bet you guys thought we were dead ;) first off, happy pride month to anyone who's a part of the community, and to our angsty and depressive lil gaybies; kara and lena. sorry for the long wait, btw, infinity_in_his_eyes and i really have no excuse. enjoy!
//Lena POV//
I don't know what possessed me to kiss Kara's hand. I certainly didn't mean to do it. It was only in that moment, when I was watching her slip into a peaceful sleep, that I just stopped thinking so much. I stopped caring about my walls, about the prejudice my name holds, about all the bitterness and resentment I've built up in that damn foster home. I just let my body do what it wanted, whatever it felt was right. I haven't surrendered that type of control ever before in my life.
But dammit if I don't want to lose myself to her for the rest of time.
As soon as I kissed her hand, my head exploded. Fireworks. Everywhere. I swear, my heartbeat doubled (after struggling to keep beating). And it was so simple. I kissed her hand. That's all I did. And it still felt– still feel– like the universe just screamed Endless Love into my face. I look over at Kara's sleeping form. I can still feel the warmth of her hand on my lips. I see a tiny bit of my ruby red lipstick on the back of her hand. I smile so widely it almost feels unnatural. Almost. Kara makes anything and everything feel perfect.
My heart suddenly drops. I feel like I've just been catapulted off a roller coaster. The gravity of the situation dawns on me so instantaneously, I know I would stagger if I was standing up. I press the heels of my palm into my eyes.
I feel complete again. Like there isn't that gaping hole that Lex left. That Hope left. That even Sara left. I've felt this feeling before. And every time I have, it been ripped out of me, torn to shreds, burned, and scattered. But this time, it's different. My curiosity, my concern, my burning desire for (her) companionship, they're all out in the open. I've showed Kara I care. I've shown her I can be the anchor, the rock, the tether she needs, and she also knows that she could become these things for me. I've opened up to her. And I don't want to close back up. I don't want to retreat back into my emotionless castle like I have my entire life. I want to stand my ground and fight for my happiness.
And right now, my happiness is Kara.
But I've never fought for anyone other than myself before. Of course, I wanted to confront my mother about Sara, to follow that poor, confused, sad girl with the canary backpack out the door and kiss her once more, apologize for Lillian's actions, explain that I felt something. Of course, I regretted not talking to Lex that night he came home drenched in blood, not giving him a chance to explain what happened, why he did what he did, how he became what he became. And of course, I wanted to plead my case to the Palmers, express exactly how I felt about Hope leaving me, join hands with her and stand defiant with her until the Palmers either adopted us both or left us so we could find a family that wanted both of us. Of course, I wanted to fight to keep my happiness that lived in those people. But I never did. I'm a woman of both words and actions, but the wrong words and the wrong actions, at least when it comes to love. And I'm not a woman of change. So how will I be able to fight to keep Kara in my life? Will I be able to fight to keep Kara in my life?
I lower my hands from my face. I look over at Kara. She hasn't moved a muscle. Nothing about her has changed from just a few seconds ago. But now when I think about my kiss, I no longer smile. The corners of my mouth just sadly turn upwards the tiniest bit as tears threaten to spill. I can't help it. I lean back in the beige upholstery and let the rhythmic beeping and the metric rise and fall of Kara's chest lull me into an uneasy rest.
~~~
I give up trying to sleep after the fourth time a particularly loud beep from Kara's monitor starts me awake. Every time that happens, it feels like I'm simultaneously being shoved from a giant cliff and watching Kara fall from a giant cliff as I stand helplessly, reaching in vain for her hand. I hate not having control. And every time I look at Kara, I'm reminded not only of the fact that I could lose her if she has another attack, but the fact that she was the one who made me feel as though I had no control, even as she's lying there in a coma, for all I know. The irony of the situation almost makes me laugh. Almost.
