sunset and vine | elizabeth olsen

11 | The Paper

Lizzie

In all twenty-five years of her life, Elizabeth Olsen has lost hours upon hours of sleep to anxiety, but never had she felt so sick to her stomach that even laying down rendered her nauseous. That night, when Lizzie finally left the cafe, it wasn't without a heavy heart or trembling hands. There was an endless sea of guilt in the deepest part of her belly, a nagging voice in the front of her mind that scolded her for not speaking up sooner. And still, hours later, hours after she had asked Jay to file another report with CPS and hours after she had watched Olive leave the cafe with a backpack over her shoulders and an apprehensive smile on her face, her hands shook at her sides and her skin felt cold and clammy.

In less then a week, her well-kept life had been torn apart and veered toward a path of utter chaos, and while she undoubtably overflows with adoration for some of the newer additions in her life (Olivia), it doesn't make up for the fact that she never anticipated this. A week ago she was in Bangladesh. She was hanging out with co-workers, staying out late and getting up early, she was entirely immersed in just being twenty-five years old in a foreign country and newly single. Now, she paces the halls of her apartment worrying about the well-being of a nine year old. Did she get home okay? What's happening at home? Is she alone? Is she scared? How can I change any of this? Lizzie spirals down the same path every night, but tonight she can't get through to the darkness of slumber. Tonight she's trapped in her own head.

She doesn't realize that she's grabbed her phone from the nightstand and unplugged the charging cable. It's as if she's in a trance, only aware of how fast her heart is beating and how the walls seem to be caving in on her. It takes four rings for the call to connect, and when it does, a scratchy voice breaks the silence in the room. "Lizzie?"

She can't catch her breath. The walls are getting closer. It's hot in the apartment, did she turn the air conditioner off? The lights are dimmer then she remembers, or maybe she's just blacking out. Is she blacking out? Breathe. She can't. She really can't. Unable to get any words out, a strangled sob breaks through Lizzie's chest, shattering the eerie quiet that fills the room. Everything is so loud. Everything is so quiet. She just needs it to stop for a while. Everything needs to stop. She just wants to breathe. But she can't. The phone feels too heavy in her hand. Her limbs feel too heavy. Everything is so so heavy. Falling backward, her back meets the wall, and the hand that was holding the phone crumbles onto the bed. Lizzie just stares ahead at the wall, almost certain that patterns are moving against it in odd ways. Patterns that aren't really there, just black spots dancing around her vision. It feels like glass has lodged itself in her throat, aching sobs falling from her lips until she can't make any sound at all anymore. Silence. Finally.

"Lizzie? Liz! I'm coming over, okay? Just stay where you are." The dial tone clicks, not that Lizzie notices. The actor is hardly coherent, mind consumed with static noice that makes her bones feel fuzzy and out-of-place. The minutes consume her, feeling like seconds as they pass, though the longer she sits in her panic, unable to ground herself, feeling like the walls are closing in on her while a fire rages in her belly, she losses the ability to connect with what's happening around her. She can't catch her breath, she's not even sure if she's breathing right now. The clock isn't ticking, and the air conditioner isn't humming, and she can't remember if she locked her front door.

She's drowning.

Olivia

One. Two. Three. She can do this. It's just a question, a simple five second question. It'll get her away from this apartment, it will free him of her. Nobody losses. It's just a question.

Her heart is hammering in her chest, the paper clutched so tightly between her trembling hands that it creases down the side. She's been standing at his bedroom door for minutes. She knows that she's not allowed to enter, but he hasn't come out since stumbling inside after work. He hasn't even made himself dinner. She'd been hoping that eventually he'd leave the bedroom and venture toward the kitchen for a meal. The kitchen is a safer place than his bedroom. The kitchen isn't off limits. Well, not really anyways. She's not allowed to use the oven, or drink from the sink, or touch anything in the refrigerator, but generally speaking, she's allowed to stand in the kitchen.