Breathe

In. Out.

Mind blank.

In. Out.

The steady beating.

The breathing.

In. Out.

One day it would end.

Gasping as if she had been trapped underwater, she shuttered back to life. She had blacked out again. Again. It had been happening for months, and she wasn't getting better. Still, her lungs filled, her heartbeat pulsed, her brain hummed, and she was alive.

Alive. Breathing. Powerful words for a girl so weak after her attempts to be strong.

She unfolded her legs from underneath her, where they had already acquired the feeling of pins sticking to every pore of her skin, just below the flesh. Reminding herself where she was- home, her bedroom, she fell back. This was her bed, the place she knew best, but it all seemed wrong.

This room was still like it had been when she was eight years old, pink and flowery. Her old drawings had been taken down long ago, the places where they had once been still eerily empty. She still sat on the twin-sized bed that used to have a twin, but the other half had been taken downstairs to make room for another person. There was the same pink lamp with white lace and black kittens, and the dresser that had turned from white to cream over time.

Where had she been? There was the feeling again, that she hadn't been in this place for a long time. How long, she couldn't say. So many things had happened; it seemed as if she had only been away for a handful of moments, only to return an adult instead of the child she once was. She didn't want to let go, but she had to; just like she had to keep breathing.

On the other side of the ocean of cream-colored carpet, there was a door. She remembers the door, yes, but it was like the existence of it had only just occurred to her, that a moment ago this door did not exist. There were questions and problems, but in it, she was not an answer. Tossing aside the pillow that she held close to her stomach, she carefully lowered one foot to the ground. This was like when she was a child and played games where the ground was molten lava. She didn't know why, but she didn't want to touch it, feeling that the moment she did that she would melt away.

It didn't melt, not the moment she touched the floor. Still, she had to urge herself to breathe.

In. Out.

Deep breaths.

This will all be okay.

And it was, for the most part, as she made her way from her childish room to the stairs, and crept down them one at a time, careful and slow, hands clutching the handrail. Her mind told her you will fall, but her legs still held her up. There was something happening. Was she even alive? Her movements fought to survive, one after another, and always the breathing.