Come What May

25. reflex mechanism

trigger warning: mention of sexual harassment.

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CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

REFLEX MECHANISM

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• sunday, april 25th •

Hands.

One on my wrist, fingers curling around it until it leaves an imprint, the other on my neck, pushing, pushing, pushing until the breath in my throat is cut in half, until my eyes roll to the backs of my head, until I'm gasping strangled breaths, choking, choking, choking, mouth forming words I can't comprehend, a plea, a prayer, a—

"Asif."

Eyes snapping open, I push myself into an upright position, inhaling sharply.

And then, the coughing starts.

I cough and cough until the dryness in my throat isn't just from not drinking water for a whole day, until my lungs rattle in my chest, begging for air, until a hand rests on my back, gently rubbing it up and down.

"Shh," someone murmurs quietly, I can't tell if it's Jen or Mom, the darkness of the living room and my coughs are drowning out her voice. "You're okay, you're okay."

I shake my head, hands reaching up to grasp at my throat as if that'll help the choking on stifling air. "No, I can't—" I gasp out, hands, hands, hands on my throat, pushing me down, hands travelling all over my body, Mom dying, me dying, my funeral, caskets, roses—

Slowly, Jen— I'm sure it's her now, she's the one with the small, petite hands— reaches up and uncurls my fingers from my throat and just continues to rub my back in rhythmic circles. It doesn't stop the coughing though, my entire body trembling under her touch as I hack out my lungs.

"You're okay, my love," she whispers in Tagalog, it's one of the few phrases I understand well. She's always said that to me— whenever I came home after a bad day at school and cried my eyes out, whenever I was just generally having a bad day for reasons that I still haven't figured out.

I wish the current situation were as simple as a bad day.

I'm going to throw up.

"You're okay," Jen murmurs, hand still on my back. Careful not to make any sudden movements, she takes the trash can from the side of the couch and holds it in front of my mouth, as if I even have anything in my stomach to empty.

It's been over a month since I've been able to stomach an entire meal. It all started with that party with all those people. Since then, my stomach has been waging a war against itself.

Skeletal. I'm skeletal.

That's enough for my stomach to conjure up something.

"That's okay, everything's alright," is a hymn in my ears now, it's one that I've been hearing ever since I was a teenager. "Careful, Asif. Breathe."

"Jen," I choke out, not bothering to listen to her instructions. White hot pricking at the corners of my eyes, I cough into the trash can. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

In the darkness, Jen sighs, her blurry silhouette reaching over to push my hair out of my face as she brings my forehead closer to her mouth and plants a soft kiss on it. I don't even have the energy to tell her that I'm all sweaty and that she shouldn't do that when sweat is dripping down my temple.