I sit back down in the chair next to the hospital bed (have I been pacing this whole time?). I'm back to watching Kara. I focus on her face, on the contour of her nose, her cheekbones, on the flutter of her eyelids and eyelashes. She doesn't have glasses on; it makes her look... older. More responsible. Less like a meek little girl and more like a strong young woman. It's like she could have an entirely new identity. Perhaps one that I would want to get to know.
But what if I don't get a chance to know this side of her? What if I never get to see her smile, never get to hear her stutter and stumble over her own words again? What if she doesn't want to see me again? What if she hates me? Did I go too far by kissing her hand? Was I cruel in being distant and then wanting to be close to her? What if she gets adopted? What if she ends up needing special care and can't come back to the home? What if Kara's sunlight never shines again?
I feel my breathing start to quicken. My eyes concentrate on Kara's face again. I imagine her summer sky eyes, filled with tenderness, gazing at me. I close my eyes. In my mind, Kara's back, sunshiney as ever, her smile radiant and her hair glowing with a golden light of its own. I feel a single tear trace a longing trail down my cheek. I will Kara to shift, to mumble something adorably unintelligible, to open her eyes. Wake up.
If I was a religious person, I would think that God heard my prayer. But it wasn't a prayer and I certainly don't believe that there's anyone other than myself controlling myself (except for Kara, of course). I nevertheless thank the universe as Kara stirs. Her eyes flutter open lazily; her lids are still heavy, but she sees me and smiles. I quickly wipe the tear from my face, hoping Kara doesn't see.
"Hey, sleepyhead." I smile as I take her hand lightly. At first, she doesn't respond to my presence and I'm ready to pull away. My heart falls. But then her hand tightens weakly around mine. My heart soars. What is it about this girl that makes me like this? I see her smile groggily, and I can't help but smile even more in return.
"I'm no sleepyhead," she objects; her words are mumbled and her eyes are still barely open. Her tone is light, even bubbly, but her words hold more meaning than I think she wanted them to. Despite this, I tilt my head fondly at her attempt to seem stronger than she is. New tears prick at the corner of my eyes. Yes, she's a ray of sunshine, but she doesn't have to pretend that she's not hurt or scared or vulnerable. Yeah, Lena, you're one to talk.
I glance at the I.V. drip next to her bed. "Tell that to the anesthesia." I'm still smiling fondly as I rub circles in her hand. Thinking back to her previous words, I realize that I hadn't realized how much I've influenced Kara with my tendency to be distant. I can't help but feel like she's become the tough one and I've become soft. My thoughts are confirmed as Kara struggles to sit up. I stand up halfway and open my mouth, about to fuss over her and tell her to stay still, to rest, but she shuts her eyes and shakes her head, gesturing me away.
"Precisely," she says, a small smile playing at her lips. "It's the drugs, not me." Shit. Even if she doesn't realize it, she's starting to blame her faults on something else, she's starting to deflect, she's starting to build walls. I can't let her do this. Kara's too outgoing to be confined within her own emotions. I smile at her in return, but then my brow furrows.
"Seriously, though, how do you feel?" I almost (so many almosts with this girl) regret the words as they leave my mouth. The small smile on Kara's face falls from her lips. Her eyes harden, the crinkles at the corners disappear. But she doesn't furrow her brow. She doesn't look angry the way she normally does, with her jaw clenched, her eyes narrowed, her eyebrows drawn. She looks impassive (okay, maybe slightly annoyed), as if she's a robot or under mind control. It's eerie. But I recognize the face. It reminds me of my mask, the one that I crafted during my many years in the home, the one Kara so accurately captured with the meticulous strokes of her pencil.
She does indeed sound very annoyed when she answers. "I'm fine, really. I don't even really know why I'm here." It's as if she's taking my words and adopting them as her own. When did she become me? And how even could she become me? Despite all she's been through, she's to happy, too optimistic for this to happen to her....
