killer instinct - || h.s. ||

13

TRIGGER WARNING: panic attack

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" always in my head space "

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aurora astor.

There are just some of those days, you know?

I couldn't go back to sleep last night after the images that ran through my head, I nearly threw up from the thoughts alone. So I ended up staring up at the blank ceiling, letting my mind race and my heartache.

Today is just a bad day when you don't quite feel like yourself or just you feel the weight of your problems a little more than normal.

For any ordinary person, these days come in waves – you have a healthy mix of good days and bad days.

The trauma really did fuck me up, Kian. These said bad days are just normality – a constant in my life. So on days like these, the true weight of all this emotional stress on my life radiates a more prominent pain than normal.

It allows leeway for one of the most dreadful feelings to ever exist – weakness.

I feel weak today under the battles in my head. So to remedy this as I always do, I've been going at this punching bag in front of me for hours this slow morning.

My body covered head to toe in sweat, just in dire need to feel strong again. I'm trying to feel strong, I need to feel it. This weakness shit irks my soul, it makes my gut wrench and makes me feel disgusted with myself even though it shouldn't.

Nevertheless, my physical threshold is met and I throw my final punch to this leather bag filled with sand in the middle of the empty gym.

My body sinks into the squishy gym mats and I layout. I audibly groan and pant fast as I try to catch my own breath in the middle of the floor, coughing lightly try to regain my breathing. I just lay out like a star and stare up at the ceiling while my chest rises and falls in choppy breaths.

I scoff at the war in my mind and I roll over, reaching over to grab my phone from my duffle to pat around for it. Pulling out the device, I lay back with a sigh on my side. I click it on and my screen lights up, squinting at the bright light and scrolling through my phone on my side while the music blares through the small gym.

My fingers freeze when I see a particular article making headlines this morning. My breath comes to a stop in my throat with a fresh gloss forming over my eyes to blur the bright screen in front of me.

I gulp whilst my teary eyes scan the words:

'Kian Fitzgerald, the 22-year-old student at the University of Chicago, dies in a sudden car crash.'

My stomach twists into sickening knots and I stare in pure shock. I blink a few times, feeling the single tears run over the bridge of my nose and hit the mat. I wipe them away faster than ever, groaning and throwing my phone over to the bag.

I cover my face with my hands and I scream. I legitimately scream as loud as I can and it rips through my chest with the pain in me for it to just accompany the 70s rock pounding against the walls. I exhale a sort of sob that produces a prominent sting at my sinuses, tempting me to just completely break.

But I force myself to hold in this pain before I break.

Weak–

There goes a wasted boxing session.