At twenty-seven, YouTube sensation Ben Leonards is married to his work. If he's not whipping up lasagna with a side of science experiments, he's running statistical analysis of bitcoin during explosive behavior periods.
When a friend asks him to org...
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I hit the door, the wall trying to stay under the threshold, grappling for control, attempting to diffuse the cord that burned almost to the point when the explosion is inevitable. Kick, punch, kick, punch, the tae kwon do routines are ingrained and are my last hope, but as my fists and feet meet the air, nothing feels right. I can't resist any longer and enter the red zone.
The carpet softens my collapse, and I squeeze my knees to my chest. I curl into myself, tighter, tighter, I squeeze my arms, eyes, lips tighter, tighter. My stomach is squeezing, too, as my heart beats faster than when I race. I want to run or scream, but my voice isn't mine anymore. I'm a mute, shivering, rocking mess on the floor. I rock, rock, rock, rock—there's no counting, no thoughts, no space, no time.
The red recedes, and I can breathe again. I'm not in charge, but I'm aware of my body, of the plush carpet under me, of the foot of the bed behind me. I'm covered in cold sweat so thoroughly that I can smell my panic.
Anger rolls through me, not the outward anger Brenda triggered earlier. This time I'm angry at myself. I shouldn't have lost it like this. I know better. I haven't' had a meltdown like this in over a year. What could I have done? Why didn't I stay in control? Deep exhales help, focusing on the air going from my nose through my throat into my stomach, holding it there, being the one who tells it when to flow back slowly up and out through the mouth helps.
Exhaustion weighs down every cell of my body. I climb up into the bed and turn off the light. The darkness envelops me, and the intangible pressure of it pushes out the anger and replaces it with dull calm. One, two, three—I count the constellations behind my closed eyes. Sleep rescues me.
***
I jerk awake and sit up before I remember where I am, what happened, and the snoring lump on the other side of the king-size bed gets my heart pumping. The grey light filters through the blinds, and I tiptoe around to check. Linda's face is messy with yesterday's makeup, the hair is no longer in artificial curls, and she smells like mint, stale cigarettes, and alcohol. At least she's here, and she's not Brenda. Between Linda and me, I'm not sure who smells worse.
My tiptoeing around didn't help because whoever planned the bathroom location didn't take into account that running the shower would inevitably wake up the person on the other side of the wall. I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in the fluffy white towel and head to the closet.
"You're a sight for sore eyes." The huskiness of Linda's voice forces me to do a double-take and ensure it's indeed her and not her sister.
"I'm going for a run."
"Shouldn't you take a shower after and not before one?"
"Yes. Usually. It was an exception."
"I'm going back to sleep then. It's seven, and three hours of sleep isn't going to cut it." She takes a sleep mask out of her bedside table, rolls over on her stomach, and hugs her pillow covered in grey-brown smudges.