"Kara, you were basically seizing for seven minutes before the paramedics sedated you." There are so many more words that are at the tip of my tongue: You're not fine, really. I was scared that you would die. I almost cried for you... again. I lo– no. I'm upset, I'm not thinking straight. What I think, what I feel right now isn't what I normally would. Right?
I glance at Kara to gauge her reaction to my account. Something dances behind her eyes (What is it? Anxiety? Indignation? Anger? Fear? I can't tell.) but then I see even more walls go up. Whatever it is that Kara is feeling is not something she wants me to see. But the fact that she feels insecure enough to put up walls is, in a really twisted way, a good sign; she still feels, she's just scared of what that entails. So no matter what I'm feeling now, whether it's real or not, I need to make sure Kara knows she's safe with me. I'll nevertheless have to tread carefully; I know how I would respond to any criticism if I were in Kara's position.
Kara meets my eyes. There's defiance in those discs of crystal blue; it's as if she's challenging me to call her bluff. "It was nothing," she claims, "Just some kind of episode. It's over with." She's too assertive with her words, her tone, her body language. It's painfully obvious that she wants me to think she's nonchalant about the whole thing, but she isn't. Remember, Kara, I think sadly, reading people is my speciality.
"You could have died," I whisper. There, I said it. A tear threatens to fall from the corner of my eye. Why can't she just admit that she's not okay?
"I said it was no big deal. I told you, I'm fine." I can hear the mounting frustration in her words. I don't want to make her more upset (what if I cause another "kind of episode?"), but she needs to understand that it is a big deal, she's not fine.
"The doctors said it was a really severe panic attack. Like, really severe." I pause, look pointedly at her, let it sink in. My brow furrows when her expression remains passive. "Kara, this isn't something you can just brush off!"
Kara shakes her head stubbornly. Her eyes are trained on her thighs as she speaks; it sounds like she's trying to convince herself more than me. "They're not panic att–," she cuts herself off, shakes her head again, more harshly this time. She faces me, her eyes drilling into mine. "You know what? The doctor doesn't know what he's talking about. Really, I feel great now."
There's the deflection again. "Kara, they were talking with Meghan about possible triggers." Old me would despise myself for the painfully obvious concern in my voice, but all I can't even think about that, not with Kara here, now, the way that she is. She my not want to know, but I need her to know, to figure out the why. Once we know why Kara's panic attacks are happening, we can figure out how to keep them from happening. I glance over; Kara's face is still impassive (does she not know what I'm talking about or is she just ignoring me?). "You know what a trigger is right?"
Kara throws up her hands. Her countenance finally changes, but it's for the worst. Her eyes narrow and her lips curl up the tiniest bit in a gesture of disgust. I feel a sharp pain in my gut; Kara's disapproval hurts more than a physical blow at this point (oh, how the mighty have fallen). "Of course I know what a trigger is. Do you think I'm stupid?"
I try not to wince when Kara lands on the word stupid. Of all the words I thought would hurt, this was one of the least expected ones. It's just the weight, the pointedness with which she said it struck a chord somewhere deep in my heart that reverberated throughout my whole body. But Kara doesn't see this. My walls may be down, but my masks have become second nature. I push on.
"Dr. Stein thinks it's your family," I continue, referring to the triggers (and rather smoothly ignoring the whole stupid thing). "He thinks thinking about their death is what causes these attacks."
"He thinks he knows me so well, huh?" Well, he is a psychiatrist... and it doesn't take a doctor to realize that. Her family's death must have a part in the terrors. "He doesn't know shit about me, Lena." I can't completely disagree with that; Dr. Stein doesn't know Kara the way I do. But how could her past not be a trigger for the panic attacks? Kara loved her family with all her heart, and every single one of them died in an explosion. I take a moment to realize just how awful Kara's situation is compared to mine: I never cared for my father and despise my mother almost as much as she despises me, and both of them are still alive (just rotting away in prison). And I loved Lex, I still love who he was before his downward spiral, but he's only the shell of one person I love who was taken away from me, and even he isn't dead. Both of Kara's parents and her sister died. She could never see them again, even if she wanted to. Why do terrible things happen to good people like her? All of this is just waiting to spill out of my mouth, but I don't want to directly contradict her; she's already so on edge.
