Manic Attack

XIV. Abercrombie & Ditch

     Underneath the flickering yellow bulbs and paper triangles hanging across the grey and glimmering cobbled path, men and women sat on wooden benches sipping sweaty pints of beer and biting into the evening snacks served outside The Dubliner. Edward Moseby lumbered past the maze of shaded benches and the animated crowd, drowning in it before turning the corner. I lifted myself on my toes, scanning for someone in a leather jacket or wild chocolate hair and dearly hoping he would come back at least for some Alfredo penne. I searched for him until my toes screamed in pain. He was gone.

Monica plus disaster equals monster. Hah, funny.

Helpless and defeated, I turned towards the restaurant where Melissa was waiting for me, throwing her little tantrum and demanding information I was not looking forward to spill. It was not within me to sit in front of her piercing, emotional x-ray vision and smile a genuine smile. I wanted to go home and sink into my couch, soak myself in my miseries and turn them cloudy behind tufts of cigarette smoke. Good thing it was the weekend, I couldn't wait to wake up tomorrow and shun productivity. The mere thought of a couple of days by myself swells my heart with excitement. Excitement so intense, it hurt my chest. 

The street tilted sideways as the pale bulbs blurred into blazing spheres of light. A violent shiver shook my body as the humid breeze suddenly turned very cold. My head, a throbbing mass of jumbled thoughts and crippling fears, seemed to have separated itself from my body. With my surroundings floating in and out, I reached out a hand for support. The brick wall beside me took a treacherous step back, sending me floating through the air until I collapsed on all fours. It was happening. This was the one that would end my existence as a failed fashion journalist and shitty friend.

I heard a voice, loud and urgent, speak above me. Perhaps it was God, postponing my time of arrival because even he wasn't eager to handle this hot mess. It made perfect sense, which is why the tremors coursing through my body increased in intensity. My stomach churned. I tried to remember the numbers like before but even they had abandoned me.

"Monica? Monica. Listen to me."

The floor jerked back into the axis, I fell on my back against something rough and solid. Everything was suddenly too bright.

"I want you to breathe, okay?" The voice said firmly. "Take a deep breath in. Here, fill this space with air." A warm hand pressed against my burning chest. "Nice and slowly. You can do this."

The hand was gentle, the heat it radiated jumpstarted my thought process. I focused on the hand stroking my breastbone and tried to fill the space within with oxygen. Cool, thick, and moist, it trickled into my lungs.

"Good, just like that. Now breathe out."

It felt like an eternity was spent exploring the basic function of respiration before I resurfaced. When the walls had finally stopped dancing and the tremors rocking my body had slowed to a steady hum, Melissa's ocean eyes, overflowing with concern and relief, were the first things I registered. If I talked about how glad I was to see her, words would abandon me as well.

"Hey, you," Mel said with a gentle smile. "Glad to see you're not dead."

"Don't push your luck," My voice, hoarse and scratchy, sounded alien to my ears.

"She's back." Mel looked up at someone beside her.

My neck creaked as I followed her gaze upwards to someone standing in the evening shadows. The streetlight behind his head darkened his silhouette. It reminded me of the time we first met.

"Does she need anything?" Edward asked, barely above a whisper. "There's a drugstore nearby—"

"I'll take it from here. Thanks."