The Last of Us

Thirty-Three

It's one of the girls, but they still need to give me a name.

I stare at the blank wall ahead of me in the police station. A clock sits further to the left, but a large wall area sits unused. It would be perfect for your typical waiting room painting; a beach somewhere tropical or a city skyline.

Ben is holding my hand, but I can't feel it. My fingers have gone numb.

He's talking to me too, but the words don't hold sound. My ears are ringing in a strange pattern; loud then quiet, loud then soft.

He suddenly makes me stand beside him, and when I look to my left, I realise Chaplin has exited his office. I can see from his expression that he feels sorry for me like I'm the one who just got killed and not another girl from my support group.

I feel a sudden repulsion at my thoughts. I don't want any of them dead, but if it's Danni...

My throat closes, and I can feel the tears prick at the corner of my eyes.

Yet another reason I don't get close to people. Death is a traumatic experience that everyone has to go through at some point in their lives, but that doesn't mean I'll ever truly get used to the feeling of loss.

I can feel a panic attack beginning to take shape. It starts in my breath like I'm being strangled and can't find enough air to save me. Then it continues in my body, unable to stay still and relax.

Despite his best attempts to keep me grounded, I let go of Ben's hand. His mouth moves again, but I can't hear the words. The ringing grows louder.

When will this all end? I can't take it anymore. How many more girls have to lose their lives?

Ben's gripping both sides of my face with his big hands, and yet I still can't feel the warmth of his touch. He's repeating my name over and over because I'm able to read his lips.

I look away from him even though he tries to get my attention again. I think I'm crouching. My knees are pulled into my chest. I'm so close to the ground that I rest my arms against the floor.

When did I move? I am trying to remember.

I don't have attacks like this very often. Twice in my whole life, actually. Once after my father died and I saw his lifeless body. The second time was after I had been taken and finally returned home. Mum had found me both times. It was the first night in my bedroom, and I couldn't stay there alone.

I felt embarrassed to react this way but couldn't stop it. My mind seemed to control my entire body, and I had no say in my movement.

It's strange the reactions we can have to a verbal statement. After Ben and I had left the restaurant together, I hadn't registered what had been said. I'd been able to speak as if nothing terrible had happened. It had only been when Chaplin called to talk to me and that I needed to come to the station did I feel the change.

This was really happening again.

Ben manages to scoop his arms under my thighs. He hooks one of my arms over his shoulders as he carries me towards Chaplin's office. I rest my head against his neck and focus on breathing.

When I first started seeing a therapist, she told me I tried to stay strong too often. It was more important to have 'breaks' so I don't have pent-up sadness that spills out all at once.

I'd never listened, though, and this is a prime example of why I should allow myself to be more open.

Chaplin's office has a small couch, mostly filled with manila folders and odd pieces of paper. Ben moves some of the folders, placing me down on the couch. He helps me stretch my legs before placing a pillow behind my head.

I must ask for a glass of water because Chaplin instantly produces one. I take a small sip, aware of the worried gazes both men are giving me.

I don't feel like talking, even though Chaplin asks me muffled questions. The ringing in my ears is dying down, but it's still there. I can't hear much other than how loud I'm breathing.

I've tried everything, and the only way to stop this is to let it fizzle out. I can tell my chest is heaving, and Ben crouches beside me, trying to show me some breathing methods. I wish I could say to him that I know them all.

"Who is it?" I ask Chaplin, gasping. "Who is it now?"

"Paige," I barely hear him say.

Paige.

My hands turn into fists, and I bite the inside of my cheek. I didn't like to cry, and I'd managed to become pretty good and mask the tears. If I wanted them to stop, I could.

"Did you know her well?"

"Why does it matter how well I knew her?" I snap, sitting up too fast.

My head spins, and I grip the arm of the couch, breathing out slowly as I blink a few times.

Black spots fill my vision, but I clear them just as my anger peaks.

I've continuously been fed up with this, but now I've really had enough.

"I knew her well enough to know that she was a survivor and deserved to live. She has a family waiting for her to walk through the door for the rest of their lives.

"She was quiet and curious. She had beautiful brown hair that curled past her shoulders and a kind smile. She—she—"

Fuck. My cheeks are wet, and I can't stop it.

Talia.

Sophie.

Paige.

"But all of that doesn't matter now. What matters is that you do your fucking job—"

"Harlow," Ben interjects.

"—and find the asshole who keeps doing this because all your doing is wasting time, and I'm sick of being your fallback person. I can't do your job for you, and I shouldn't feel like I have to."

Chaplin blinks at me like he's too stunned for words.

"Fucking find him," I spit.

I stand from the chair abruptly, briskly storming towards the door as I slam it shut, making sure the entire station knows how mad I truly am.