"Kara," I say, leaning forward, about to reach out to her (I think better of it). "It makes sense. Unless– oh, shit." What if I have something to do with them? As egotistical as it sounds, I think I might have something to do with them. Kara, at least up until her aggressive episode now, wanted to know me, be as close to me as she could. She actively persisted in bothering me (for which I'm now grateful), but once she started interacting with me, she started having the day terrors. And that scares me. Because now, I want to be close to Kara. I hate myself for asking, but it's a knee-jerk reflex. And I have to know. "Is it me?"
I knew this might happen, but I thought (hoped) that maybe, just maybe, Kara's eyes would soften, she would reach out and comfort me, tell me that I could never hurt her. But I can and I have, and I can see it in her narrowed eyes and clenched jaw and the way she spits out the words, "So this is about you now?"
"No, no, no! It's just–," I have to defend myself, rationalize why I would ask such a selfish question. But I can't even give myself a reasonable justification. My voice drops and my head hangs. "I mean, you said my name when you..." I can't even finish my sentence. I sound pathetic even to myself. I brace myself for a scalding response.
Instead, I'm met with silence. It's only when I glance up that Kara responds. Her voice has lowered an octave and there's not as much malice in her voice. "Whatever," she mutters. "It could've been anyone's name." But I'm not sure if she's trying to convince herself or me. It sure as hell isn't convincing me. And it's starting to irritate me, not only that Kara's so unreasonably aggressive, but that she seems to bent on staying angry, even if she's denying obvious fact.
"Twice?" I ask incredulously. I roll my eyes. "Couldn't be related, now could it?"
Kara narrows her eyes at me. "Must have been a coincidence."
I close my eyes in frustration. Breathe, Lena, breathe. She's not in her right mind, she just experienced a painful reminder of her family, she's on medications, she can't truly mean this. I take a deep, calming breath, open my eyes. Calm, Lena, be calm, be rational. Tell her the truth.
"You're deflecting, Kara. I'll get to the point." I want to pause so she can prepare herself for the news, but I can't risk Kara wrestling control of the conversation away from me; I push on, almost spitting out the words. "Dr. Stein says you need therapy." Brace for impact.
The first thing that changes is Kara's expression... again. And if I thought it was for the worst earlier, boy was I wrong. It's worse. Then she starts sputtering indignantly, fishing for words and finding none. Finally, she gets out a word. "W-what!" It's less of a question and more of an incredulous shout. "That's unbelievable! There's nothing wrong with me!"
It takes almost all I have not to burst into tears. Kara's denial, be it out of fear or truly believing, has reached critical levels. As perfect as she is, these day terrors haunt her. And they aren't like a harmless bad habit that can easily be broken. These attacks could be dangerous to her health. They could kill her. But if I fight her, she'll just fight back harder. And I can't deal with that at this point. So I move my hand to Kara's arm and start stroking up and down her bicep, tracing soothing designs across her skin.
"I know," I lie. "I know there's nothing wrong with you. I'm most likely the problem." Now that part I believe. "But if you go to therapy, you'll be back to normal." I know I'm walking on thin ice, but I have to try.
At first, I think I was successful; Kara's features soften for a moment. I feel her arms relax, feel the tension leave her body as she looks at me with pity in her eyes. "Lena, you're not the problem...," she whispers. I feel guilty for playing her, I feel like a Luthor, but the means justify the ends, right? That's what Lillian always said....
But then Kara pulls her arm away from my hand. Her face hardens (again). Anger flares up in her eyes. I think I see something else for a split second (fear? regret? hate?), but it's gone faster than it arrived. Her voice is far too many decibels too loud, but I can't tell if it's overcompensation or true ire.
