No 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO
Panic Attacks | Phobias | Paranoia
Continuity: Wind Shear, interlude within Chapter 2
Whumplet by @adrenaline-whump
With the night I was having, I hadn’t thought my heart could go any faster, but when my phone rang I jumped back away from my kitchen counter, tripped over a chair, and smacked my elbow on the floor when I landed. I cussed at myself and answered the phone once I saw Amy’s name.
“Are you OK?” was her first question. I guess I was breathing a little fast.
“No, not really.” I moved a couple of feet so I could put my back against the closest wall.
“What’s going on? Talk to me, honey.”
I wanted to, but...it was stupid. I didn’t want to hear her voice change to that doubtful tone that people use when they start to wonder if you’re losing your marbles.
“Where is ‘here’? Are you at home?”
“Where in your house are you?”
She heard the question under the question. “Because you sound like you’re having a panic attack, and I’m trying to get you to focus on the room.”
I laughed a little in spite of myself. She was being straight up honest, so I answered the same way. “I’m in the corner of the room, in the space where I’ve been meaning to put a side table by the couch. Nice little nook.”
“Good. Stay there. What would help you right now? Want me to come over?”
“No, I’m fine,” I said. “Or at least I’ll be fine once I catch my breath. It’s not really a panic attack, I just got myself worked up over nothing.”
I told her I’d just gotten back from Blakeley County. Practically useless trip. I’d talked to two mechanics, and they’d had totally different stories about what kind of employee Owen had been, and neither one had any clue about where to find him.
When I’d turned out of the second guy’s neighborhood, a white RAM pickup had pulled out behind me from where it had been parked on the street.
I turned at a church. So did the white truck. I went south another two miles and took the turn to get on the road back to Memphis. So did he. And he just stayed behind me, for miles.
The scenic byway is the most direct route from Blakeley to Memphis. Lots of people go to Memphis every day. But I kept checking, and he was always there behind me. I sped up; he sped up. I slowed down to see if he would pass me. He slowed down.
When I took the turn to head around the city toward the duplex, he took that turn too, and my heart rate went from a jog to a sprint. I finally shook him off at a traffic light, floored it just as the light was turning from yellow to red, and he had to stop.
I took a right at the next light and pulled into a parking lot. I wanted to see if he’d take that same turn or keep going straight, once the light changed.
The lights cycled. No truck.
I turned around and drove back the way I came, looking at the parking lots along the road, until I got to the light where I’d lost him. I hadn’t wanted to lose him completely; I wanted to follow him, but he was gone.
I drove the rest of the way home with one eye on the road in front of me, and one eye on my rear view mirror.
“See?” I said to Amy. “Classic PTSD overreaction.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Honey…let me know if this is the wrong thing to say, but I’m not sure you were overreacting. That was weird.”
“You think so?” Not the verdict I’d been bracing myself for.
“Yeah. You’ve always been observant, honey. Maybe you’re tuned a little higher now, but that doesn’t mean you can’t trust what your eyes tell you. If you need to go back to Blakeley again...watch your back, OK?”
