aware (peterick)

14

Traffic is a bitch.

What should have been a smooth ten-minute drive back home had turned into a forty-five-minute standstill on Roosevelt Road while firefighters, police and paramedics cleared up the remains of two cars that collided at thirty miles an hour in the middle of a crossroad. Nobody died, but three people have been rushed to hospital in critical condition; one of said victims has been promised a rather expensive fine for speeding. Whoever they are, I wish them the best of luck paying for that and their medical bill.

Tamsin O'Brien is dead.

It's like being told the news that your abusive uncle died. In one way you feel at ease knowing that he can't hurt anybody anymore, but at the same time you feel this emptiness in your chest, because he still played an important part in your life; if she hadn't called, I probably never would have met Patrick.

She wasn't a vampire, either. Understandably, her demeanour and attitude had fit together with the symptom of memory loss perfectly. I hated her with a passion, but I hope for her sake that it wasn't painful.

I swerve onto my road eight miles an hour faster than the limit. If I'm not careful, I could be gifted with my own fine for dangerous driving. But the world is against me either way; because it's dark out, which means there's a chance Patrick is awake.

Hungry.

And chained to a bed.

Not one of my proudest moments.

"Please don't be up," I utter under my breath, grinding my teeth as I scan the house for activity. Who the fuck am I kidding? "Patrick, you up yet?" I holler, shutting the front door and locking it behind me.

Even from several rooms away, the struggle is evident.

This was absolutely the worst idea ever.

The good news is, Patrick hasn't managed to break himself free yet. The not-so-good news is, he's having a panic attack.

It's been a long time since I had one of those. So long I can hardly remember what it felt like, so I think it's fair to say I'm quite lost as to what I should do in this situation. One thing I remember vividly about my anxiety attacks was that I had to go through them alone; I didn't have anybody to comfort me or hold me while I trembled. Is that what you're supposed to do when someone is having a panic attack?

I walk over to the bed. Slowly.

Patrick whimpers, sweating, chains jangling as he yanks at them. "P-Pete, t-take them off."

He's looking directly into my eyes.

Patrick has beautiful eyes, glistening emerald with his tears.

Pathetic.

"I was studying multi culture in high school once." I begin speaking without thinking, vomiting random words without playing them out in my head first. Strange how I don't remember having anxiety attacks as a child, but I remember studying multi culture in high school. What the heck even is multi culture?

"I learned a Japanese phrase; mono no aware."

I crawl onto the bed and straddle Patrick's waist, pinning his wrists to the mattress above his head and digging my fingernails into the soft flesh of his forearms. His limbs convulse and he cries out. "Stop, you're hurting me!"

At his immediate request, I let go and sit back on his thighs, planting my knees firmly either side of his squirming hips. "I don't know why, but those three words stuck with me. Something about the way they roll off the tongue... Do you know what it means?"