SALINE SOLUTION
!MADE UP CHARACTER!
TW: blood, puking, gore, mentions of death
I'm actually dying this time. Oh my god.
I run to my bathroom, convinced I'm going to hurl up my intestines. My friends invited me to a party. What the hell.
I've been hyperventilating the past twenty minutes since I heard about it, practically dying for the past five.
Maybe this is where it ends. Maybe this is when and where I die. On my bathroom floor, a pale, piteous mess.
I'm shaking too much. This time, I don't think I'm just being dramatic. Maybe I have rabies, maybe something undiagnosed. I don't fucking care, all I know is that I'm dying this time, 100%.
I try to stand up, falling over myself constantly. I wince from the pain of the edge of the sink harshly hitting my head, sending me to the ground once again.
I take a second to collect myself, back up from the sink, and actually stand this time, although barely being able to.
I reach up to my glass medicine cabinet, grabbing my good old panadol.
I swipe my good old childish and blue plastic cup off from the edge of the gross counter, and turn the tap on.
The water cools my hands along with filling the cup,a nice wave of cool and calmness throughout this consistent storm of panic.
I put the tab of Panadol in my mouth, and it's like an elixir. My tongue swirls it around and then I swallow it forcefully.
I slowly wander back to my bed, laying down slowly.
Maybe, just maybe I won't die.
But why did they invite me? They know how I get socially. I'm a mess. And beforehand, this disgusting feeling happens.
Every single time. I hate feeling like a victim, but alas I might be one of this sick, anxiety ridden disease. Every time my breath speeds up, I feel horrific.
The sickness itself is never the same. It tends to choose it's own symptoms apparently.
I feel like I'm dying every single time. When will I get better?
I'll set my alarm clock way too optimistically early, maybe I'll wake up and feel better if I'm productive early on.
But I know I won't get up. I'll be taunted by the flashing lights for an hour, fear stricken that when I get out of bed it'll all be over.
I really want to make my friends proud and go, but I can't.
Loser Virgins
I can't come to the party. I have to stay home, my sister is going to pop by cause she's been out of town. You guys have fun!
A complete, and utter lie. I'm secluded in my own space, unable to reach for help, unable to get better.
I bet they hate me.
No, I know for sure they do.
I avoid the plans friends are making at every turn. I wish I could go, but I don't think I'll ever be able to do as much as I'd ever want to.
I feel nausea picking it's way up to my mouth, but I stay put. I'd rather die here than in my gross bathroom. It's an easy choice.
Maybe the next party will be the one I go to. Maybe I'll get up the courage then.
But for now, I've chosen the bitter taste of defeat against my own mind. I leech off of my friends for amusement, and back away when it's something they want to do.
I throw my phone aside, not wanting to hear or see the disappointment from my friends. My alarm is still set, and I fall asleep.
The next morning I woke up to my alarm. The day wasn't different.
I watched the sunset through my pale and transparent blinds. The birds tweet, so I turn off my alarm to lull myself to sleep again with their sweet, unbothered melodies.
When I actually wake up, my phone reads 11pm, sad faces from my friends left in the groupchat. I groan, and get up to walk to my kitchenette and make a warm coffee, and grab a croissant.
I sit on my little balcony, horns honking in the street below me, tourists crowding the sidewalks with their ridiculous Broadway merchandise.
This is the only time I can find comfort in large groups of people.
Kind of pathetic, isn't it?
<3
