𝐀𝐧 𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐭 ~ 𝐇.𝐏.

𝐀𝐧 𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐭

For Hannah, Helen, Madds, Maeve, Nea, and Rory.

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PART ONE: AN ECHO OF DREAMS AND TRIANGLES

The echo of a car driving by fades into absolute stillness. She inhales, her breath shaking slightly as the prolonged silence seeps inside the bedroom walls, cold and terrible.

An owl hoots from nearby and she buries herself deep under the covers, leaving just enough space for her to keep on breathing properly.

She retraces her steps like she always does before falling asleep. Thirty minutes ago, she closed her windows and drew the curtains. Then she put in her earplugs and checked if she locked her bedroom door. The key is safely stashed away in the locked box inside her drawer, the key of that box underneath her pillow. Only her parents have an extra key, hidden in the exact same way. She made sure of that; ignoring the worried expression that lingered on their faces when she explained her routine.

Everything is safe, she convinces herself. They can't wake her up.

She shakes her head as if it will help to release the tension that builds up between her ribs. It only makes matters worse.

Her therapist, Victoria, taught her multiple breathing techniques to calm down. She makes a feeble attempt to apply the 4-7-8 technique; pursing her lips and inhaling through her nose for four seconds. Apparently, it makes people fall asleep in less than a minute. Soldiers in the army use it, so it has a high success rate, Victoria had said. She lost her count. Fuck.

The leaves on the tree outside her window rustle and it's like a bucket full of ice-cold water crashing down on her. It's just the wind, she tells herself, compulsively nibbling the fissured flesh of her lip. The taste of copper drops on her tongue.

Everything goes quiet again but her heart races on.

Inhale to four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. She only has to do this for a minute. Inhale to four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. She refuses to move but—

Pop. There it is again.

Her eyes open and her heart drops into her stomach. She wants to sob, weep and scream but she knows that won't do any good.

Crack.

There are always two. A faint pop followed by a forceful crack. It's like they come after her, lurking in her shadow, making her feel on edge. It happens too often, more than once a day.

She has learned to keep quiet about it, can only trust herself. Her parents think she hallucinates. Her friends think she makes it up for attention. Her therapist thinks it's because of the new meds. In conclusion, they think she has lost it. They don't believe her— nobody does.