"Stop making this about you! It's not about you, and I'm still very normal, thank you very much!"
I stand up from my chair and take a tiny step back. I'm wounded, obviously, that Kara would even think of pushing me away, more so than I'd like to admit. It's not her fault, I repeat in my head. It's not her fault. But then..., "If I'm not the problem, what is?"
Kara's face flushes red. She's on the verge of yelling, so loud that I glance at the door to make sure that a nurse isn't drawn by the noise. "There is no problem! I don't belong here, I want to leave. Now." Her voice is so forceful by the end that I can't think for a moment. I just stare at her, shaken for a moment by her vehemence.
"O– okay," I finally stammer out. "I– I'll go talk to Meghan and Dr. Stein." I move slowly towards the door, my heart stuttering, my fingers shaking (I hope she doesn't notice).
I hear Kara let out a huff of breath. I spare a quick glance back at her, stopping mid-step. I hear a quiet, begrudging "Thank you," then a slight ruffling of the sheets as she settles into her hospital bed. I close the door to her room slowly and silently. And only then do I allow the floodgates to open.
I'm not ready for this, I realize as I slump down to the floor next to room 197. I don't think I can handle this new Kara. I suppose I can only hope it gets better. I angrily wipe the silent tears from my eyes and compose myself. Time for the old masks. I find my way back to the waiting room where Meghan and Dr. Stein are talking. I wait patiently, listening absently to their conversation. I only truly pay attention once I hear Kara's name.
"Kara can be released back into your care as soon as you think she's ready," Dr. Stein says. "I just ask that I am able to come over and provide her with therapy sessions."
Meghan nods, realizes that I'm back, and turns to me. "Lena, how's Kara feeling?"
On one hand, I want to tell Meghan and Dr. Stein the truth, that Kara's too angry to be at the home (or anywhere near me) at this point. But on the other hand, maybe it's the hospital that's making her so irate. So I tell a half-truth (half-lie, whichever one makes me feel better; I haven't decided yet).
"She's fine," I say, proud that my voice doesn't waver. "She doesn't like visitors though. She said she didn't want to see anyone." She didn't want to see me. "She said she just wanted to be out of here." At least that much is completely true. I glance at Dr. Stein. "Do the meds normally make people a little... irritated?"
Stein tilts his head a little bit. "I suppose. Why do you ask? Was Kara upset with you?"
I shake my head in reply, maybe a bit too quickly. "Not with me," I respond, searching for a way out. "But she seemed pretty pissed at the nurse. And you." (Maybe that was a bit too bold....)
But Stein seems to buy it; he nods in understanding. "Very well. We'll sedate her and let her sleep off the drugs back at the foster home." I internally breathe a sigh of relief.
"Thank you," Meghan says, shaking Dr. Stein's hand.
"Of course. Ms. Moors, Ms. Luthor." Not so much as a sneer at my name; I'm impressed. "The ambulance will be waiting to drive you back right out that door." He gestures to the wide entryway. "Have a good evening."
I just nod my head, not trusting myself to speak anymore.
~~~
When we arrive back at the home, Meghan carries a still-asleep Kara up to her room. She hasn't spoken the entire way back (and neither have I). I don't even know what I should be feeling anymore. I nevertheless follow Meghan into Kara's room, watch her carefully lay the blonde angel (my blonde angel) on her bed and pull up the sheets. I can't help but glance (okay, stare) at the wall of drawings. My eyes fall on the one where I am completely broken, where Kara is reaching out to me. I almost break out into tears. Fucking again. I can't decide if the roles in the picture are reversed, amplified, or just non-existent at this point. On one hand, I do feel utterly and completely broken, both from the scare Kara gave me when she almost died and from the words she pelted me with. But Kara must be broken as well, for her to lash out at me like that; she must have been––she must be––so afraid, so hurt, so unsure about her future, our future.
And let's be honest, so am I.
