face is a blur of pinkish skin. The Homeroom teacher is shouting, but it's so muffled I can't hear the words. But I do hear something. Sniggering, laughing. Little jibes, here and there. Like tiny spears.

"She's just doing it for attention". Of course. Of course, I am. Who wouldn't wan to feel like their heart is about to explode? Who wouldn't want their mind to crash and burn like a helicopter in the desert?

"It's alright. Come on, let's get you out of this room," coos Emma's soft voice. Like a towel, a damp towel you've taken to the beach. Cold, but calming. Her hands are around my shoulders, holding me up, guiding me. I try to speak to Alyssa, but I receive only emptiness where her voice should be. I think, if I strain my mind to breaking point, I think she's crying. Crying and hiding deep in a corner of our mind. Sometimes, I wish I could see her outside of my head. Wish I could reach out and touch her.

"It's alright. Come on. Sit down, there we go. I'm just go to get you some water," says Emma. I watch her shaky profile bounce off to the water fountain, where she procures a paper cup from the Math staffroom. In a minute or two, she's back at my side, pressing the cup into my hand. The water is soft, and it slides down my throat. Refreshes me.

"Just breathe". I do as she instructs, employing Bo's techniques. In breath. Out breath. Imagine waves on a beach, lapping up and down. It's alright. Everything is alright. Slowly, gradually, everything seeps back into focus. The lockers, a set of primary colours. Red, blue, yellow blurs become perfectly outlined rectangles, some permeated by band stickers sporting long-haired boys grinning over their guitars. The white walls, the wide windows, the ceramic-like floor. And Emma, at the heart of it all, her black hair wafting about her face.

"What happened?" I grind out when I finally manage to speak. Emma sits back on her heels, breathing heavily, as if she'd run a marathon in the last few minutes.

"You were having a panic attack," she says. "Sit still for a minute. Just try to breathe".

"Yes Mother," I grin, and she smiles. After five minutes or so, my breathing is normal again. I finish the contents of the paper cup.

"Thank you," I whisper. Emma shrugs, and shuffles to sit down beside me, leaning back against the wall.

"It's not much fun," she says. I turn to her. That's the voice of experience.

"What happened?" I ask. "You don't have to tell me, but I want to be here for you too". Emma smiles and sighs.

"My real parents... Let's say they didn't exactly treat us kids very well. My brother died of malnutrition when he was seven. I managed to escape to the cops, but it was a week before I was taken seriously. But then I'd nearly died of dehydration. They'd locked me in the basement for running away. Sometimes, things get too much, and I find I'm back in that basement again, unable to breathe or drink or eat or move".

I don't know what to say. What could I say? I reach out, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I say. She shrugs.

"It was a long time ago. They got what they deserved. And I got a Father who loves me and smothers me with cookies and film nights and takes me to the theatre. I got a real family. You just need the right support system."

"You will always have me," I say instantly. I will always be there for her, in ways others were never there for me. Emma laughs.

"That's kind of you."

"It's what friends do".

"I suppose. Noah doesn't know, by the way," she adds. "So please don't tell him. I'd never hear the end of it. He'd been rallying his troops and storming the prison where my parents are locked up." I chuckle; it's quite an easy image to conjure. I reach out, interlocking my hand with hers. I give her palm a squeeze. She squeezes back. I am here, Emma, I want to say. I will never leave. I will fight with you. A whoosh of breath and Emma turns back to me.

"What about you? Do you want to tell me what's going on?" she asks. I want to, really, I do. But as my tongue threatens to form the words, to tell her of my fragmented memories which involve chafing straps and piercing lumbar punctures and being held down in an MRI machine, screaming my heart out until men in white are forced to sedate me, my throat closes. I choke a little.

"The History Assessment," I gasp eventually. "I'm scared I'll fail and everything I've done with go to waste". For a moment, I think it's a pathetic issue, even if it is a lie, in comparison to the pain she's endured. But Emma, the wise girl who's been through too much and more, seems to slip through the weavings of my lie. She pulls me into her arms and we hold each other until my heart sews itself back together.