Firefly

44: barely functioning

Chapter 44: barely functioning.

Elena

"Have fun. Stay safe." My brother says once I close the door of his car. 

I walk away without giving him a glance. After three days of complete isolation, my family and I had a "talk" at dinner last night. They lectured me about going back to school, I spaced out riveting on the rotini pasta spirals. They versed me in the art of moving on when I was countering my sixth panic attack, was it? 

Peppermint chewing gum is partly working to keep me glued to reality—thank you, Cece. I won't be saying it out loud. Just like a million other things that I've coffined in my chest. 

I draw numerous eyes when I enter the main door. I want to believe my all-black sweats outfit and my messy hair bun (uncombed) is what's making people stare at me. But I know better. Word sure spreads like wildfire in high school. It was foolish of me to think the matter would've died down in three days. But what do I care? I'm just here for education and attendance (only attendance).

My uncaring eyes cut from the halls to my phone when it buzzes. A part of me hopes it's Nate. If spamming can defect phones, then I take all the blame for his disappearance. At least that excuse doesn't pain as much as the real--never mind. 

𝐃𝐚𝐝
Focus on the good things. I love you. 
Now

Every word in that sentence has stopped making sense to me. Focus—maybe after my tenth panic attack I will. Good things? That category is so temporary. He—my father's irresponsibility of having too much alcohol, confusing a gastric issue for a heart attack, and having us tag him in the Cadford Hospital was all pointless when he sobered up and started flirting with his friend, Cece Reglin. Love—fucking bullshit. And me? Barely functioning. 

I lock my phone with such force, that it slips out of my hand and stumbles to the ground. I realize it mid-way and I give up. No phone means no fake concerned messages. No checking in. No affirmations. No contact. Yes, I'd love that. Maybe that's why Nate disappeared too.  

Before it falls and breaks into pieces, strong hands catch it. Can't people just let phones fall? My eyes are about to roll but the black Rolex, a tattoo peeking from behind its strap and veiny arms near my sight gripping my phone. My next breath is filled with the scent of sweat, wood, and deodorant.

I grab the phone and storm away without stopping even a second. I know who that hand belongs to and before I stab it with the nearest, sharpest object that I find, I need to leave. 

I keep my head hung low and chew my gum so hard to deflect my mind from all the anger amplifying in my chest. 

Fake. Everyone around me is fake. Three days taught me how everyone has a professional skill of pretense and acting. It's as if nothing happened. I almost feel like a psycho, wondering if everything that happened was just in my head or if it was reality. 

The laughter, the family dinners, the joking of misunderstanding a cardiac arrest, the fact that nobody dumped me in the worst possible way, the way they pretend everything is fine when every part of me is flaming with volatile emotions. 

Is that how they moved on from the accident? 

My head throbs at the thought of it. I rush to the nearest restroom, lock myself in the toilet, and puke all of last night's dinner. The more I restrain panic attacks, the more ways my body finds to throw them out. I sit on the bathroom floor holding my head. 

My best friend was right when he warned me about falling in love. I am an anxious puking mess. 

The moment my breathing calms down and my head rests against the cubicle walls, tears blur my vision. I can't control them so I let it flow. It's been three days and they're still fresh as new.