The things Kara said, I can't just forget them. As much as I may want to, they are burned in my mind. She couldn't have meant what she said. She was on medications and she was overwhelmed and she was scared. She couldn't have meant what she said. Right? Maybe not entirely, but there must have been some parts of those feelings somewhere deep within her subconscious that believed the accusations and criticism she so harshly threw into my face. And if, deep down, she really, truly thinks I'm a selfish bitch, she very well may be no better than the rest of the world.
I look over at Kara. "Tell me I'm not a Luthor," I whisper. I know I'll get no response, but my stomach still sinks, my heart still falls when I hear no answer.
A single tear rolls down my cheek. I quickly and angrily wipe it away. My mother's words ring in my ears.
You're supposed to be a Luthor, darling. Luthors don't cry.
//Kara POV//
When I had initially woken, I was in such simple and pure bliss. In a temporary moment of ignorance- forgetting all my real problems; the only thing worrying me at the time was the first thing I would say to her. Bleary eyes projecting star-bright white speckles on the spotless hospital ceiling, the steady supply of drugs keeping my stasis in check.
The tingle that remained on the back of my hand, the thought of seeing the one person that could get me through this.
The one person who patiently waited at the bedside, for who knows how long, exhaustion and fear and all the burdens of her world etching worry lines into her face.
Lena was there, she was right there with me, and after everything that has happened, after everything that I have put her through, the massive changes that have rocked both of our worlds in the short, (too short,) time we have known each other. Her soft thumb rubbing gentle circles into the back of the same hand that her lips graced, her eyes red and puffy and yet so full of adoration and hopefulness, and yet, I could have asked for more.
When I arrived at this damned foster home, when my future was condemned to one of misery and never ending pain and these hellish visions and the knowledge that I would never see my family in a good way ever again... When I spent those first nights silently judging Lena Luthor, analyzing her and thinking of her and capturing stolen glances, afraid to look head on because I feared her, not because of who she was, but because of how she was, the glazed over staring at walls, the way her lips were permanently drawn into a thin line, the bags under her eyes betraying her tiredness despite the rigidity she held herself with.
Lena Luthor was doing more than she ever needed to do. She was trying for me. She was trying to change her ways, trying to open up to me, trying to make her feelings be known, all for my sake.
And lying in that hospital bed, staring into her soothing eyes, yes, I could have asked for more, so much more.
But in that moment, I would have rather not.
And then everything came to the light. It all hit me in one huge, overbearing, terrifyingly real, wave, when her gaze hardened, when her posture became slouched, like she was tasked with carrying the weight of everyone's grief on top of her own. When the words left her mouth, when her soothing hands gripped mine ever so tightly, like she was afraid to let go, like she was afraid to lose me, when I close my eyes now, I see nothing, but I hear a whisper in the wind; the one of someone who's purely afraid. Her crisp green eyes were concerned, her lips unwilling to utter the words... but when they did...
"You could have died."
Reality waltzed up and slapped me in the face, and everything hit me in one huge, terrifying, wave. I just became so angry. Inexplicably mad. Furious, frustrated, in denial over everything that's happened. And of course I wasn't angry at her. I was angry at myself. Ashamed that I was so weak, so scared, in such a bad condition that I made her worry. I made her become scared for me, afraid, unhappy.
Her eyes become panicky, dilated pupils search my face, as she leans away from me suddenly, like she's afraid of hurting me.
"Is it me?" Lena's words are barely audible, and they're shameful, and her voice is shaky and so are her hands, the same hands that held onto me so strongly just moments before.
And in that moment, I hated myself for that, because honestly, I had never put two and two together prior to this. I had never given it a second thought, how the tremors begin to roll through my body, how the whole room seems to become 10 degrees hotter, how when all of these subtle cues happen, there has been a constant. I just never noticed (refused to believe) what, who, the constant was. I closed my eyes for a moment, willing my mind to collect all the moments.
