Page 8 of Wicked Duty
Trembling, I sit on the tweed couch in the center of the space, where I can keep an eye on the door. I shake my head, attempting to clear it the same way a headbanger bops to a metal anthem. Not helping.
I focus on my respirations, counting as I drag air in and out of my lungs.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
One.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Two.
When I get to ten, the anxiety starts to subside, and I study my surroundings. Anything to distract me from my thoughts.
The break room’s about the size of a one-car garage and stuffed to the gills with a bunch of useless stuff. Desks line the far wall, serving as receptacles for old binders full of Café Tomé recipes, current and retired. Posters, employee photographs, and staff awards litter the walls.
A coat rack. A kitchenette. One entryway to the administrative office. A water cooler by the door.
I fit into this hodgepodge pretty seamlessly now that I think about it. A lump of tired flesh melting into an ancient sofa.
All I can do when I start to panic is try not to think. Not about what happened. Not about what’shappening.Not about my sister being an entire continent away. Not about Callum Kavanagh lurking in the front room.
Just don’t think, Lucy.
At times like these, when my plummeting mental health has me feeling like a crumpled-up leaf getting batted around by a strong wind, I resort to grounding techniques. I rely on my breath, on yoga, on meditation to pull me through.
But today, I’m more on edge than usual, and I find that little orange prescription bottle safely tucked away in my purse in the purple lockers behind me very tempting.
I don’t take the pills often. The thought of medication altering my mental or physical state distresses me.
On the flip side, the doctor would only prescribe them if I needed the extra help.
Though I’ve lassoed the panic attack, my head continues pounding.
After a few more deep breaths, I scrape myself off the couch. When I pull my locker door open, my reflection in the hanging mirror greets me.
Immediately, my heart sinks.
I don’t recognize the woman staring back. I haven’t recognized her for a while.
The mirror used to show a happy young woman who’d overcome a childhood marred by loss, suffering, and separation. Someone with her whole life ahead of her. Someone who, despite past heartbreak, used to be innocent. Well, maybe not innocent but certainly not damaged goods.
Now? My reflection reveals a person who’s nervous and defiant. Someone who doesn’t know how to relax or trust anything. Or anyone.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
Some days, I feel like I’m stuck in “survival mode.” Like all my other states of existence have short-circuited.
The evidence appears in my daily choices constantly. Right down to my wardrobe.
I’m currently wearing a thin, long-sleeved shirt and long pants in August. Because I don’t want anyone to see the scars on my body.
The bruises healed weeks ago, but I can still see them, still feel them. I still get paranoid other people will notice and draw conclusions about my past.
I’m sporting the ugliest shoes ever to grace my feet. Comfortable, non-slip tennis shoes—so I can sprint away at a moment’s notice. Fitted black pants, not to show off my body, but because I’m terrified of a stranger grabbing me, and snug outfits make that more difficult. All my clothing must allow for easy movement now too. Restrictive fabrics are too claustrophobic.
My anxiety spikes if I don’t have a pocket to put my phone in, because I fret that I’ll miss a call from Maya. Or won’t have my phone if I need it.
My closet at home is full of low-cut tops and short skirts that hardly see the light of day anymore. I force myself to try them onfor a few minutes every once in a while just to prove that I can. After all, it’s not like a more conservative top would’ve changed anything.
