Before I Go

Chapter 6- Today is a Bad Day

Warning: This chapter contains a panic attack and cutting. Reader discretion is advised.

It's Saturday, and Ashton hasn't texted me at all...

I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly as I try to still the panic that has been rising within me. Negative thoughts and emotions wash over me until I'm entirely submerged within them. They're flooding me. Drowning me in the very depths of them. I'm quickly swept away by the strong current and pulled under the viciously crashing waves. Fear scratches along the surface of my flesh like tiny razor blades relentlessly scraping away at my skin. It pricks at my arms, and I harshly tug at my clothes to try and cover myself fully, hoping they will protect me from the impending doom that lurks over me. It doesn't help, though. Not even a little bit. Worry sinks into me, filling my head with confusion and my heart with a heaviness that I can't escape or even explain. It weighs me down, feeling like an entire full-grown elephant is standing directly on my chest. It's crushing me. My stomach lurches, and I can feel the bile rising in my throat, the anxiety splashing against my insides with every breath I take. It's eating away at my organs, one by one.

Did Ashton forget about me already? Has she changed her mind? She doesn't want to be friends, does she? Does she not like me anymore? Did she ever like me in the first place...?

My mind is spiraling, whirring, asking a million questions. Questions that I know are wholly irrational, yet they won't go away. I can't get rid of them. I try to talk myself down, telling myself that Ashton hasn't changed her mind. That she's just busy right now. That she'll contact me as soon as she can. And it sounds logical, but the thoughts still haunt me. They bounce around inside my head, echoing my fears back to me in a way that makes tears well in my eyes. They flood my mind. They fill my lungs to capacity, drowning me, choking me. I can't stop...

I can't breathe...

My breathing comes quicker, my breaths shorter, shallower. I gasp loudly, desperately trying to fill my lungs with air. It's not enough.

It's not enough.

I'm having a panic attack...

I close my eyes tightly, squeezing them shut as I try my best to clear my mind. To shut off everything and just exist for a minute. Just for a minute. A mere sixty seconds is all I really need. But the questions won't stop. They're still choking me... I scream at them to leave me alone, to go away. To be silent. But I think my attempts only make them louder. Stronger. Crap, they're entirely overwhelming.

I still can't breathe...

I lay down on my floor with my eyes still closed. I place my hands flat on the floor next to me, hoping it will somehow ground me. Hoping that it might possibly bring me back to the present. That it will make the endless and relentless thoughts stop.

I need them to stop.

I try to take deep breaths, but they come short and ragged, barely enough to satisfy my need for air. My lungs are screaming, wailing, crying to be filled with oxygen. I can feel the familiar burning sensation, but even the immense pain can't seem to overpower the obstructively loud voice inside my head. I try to think happy thoughts, but...

Why doesn't Ashton like me? Did I do something wrong? Was she lying when she said we were friends? Was she just making fun of me?

It isn't working. It won't stop. I stagger back to my feet and stumble to the bathroom, struggling to get my body to cooperate with what I want it to do. My feet are heavy, like they're made of lead. And my legs are on fire. Gosh, I think they might be literally burning. I can feel the flames scorching my skin, can almost smell the scent of charred flesh. As soon as I'm through the door, I sink to my knees, my legs no longer able to support the weight of my body. It's hopeless. I'm hopeless.

Come on, Morgan... You can do this...

With a shaking hand, I slowly reach into the vanity drawer and pull out my razor blade. It's a little used, the edge slightly less shiny than a brand new one, and a little duller, I suppose. Just the sight of the steel tool brings a slight twinge of relief, but it's not enough. It's not enough. Through my blurry vision, I watch as the edge of the silver metal disappears into the soft flesh of my inner thigh. Without instruction, my hand drags the blade outward, slicing through my skin as if it's second nature. As if it has done it many times before. Like it's a movement that my hand has previously memorized and saved it within my memory bank for moments precisely like this one. My breathing suddenly becomes easier.

As I see the red liquid rush out of my leg, my nerves calm down. The loudness and the pain are immediately lessened.

It's the only thing that works...

Tears fall from my eyes as if they're racing against each other down my cheeks. They're speedy and unintentional, yet not entirely unexpected. My hand lifts the razor from my leg, and although I try to convince myself that once is enough, my body doesn't listen to me. It ignores me entirely, repeating the action without my consent. I watch in horror as I allow my hand to mutilate my leg, tearing the pale flesh over and over. Blood spills and pools and stains my clothes and the floor, and the sheer amount of relief I feel as I watch it pour out of the cuts in my skin terrifies me. I'm all out of tears now. My head falls back against the wall, and I greedily fill my lungs with air, focusing solely on breathing now that I'm finally able to do so.

I hate that it's the only thing that works...

I hate it... and I hate myself.