On Panic.

It’s only as I’m walking past the mirror that I see a flash of red, her red, in my eyes. I couldn’t be sure if it’s my fear or her strength that gives her an introduction, but it doesn’t even matter. It begins, and I beg her not to. I rationalize “I know you’re doing this. It’s always you.” She keeps going. Crawling her way out of the depths, she twists herself into tiny infinitesimal slivers of panic. I feel her in my lungs, huddling in the pockets of air, tightening my chest. I plead with her. She doesn’t have to; she knows I made her do this. I’m not even sure she wanted to in the first place. I feel her climb up into my chest, and play her sweet tune. I know how I will react. I try to gain control, but my heart cannot help but dance to her rhythm. It’s quick and hard. She plays faster and faster, and my heart is hypnotized by the sounds of her.  It echoes, each beat, reverberates off of her. She prances and twirls and catches each echo, throwing it back through my chest in a cardiac tango. She’s moved into my thoughts- repetitive, unforgiving, and cruel. Over and over she repeats her chant. What is she saying this time? It never really matters, though, does it? I close my eyes and see a glimpse of her; she’s wearing my smile. It’s only then that I realize she’ll go away soon. She cannot keep up this act much longer. A broad of no mercy, but she is easily bored. She knows that I won’t be a good hostess any longer. I’m too calm now. It’s no fun to dance and play when your playthings don’t do what you say. She leaves me, but doesn’t let me forget how easily she may return. One flash of red and I am powerless again.

-Nicole O