If I Stay✔️

64

L E O

Beads of sweat gathered around the nape of my neck. I tug harshly at the collar of my sweatshirt, in hopes to free myself from the grip of the phantom hands that currently have me in a choke hold. Their fingers tighten, calling checkmate as they limit my oxygen supply.

Calm down, just breathe.

My nerves are amplified with each and every tick of the clock. He'll be here soon. I don't know why my anxiety has spiked at the thought of seeing my brother. Maybe it's the fact that I haven't seen him face to face in almost four weeks. We've spoke over the phone, little snippets of everyday conversation flowing between us almost easily. But that's nothing compared to this. A phone call can be disconnected, reality can't come to a cease so quick.

It's my own fault, really: this anxiety. If I hadn't cancelled every single meeting, my siblings had requested, last minute, then I may not be as nervous as I am now.

"You ready, Le?"

The knot in my stomach tightens at Charlie's question. No, no I'm not ready. I feel like I'm suffocating. I begin to dissociate from reality as the world around me slowly crumbles to ashes. All I see is dust. All I taste is fear. All I feel is trepidation.

The ringing in my ears swells like an upcoming crescendo. Louder, and louder, and louder, and louder— until the French horn blares. Charlie's hands grip my cheeks, his eyes wide and worried.

"Hey," he speaks softly. "Look at me."

I do. I look at him, but he's blurry. Everything — not just Charlie, the whole world around me becomes even more obscure. I can't breathe. My limited breath comes out in rough harsh pants. My fingers tremble as my hands find their way to my throat. I try and pull the collar of my sweatshirt, harder than before. But it's no use. I'm drowning, again.

"Breathe, Leo. I need you to breathe."

I can't.

—

C A R T E R

The weird lemon pine smell was becoming intoxicatingly overwhelming.

My nose wrinkles in disgust as I navigate my way through the swarms of mentally deranged kids. One kid in particular: a girl that was freakishly similar to Wednesday Adams, brushes against me. Her large beady eyes seem almost dead as she stares at me. Her face remains impassive, her left eye twitches, and I wait for the look of lust that will no doubt come. It happened often enough. I was a hot piece of ass, I could admit that. Anyone in their right mind could — oh.

"Move," she told me.

I raise an eyebrow at the coldness in her tone. No girl has ever used that tone with me. I was used to voices sweet like honey, smooth as liquid gold. Not voices like this. Is this bitch blind? I want to question her, ask her if she's feeling alright. I mean, there must be something wrong with her if she can't appreciate a gift of the Gods: me.

"Are you deaf or just stupid?" Her voice is even more annoying when she speaks more than one word. I refrain from making a nasty comment. Crossing my arms over my chest, I tilt my head to the left, my lips curling into a kneel worthy smirk.