Walking With The Outcast

Chapter 7 - Lucilia

My choking sobs render me immobile on our living room couch. The cool leather beneath me seeps through my clothes, and I'm shivering. I am folded in on myself, hiccups racking my broken frame. I'm on the verge of hyperventilating. I'm on the verge of breaking. I'm on the verge of insanity.

I'm not okay.

And I am the only one who knows this.

I am weak.

Three words. Three words to leave me crumbling, pleading, losing my mind.

I'm not okay. I am weak. I'm not okay.

Don't they know I'm not okay? Does anyone know that I'm not okay?

The ability to breathe properly escapes me. I'm hyperventilating now. It was only a matter of time, yet I am never prepared for it.

Locking my arms around myself, laying on my side, clutching my weak frame like it is the physical embodiment of my sanity that I struggle to keep, I do not move. I am weak. My arms cling to my legs, as I try to remember what I learned about panic attacks. I am weak.

Stop. I am weak. Stop. I am weak. Stop.

Make it stop.

Someone free me from myself. My mind is my own destruction, and I am captive. The caverns of my mind where the scars and pain reside are emptying, permitting my mental torment to continue.

I try to breathe. I try to calm down. I try and try and fail.

It is good they are not here to see me fail. I am weak.

My eyes are clenched, and I know that there would be black spots dotting my vision if I opened them. My lungs have passed the burning point and are the only calm part of myself. I am going to pass out. I smile. Freedom.

An unfamiliar musical tone plays loudly. It resonates through the empty house, and the suddenness of it reaches my panicked and light-headed mind. It forces my body to learn how to breathe, to function, to ground myself to the reality outside of my mental torture.

Air floods my sore lungs, and I gulp heavily. After a moment of regaining my bearings, I open my eyes and look around cautiously. What the heck was that? Once that thought crosses my mind, the sound plays again.

My brows furrow in confusion. Am I hearing things? I take a quick glance at my phone. It's not that. The chiming sound plays a third time. It's such a nice sound, so welcoming. Welcoming...welcome! I shoot upwards, the rapid movement causing a bout of dizziness. It's the doorbell!

I stumble to the foyer, shock the only emotion I register. We have a doorbell, which just rang, which means there are people outside. I am panicking for an entirely different reason now. Who is at the door? Maybe my parents sent someone to come check on me. No, that can't be it. They already get weekly reports. Another thought then occurs to me.

How did the person get here? The gate is supposed to be closed.

I creep on my tip-toes to the door, peeling the curtain that covers the window by the door back slightly. I put a solitary eye to the crack, but fumble backwards when two large males come into view.

Ace? I peer through the crack again to confirm my initial glance was true. Two tall men tower before me. They face the door, and I almost fall over from surprise when I recognize Ace's black locks that lay carelessly across his forehead. They look so soft. If that's Ace, who is the other guy?

The "other guy" shifts slightly, and a garbled noise of horror escapes me. It's Ethan, but his face is deformed. Swollen and painted black and purple, it looks bad. And that is putting it mildly. He looks like his face was run over by a bicycle. Multiple times. He only has one eye open, and I realize the reason for that when I see his puffy eyelid prevents it from opening.