◦ ∘ ○ ✿ ▏ She can't breathe. Her chest is tight and her hands are numb and no matter how many times she tells herself to breathe deeply, her body betrays her.
HELLO SWEETHEART, DO YOU HAVE A MOMENT TO TALK? OR ARE THE DOYLES AROUND?
Her voice. Her voice haunts her mind and the cracks in her mind house creak and open wider, letting the howling voices of the void beyond fill her waking thoughts. And she cannot breathe. Cannot make herself breathe.
I'M WORRIED ABOUT YOU, PUMPKIN. YOU LOOK PALE. ARE YOU EATING? WHY DON'T YOU COME BY FOR DINNER?
No. No, she cannot go back there. She refuses to go back there even as her lungs cry for air that leaves too quickly and is too inadequately inhaled. Mary wants to scream, to yell, to do something other than gasp for breath and sob. But she can't.
She can't, she can't, she can't. She can only sit against the wall, sobbing into raised knees, mind becoming light with oxygen deprivation. A cycle of despair that she could not stop.
@deathsdesiign wanted a panic attack starter. oop.
