3:30pm

34: Caleb (PTSD Pt 2)

    <And drugs only make it worse>

•°•°•°•

Stephen 

The nail of my right thumb worked furiously at the silver paint on the inside of my locker, teeth biting deep into my lower lip. My breathing came out strained. Almost strangled as I struggled, with all my might, to block out the image of Fred's headless body hovering about in my mind. The feel and taste of him, a dull presence on my face and in my mouth.

All I needed was a second. A second back in time. Back to three nights ago when Johnny shot Fred. A second to think. To not move forward. If I hadn't, things would've been relatively easier now. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have to live with the humiliation of how I'd acted, like I'd gone crazy, in front of Cleo two days ago.

I closed my eyes and tried to distract my thoughts with the sound my thumb made scraping against the door of my locker. It wasn't working. The image remained, right there behind my closed eyelids, a macabre, ghoulish figure. 

Taking in a deep breath, I gave it another shot. "Go away. Go away," I murmured repeatedly, over and over, until I realized that just like the sound, it wasn't working. 

My grip on the door of my locker tightened, the scene from three nights ago, when Fred was murdered, coming back to me.

"Johnny, don't!"

The loud bam of the shotgun. 

You shouldn't have, Stephen. My mind mocked me. You shouldn't have. You shouldn't have. You shouldn't have. Now, it's on your face. You shouldn't have.

My breathing was coming out in rapid bursts now. In my stomach was a deadweight, like a ton of bile, nestled there, waiting for the right time to go up.

I gripped the edge of the door harder. So tight, I could feel the skin on my fingers stretch and strain. Balling, my left hand into a fist, I clenched it, my fingernails digging into the meat of my palm. In my mouth was a faint taste of iron. 

Everything around me—the buoyant chatter of students waiting for the morning bell to signal the start of their lessons, the fluorescent bulbs high up in the ceiling—seemed to dim suddenly, going lower and lower to a speck, until it was gone. 

My chest tightened. It felt like I couldn't breathe properly, so I had to take in unnecessary puffs of air. I was hyperventilating. 

You shouldn't have. Now it's on your face. 

I was almost wheezing. 

Close your eyes
Have no fear
The monster's gone
He's on the run
And your mommy's here. . .

It was low at first. A voice so low, I almost missed it. Cleo's voice in my head, beckoning me to calm.

Close your eyes
Have no fear
The monster's gone
He's on the run
And your mommy's here. . .

It was louder now. And clearer. Clear enough for me to repeat her words. To say it out loud. 

With each word I spoke, I felt my ragged breathing and my quickened heartbeat lessen. 

"He's on the run." The voices in the hallway began to return, as if coming up from underwater, still as loud and as buoyant as before. "And your mommy's here."

My grip on the door of my locker loosened. Slowly, I opened my eyes.

"You're okay," I said to myself, "you're good. Remember, everything's fine and there's nothing there. There never was—"