Symptomatic

12

She wouldn't answer, but he could still call. He almost pretended she could hear him, pretending the robot that told him the number he was trying to call was no longer in use, was her.

"Hello?"

"Hi, sweetheart!" She would have said, voice rich with love. Harry cried harder.

"Help me, mum..." He mumbled out loud, his voice cracking. "Come back and help me. I can't do it anymore. I need you. I'm not strong enough. I know i'm an adult, but I'm not strong yet. I'm still a kid. Please help me, Mum..."

Harry wanted to punch his fist through the wall. He wanted to smash the toilet to pieces. He wanted to crack the mirrors and rip the door off of its hinges.

But he wasn't strong enough. He was an adult, but he wasn't strong enough. He was still a kid. So he only put his phone down and rolled over, burying his head in his arms, trying to get the last of his breakdown out before anyone returned home.

"Harry, what are you doing on the floor?"

Harry opened his eyes, unaware that he had fallen asleep there. He looked up to see Vikk standing in the doorway. The slightly older boy seemed to understand the situation when Harry turned towards him, revealing the tear tracks that ran down his flustered face.

"I'm getting Josh." He said, but Harry quickly jumped to his knees and grabbed his arm.

"Don't. Please don't, Vikk. It wasn't a panic attack. I'm okay, I was just upset- thinking about my mum. But I feel better now. It's okay."

Vikk stopped walking, standing in place and looking down. He always looked down when Harry was at his worst, seeming almost afraid. When Harry had first met him, he'd thought him to be distant from the other guys, less willing to show his emotions or express his concerns. On rough nights, in their shaky days, when they had no idea what would happen to the Sidemen as a whole, he would often be the only man unwilling to cry. He would wait until everyone else was gone, and sometimes Harry would see him sitting alone in the kitchen, silent tears falling down his face.

"I can't do it on my own, Harry..." Vikk said in almost a whisper.

"You don't have to do anything, you can just-"

"Of course I have to do something! You think I can just sit back and watch you hurt? What would you do if you saw me like this? Would you just watch?"

"He's right, mate." Harry noticed that Tobi had joined in on the discussion. He looked as though he had tears in his eyes. Harry felt his heart crumble into dust. "I don't want you to be sick. I don't want you to be hurt. I just want you to be okay and happy."

"Tobi, I'm trying. I'm doing what I can."

Harry realised he was still kneeled on the floor, small in every way, shape, and form. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but he caught another glimpse of Tobi's teary face and he fell back down. Tobi only kneeled down beside him and hugged him- something he always did, especially to Harry.

"Why are you sweating so much, Bog?" Tobi asked through his tears. "It's cold in here."

"I-I don't know..." Harry felt smaller than the both of his friends in that moment. "I guess I'm just weak." He joked, trying to ease the tension.

"You're not weak." Vikk spoke from off in the distance. He was always off in the distance. "You're just hurting more than we are."

"What's going on?" Josh spoke from off in the distance.

Panicked, Harry stood up and wiped his cheeks with his hands. He brushed his clothes down and stepped out of the bathroom, doing his absolute best to look presentable.

"Nothing. I was just gonna go to the corner shop. Does anyone want anything?" Harry said, forcing cheerfulness into his unstable voice.

Nobody said anything- not even Josh, who was uncharacteristically silent. No prodding, nothing. He just watched him leave, and even though Harry knew that he wasn't off the hook, he just had to get out. He just had to find a reason to breathe.

He walked to the shop as quickly as possible, the chaos of the rainy night vanishing when he entered the artificially lit room. It was quiet. There were only one or two other customers.

For a second he thought he'd be able to survive.

Harry walked through the isles, looking at everything without processing anything. He didn't know exactly what he was thinking about. He was thinking about a jumble of things that all seemed to morph together. There were shapes floating in his vision, with straight edges and sharp points. There were splatters of ink everywhere. Things were ripped and frayed. But the shapes were still straight and sharp, surprisingly different from everything else that occupied his mind. He thought that closing his eyes would help, but the second his eyes shut, that was when everything shifted.

The shapes exploded into balls of light. They knocked him off his feet and sent him tumbling to the tiled floor below. His heart was exploding within his chest, knocking against his rib cage and sending cracks throughout his spine. It was trembling, almost. The shaking didn't even feel like shaking. It was more like jerking, so powerful that he could no longer hold himself up in a sitting position, and he let his head hit the floor. He clenched his chest, gasping for breath. The gagging started again.

The panic. It was different. It was so different.

"Are you okay?" A stranger asked.

"Oh my god! That's Wroetoshaw!" Someone exclaimed from somewhere that seemed so far away.

Harry tried to speak, but he second he opened his mouth, he felt like he was going to choke. He coughed uncontrollably, feeling as though his lungs were turning to rock and his throat was closing. He felt light headed and the world spun. The lights were so bright that his head hurt. He was numb all over.

"Someone call an ambulance or something! He might be having an allergic reaction!"

Harry's hair hurt. His eyes hurt. He let out choked gasps, one hand on his chest and the other hand on his throat. Tears fell from his eyes. His head felt as if it was full of cotton. He was still gagging. His stomach was spinning around in circles and he could barely see anything. There was light and shadow and nothing else. No colour, no movement, no life. Textures and patterns of light and shadow filled his mind. Shapes with straight edges and sharp points. Sharp textures. Straight light. Spinning around and around like a kaleidoscope, pulling vomit out of his stomach and forcing him to roll onto his side and spill his guts onto the floor. He coughed more as his vision refused to keep up with his movement. Everything was squashed and stretched. Everything mixed with everything, and all he could feel was pure terror.

"Harry, I need you to breathe for me, okay? I'm going to count to eight, and I want you to take a deep breath in." A paramedic spoke as they held an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, pulling him into a sitting position.

It took Harry a long time before he realised he could breathe again. The paramedics had checked to see if he showed signs of anaphylaxis, and they determined it was just a panic attack. By the time he built up the strength to stand up and walk, he reassured everyone that he was fine walking home on his own, that he didn't need a ride back, though he couldn't stop crying. The entire walk back, he cried like a child, unable to calm down.

What if someone took photos?

They'd be up online and everyone would know.

He shouldn't have gone to the shops.