She was there for all of them.
But I couldn't just admit that.
"So this is about you now?"
I spit the words with so much venom, I didn't know if it was harder for me to speak the words, or harder for me to deal with the aftermath. The hurt in her eyes, I saw it. I watched as her defenses were thrown back up, reverting back to her cold self, in a matter of seconds, everything that I have worked for since I've arrived torn away for a fraction of a moment. It terrified me, how quickly I could ruin this; ruin her, if I was careless enough (ruthless enough.) And her eyes softened again after that, she let herself relax. Letting me play the victim, she spoke to me gently, slowly, like she was dealing with a wild animal.
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath for about four seconds. She holds it for four more. Releases it over the span of another four (why?) She's tired of me, I can tell. I've been aggressive, headstrong, blunt, and rather idiotic sounding throughout the entire exchange. "You're deflecting, Kara. I'll get to the point. Dr. Stein says you need therapy."
Ah, fuck.
The severity of the situation hit me there. Therapy. Therapy is for people who need help. People who are broken, people who need something to hold on to, people who are messed up.
I'm not one of those people (right?) So I passed out for a few minutes? They have no way of proving the real reason.
They have no proof that I'm not normal.
I'm supposed to be the sunshine, the ray of light cutting through dreary clouds on the rainiest of days, a reason for laughter. I'm supposed to be the twinkle in someone else's eye, the motivation to keep going.
Ever since I was born, I was destined to bring happiness; I was destined for happiness.
Either I'm messed up, or the Fates don't know shit.
I don't want to be messed up. I don't want to be slapped in the face with the label that the word "therapy" brings. I don't want to be objectified, I don't want my brain to be meddled, my emotions to be toyed with. Every thought I own to be scrutinized and probed under a microscope.
Yeah, I want the flames to cease. I wish I could close my eyes without the ashy shadows of my family haunting the other side. I wish I could live my days without the fear of collapsing on the spot, without knowing what night was to bring.
I wish it would all go away, I wish I could escape it.
But tell me, how could anyone assure me that it will get better? How will spending an hour of my time with a white man littered with psychology and psychiatry and psy-what-have-you doctorates, reclined back in his swiveling leather chair, his glasses hanging low on his nose as he taps a pen thoughtfully to his chin, pretending like my case is new, faux enthusiasm and sincerity dripping from his monotone voice as he asks me how I am, as he prys for information from my childhood, as I'm subjected to his feigned sympathy when I retell the story of my current existence; how any of that will make anything, anything at all, better. I'm better off without the help, I know it.
But nobody else knows it. Nobody else understands that I can't just make it go away.
It seems like everyone in the world completely overlooks the fact that your fears never really leave you.
My family; my eternal tormentors...they'll never be gone.
And lying in that hospital bed, looking into her sorrowful eyes, pity burning a hole through my skull, Lena was just like everyone else. She of all people should know that the pain never dulls, but there she stood before me, ever so patiently putting up with me like a mother would with a toddler's antics, mustering the utter nerve to tell me what I already know. I know that it was a severe anxiety attack, I know that I need help. I know that I could've died.
But those are the kinds of words you never want to hear from someone you love. When the person you adore most looks you in the eyes, their own eyes brimmed with tears and pain and absolute fear of what is to come, when it takes every bit of will, all the air from their lungs and all the strength they can muster the words they would never in a million lifetimes want to utter...
Whenever my raging thoughts left me for a moment, and the roaring buzz in my ears died to nothing, that's when the words are free to replay, like a broken record, her hushed voice, eyes the size of baby worlds, and they held all the pain of the world as well when Lena gripped me tighter, when she pulled herself closer, when tears were brimming her eyes, when tears of my own burned in my eyes, threatening to spill onto the clean linen below, and I wasn't really listening; I couldn't really bring myself to listen, to the stinging truth of the matter: I need help.
I don't want that help from Lena. I don't want to put her through that.
