“I—”
The front door slammed open, causing both of us to jump. We laughed a little at ourselves, and Otter called out, “Ty?”
There was no response.
His brow furrowed a little bit, and all I could think was that if it wasn’t one thing, it was another, because somehow I knew something wasn’t right.
There was a little choked gasp from out in the hallway, something I knew so well. It was the sound of my brother struggling to breathe, to force air into his lungs, even though his throat was closing up and the red claws of panic were tearing into his skin.
I shoved myself away from the table, the wineglass tilting over, dark liquid soaking the tablecloth. I ignored it because it wasn’t important. Not now.
I heard Otter jumping up behind me even as I ran from the kitchen.
Tyson Thompson was slumped against the now-closed door, feet
sliding out from underneath him, skin pale, glazed eyes bulging even as he tried to pull the collar of his shirt away from his neck like it was choking him.
I stumbled a little as I reached him, tripping over the damn rug in the hallway. I fell to my knees in front of him as he hit the floor. His skin was cold as I cupped his face, his fingers knocking against my hands as he tried to shove me away.
“Kid? Tyson.”
“I c-can’t b-breathe,” he panted out. “I c-c-can’t breathe, Bear, oh, Bear, I can’t b-b-breathe.”
We’d been here before.
More times than I could count.
More times than someone like him ever deserved.
Panic disorder was a bitch like that.
It didn’t care if he was the smartest person in the world.
It didn’t care that shit had been slung at him again and again and again.
It didn’t care that I hated it more than anything else in the world.
It just pulled him down, wrapping itself around him, smothering him. He felt cold, but he was slick with sweat, and I was frozen, like this was the first time all over again, like I was a lost teenager and he barely came up to my waist, and he was looking up at me, begging me without speaking to make it better, to make it go away.
We’d been alone then.
We weren’t now.
Otter crouched next to us, pressing his forehead near the Kid’s ear, and he was whispering, his breath hot against my fingertips. He was saying I know you can hear me and You’re safe here, you’re home and you’re safe and Breathe with me, okay? You just need to breathe with me. Otter’s gaze darted quickly over to me, and I did the only thing I could. I followed along with him.
“That’s it,” I said, voice hoarse. “That’s right. We’re here, okay? We’re here. And you’re gonna breathe with me, okay? That’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna breathe in. Hold it. And then you’re gonna breathe out. Hold again. And we’ll do it as long as you need to.”
“I c-c-can’t.”
“You can. And you will. It’s hard, I know. And it won’t feel like you can actually do it, but I know you can. You hear me? I know you can.”
And he did. Eventually.
We sat there, slumped on the floor, giving him space but making sure he knew we were still there. He breathed in and we counted. He breathed out and we counted. It went on and on like that for a while.
And it did end. It always did. That was the fucked-up thing about it. It would end, but it could always come back. It was a quick fix. Nothing more.
His skin had a little color to it once his throat loosened enough for him to breathe erratically.