Page 24 of Whispered Desire

“A is for apple. B is for bank. C is for cash.” I list each letter in the alphabet along with whatever corresponding word pops into my head. It’s supposed to distract my thoughts so they don’t fixate on worrying, but I’ve run through the alphabet three times so far with no change.

An itch continues to tingle along my skin. My heart pounds in my chest. In my ears. Never lessening, only heightening. Nausea roils around in my stomach, and chills threaten to turn me into a quivering mess.

All signs point to an anxiety attack gearing up for a full-scale assault, so I toss the blankets off to search for the emergency prescription that’s meant to curb the symptoms when they become too much.

My feet sink into the thick rug covering most of the room’s hardwood flooring as I stumble through the dark and search for my suitcase.

What was I thinking leaving my home—the fucking state—with a stranger?

A man who intimidated and interrogated me in Paris.

Yes, he caught me in a vulnerable position earlier, but I’m not a reckless person—no matter how often I wish I could be. Have I fantasized about being whisked away from my problems? Of course. Who hasn’t?

But you’re not supposed to actually let a bossy stranger dictate your life. Even if it does monumentally suck.

You’re not supposed to accept his control. Not supposed to willingly give in to it.

I’m not an idiot, but right now, I feel like the world’s dumbest woman. They’ll feature me on that show1000 Stupid Ways to Die, and I’ll be number one. The pathetic girl who was brave enough to take a bullet for a man but too weak to handle her own life.

“Come on… Where are you?” My hands dig through the hastily packed suitcase by the door, rooting around for my plastic-container lifeline. Tears prick behind my eyelids as my vision blurs.

Where is it?

Did I forget to pack it?

What am I going to do?

There are a few options I can try to calm my nervous system, like a hot shower or playing the town-building game on my phone, but those usually aren’t strong enough to completely mitigate an attack. I know because my therapist asked me to rank the effectiveness of my coping mechanisms once.

Hot shower = 3 points

Mobile game = 2 points

Drawing figure-eights = 1 point

The idea was to see what worked then adding items together to create an even powerful coping method. Technically, my shower and game would equal five points out of ten, but five measly points isn’t going to cut it against a level twenty attack.

“I wish my space heater was here.” That thing is worth ten points because it wards off the anxiety chills. Some might think it’s ridiculous, but I even use it during the summer when it’s ninety degrees outside because my body doesn’t care what the weather is like.

If my fucked-up brain chemistry says it’s freezing, then I’m freezing, and shivering uncontrollably is the answer.

“Oh, thank god.” The tumble of pills is music to my ears as my fingers wrap around the medication. I quickly pop one in mymouth and rush to the bathroom to drink some water from my cupped hands.

Water splashes on the counter from the improvised cup, and small droplets join the puddles as I lean over the sink, tired tears slowly sliding down my cheeks to plop on the marble.

I’m so sick of this.

A gleam of silver catches my eye. There’s a shaving blade resting in a leather placket in the corner of the double vanity.

How considerate of Mathias to provide guests with fancy shaving implements.

Curious, I unroll the leather and remove the straight razor from its restraint.

It flicks open with an easy snick.

The sharp metal mesmerizes me as it reflects my distorted image.

A thundering roar blares in my ears as my gaze focuses on the object in my hand, imagining how painful a slice from its blade would be. Picturing perfectly round beads of blood dripping down the edge.

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