I don't want that help from Stein, or John, or Meghan, or someone else who's only going to pretend to care about my wellbeing.
I can only find a real solution from one person, and that one person has to be me. In a sense, it's my fault. I'm the one who broke Lena, I'm the one who's making her feel this pain. And I'm terrified. I'm terrified and guilty and panicked and upset and a wild assortment of a thousand different emotions, and the only way I could find it in myself to funnel it, to make it so I didn't simply implode at the spot was to deny it. And that's why I have to treat her like this. That's why I've got to put her through this, so she backs off. So she doesn't get hurt anymore than she has to.
"There is no problem! I don't belong here, I want to leave. Now." My forced anger had driven my words to become bitter, sharp. I was nearly yelling. She flinched at my voice, and withdrew her hand unwillingly, almost cautiously.
"I– I'll go talk to Meghan and Dr. Stein." She stood up, and it was obvious how shaken she was, her legs quivering under her weight. What am I doing to her? Guilt ate away at my stomach, the knowledge that my pain is her pain was weighing down on me. I felt sick in the heart. When Lena left the room, I let out a puff of air through my mouth, and settled down into my hospital bed. The crisp sheets rustled below me. I stared at the clock, willing time to pass faster, willing it to go on without me, wishing that I could fast forward through this, wishing that I could sleep forever (forever until things got better.)
When someone opens the door to my room, 7 minutes have passed since Lena had left to retrieve a nurse for me. I sat up, a little too fast probably, because I became dizzy. The nurse's face was distorted, swirling, speckled with black dots that altered my perception of reality. It certainly wasn't an experience that I normally experience, and I reach out to my sides, looking for something to grab, something to steady myself on, because then, my view of the world was spinning wildly. My breath became erratic as I desperately grabbed for something, anything to hold on to. The nurse ran to my side, and I grabbed her arm, harder than I probably should of. I didn't care. I just wanted to feel okay.
"It's okay Kara, I'm going to give you something to help you calm down, okay?" The nurse's words were as sweet as honey, and her smile was so toothy and big, and her hand held onto my shoulder reassuringly, but I knew what this all meant.
"I-" I shrugged the nurse off of me, and glared at her, "I want to go home." The nurse patted my head like I was a dog, and proceeded to adjust the I.V. in my vein.
"Don't you worry dear, everything will be alright."
I wanted to do something, I wanted to rip the I.V. out, I wanted to get up and run away, run away to anywhere but here. But I couldn't will my body to move. My head drooped to my chest, and even when I felt the urge to empty my stomach contents, I was helpless to do anything about it.
The nurse held my convulsing body and my hair simultaneously as I threw up on my own lap, hushing me, telling me that it would be over soon, telling me that I'd be okay.
When my body gave me a moment's rest, I willed myself to lift my head. My drooping eyes caught sight of the clock. 16 minutes since Lena had left the room. I sluggishly swiveled my head to the left, towards a window that gave sight to the world outside. A world unknowing of my struggles, one that carried on while I laid in this bed, puking on myself like a helpless infant, and I could not help but to think that in this moment, I was doing nothing for the world, and the world was doing nothing for me, and if that's how my life were to work for the rest of time...
Then the world would go on just fine without me.
I shook my head lazily, reprimanding myself in my whirring mind. You gotta be the Sunshine, Kara.
I heaved one final time, failing to actually hurl anything up. My stomach contents were emptied on the bed before me, and the sick feeling was gone, along with my independence and dignity. I felt myself grow steadily more and more drowsy, and the nurse's soothing words were become warbled in my head. As I felt my neck give out, and my head descended slowly, I caught sight of the door. Peering at me, eyes guilt laden and her body looking as small as ever, was Lena. Rage bubbled inside of me and died as quickly as it occurred. My eyes closed one last time, and I tried to force my anger and fear to subside.
After all, it only came down to this because we both care (about each other (probably too much for either of our wellbeing.))