Permanent Scars

Know Your Enemy (Murder City Pt. 2)

November 12, Tuesday. 8:03 p.m.

"You probably don't want me to ask, but what was the deal during school today?"

My eyes widen at the query, slowly trailing up to meet his gaze instead of staring at the French fry I've been dunking in my milkshake. Words slam into my brain like an ocean during a storm. It's so loud I can't think because I'm overthinking and I feel paralyzed and my hands are shaking and....

"I'm sorry I asked." Adam flips hair out of his eyes. "I just wanted to help with the problem, that's all."

My mouth opens but no sounds come out. Stupid anxiety getting the best of me all the time. I wish it didn't have such control over my body. It's bad enough that it is a mental condition. It doesn't need to manifest itself physically as well.

Oh, but it does.

"Don't think about it. Stop thinking. Forget I even asked. I'm sorry."

Too late. Damage has been done.

"Stop shaking. Please. Should we leave?"

   My stomach lurches. I really shouldn't have eaten food. No one knows, but my diet lately has consisted of VictualCaps and nothing else. I have not been able to ingest and tolerate normal food. I can drink any liquid without a hitch—at least as far as I'm aware—but food is not to be taken.

   Pushing past the vibrations of vertigo in my head, I summon the strength to keep myself from locking up. Adam swallows hard, frustrated sorrow filling his eyes. The light and worry make his pallid face look sickly.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Push out the anxiety. Drown it with fresh air. There we go. That's it. Just like Dylan taught you.

   Heart rate deceasing to something more normal, I close my eyes and focus on breathing until I can speak.

   "No, we don't need to leave. I'm good now."

   "You sure?"

Waves come flooding back and I wish he wouldn't play that double-check game. I drop my head against the tabletop and breathe deeply, body shaking.

I'm good, I'm fine, I'm dandy, spectacular, perfect. I'm good, I'm alright. I'm okay.

"Oh come on, don't cry!" His light, edgy voice raises an octave too loud and people briefly snap their heads to look at us. Adam grabs my hands, his calloused fingertips sliding over my knuckles, through the spaces between my trembling fingers. I latch on before he does, squeezing hard in attempt to drown the pain, lifting my head just enough to peer at him through my messy bangs. His eyes are saturated with both sympathy and empathy.

   "Let's go," he says softly. "I want you to forget about those things for tonight."

   "But won't that be like running from my problems?"

   He falters, realizing I have a point. Part of me aches, hating the depths I've jumped into within mere moments. I hate how I can be lighthearted and fun one minute and breaking to pieces the next. Why can't I be consistent? He needs consistency, I need consistency.

   "I can't be strong anymore."

   I didn't mean to say that.

   "That's okay," he nods, consideration in his manner. "I don't expect you to be."

A lot of people would take his words the wrong way. They'd say he's being callous, snarky. In reality he is genuine, not condescending. He's kind. Caring. Worried.