'fucking hell please tell me you're awake'
this is what the first text reads at two in the morning. luckily, you are awake (because you always are), but that doesn't mean your mind works any better in the snail-like crawl of the hour. still, the worst part is that the seven words lit on a glowing screen only whisper in the dark recesses of your mind when they should be screaming through every lobe like the monsters they are. the first clue should be that she never swears, ever, because she is all honeysuckle laughs and bow-shaped barrettes, and beautiful, spider-like eyelashes (which is ironic, because she loathes spiders). but here she is, not just begging but shrieking for help.
'i am, what's going on?'
dumbly, that is your first response-text, but that's when your brain flips the switch and shifts the gears and you notice there is a fire burning holes all over those words, vainly attempting to send up smoke signals and cry for mercy like witches burning at a slow simmer.
'i just really need your help. i need you.'
she sends this before you can beat her to it and the fire spreads, your quickening breath being the fuel that ignites it and causes it to flare.
'i just realized you swore. oh god, what's going on? Are you okay?'
guilt washes over you, a selfish wave that only proves you aren't listening in the honest way no one ever does anymore, with the absence of foreign objects and the sincerity of locked gazes. so focus is what your soul instead of your brain tells you, and you desperately wait and wait and wait.
you've moved outside and are gazing up at the dark heavens, dotted with silver specs, winking like a thousand old friends. you look and try to wink back but it only makes your limbs grow heavy until the weight of your phone in your hand nearly drags you to the ground. still, nothing but the night and a weight in your hand that somehow is just a little too big for the shape in your chest (but still enough to weigh it down too).
'i'm not home yet, i'll text you when I'm home'
this slow realization that an answer is delayed brings dread, sinking like a feather in your chest. it moves slowly, gradually, and touches down softly but the weight is still there, enough to be an itch you can't scratch that will drive you mad in the minutes it takes to finally know.
eventually, what you thought would be ten minutes stretches to twenty and then to thirty. time knocks at your door like your father peeking in to say goodnight, but time just laughs and doesn't even have to push it open. you hear it and a chill creeps up your spine, rattling each vertebrae against one another, groaning and moaning like rusted chimes in the wind.
it's not as bad as you think, it's not as bad as you think, you tell yourself, but it's almost impossible to know. what you do know is that this feather-light dread and terror licking at you like flames is ineffable and unescapable, so you let it swallow you whole until the light comes back on.
'hospital'
this is the response after almost forty minutes, and the single word turns water to wine and that damn feather to a stone, but either way it's sink or swim and you can't manage to do either. you find yourself running, and it takes a moment to figure out if you're running away from the problem or to it (or maybe even neither? maybe you're just running in place and it's all an illusion).
eventually though, you go.
A/N: this is based off of a personal experience of mine so I feel tres, tres vulnerable posting this so sorry if I delete it later, okay thanks
