Chemical Romance (Heartstone)

Something was choking me. Something that was strong and cold but also hot because I was sweating like crazy.

Trembling too.

And I didn’t know what to do.

I started tearing out pages of the book, balling them up in my hand, gouging at them. It wasn’t my intention to put those tattered papers in my mouth but a keening sound was beginning to emerge from somewhere deep inside me. A choking sound, and that made me so afraid, even more afraid.

So to shut myself up, to stop myself from acting like a crazy, unhinged person, I put a balled-up paper in my mouth. I pressed my fist into it too.

And then I think I passed out.

Because the next thing I remember is… him.

The guy sitting in front of me. With a tight jaw and flashing eyes.

His shoulders, which had gone loose and relaxed when I sat down, are rigid now. His chest, too. His hands on the table are fists, angry and with jutting-out knuckles.

Good.

Maybe he’s rethinking this whole thing.

Which is exactly what I wanted.

And so it shouldn’t make me want to cry. It shouldn’t make me want to sob and bawl my eyes out and tell him that I’m lying.

Because I’m not lying.

This is my life.

This is how I live from one day to the next. There’s no medication for it, no magical anxiety ring, or a psych ward. I will always be this way. No one can cure me. All I have is some tools and medication to manage it. But I will live with my broken mind for the rest of my life.

And now he knows that.

I’m waiting for him to get up and leave. I’m waiting for my hopes to be dashed so I can shut down this infatuation once and for all.

But he doesn’t go anywhere.

He sits there, his gaze steady, his body rigid. Then, “Heartstone. That the name?”

My throat is all dry now, so I swallow. “Yeah.”

“How long were you there?”

“Ten weeks.”

He squints. “Maybe it wasn’t enough.”

“What?”

“Either it’s them,” he continues, his jaw moving back and forth, “who didn’t do their job right, or it’s you. Who learned nothing from them. And since Heartstone is pretty well known as far as psych wards go, I’m going to take a guess and say that it’s you. Which means you should probably go back to Heartstone and not come out until it’s drilled into your pretty little head that having a panic attack is not crazy. Having a panic attack is a symptom of a major psychiatric condition. Such as anxiety disorder. Which you suffer from, correct? Like diabetes. And like diabetes, which people need perpetual shots to manage, there’s no cure for it. So you’re stuck with it for the rest of your life. That’s what anxiety disorder is. What it is not is crazy. Or insane. You’re not fucked in the head, and you haven’t lost your shit. Or whatever else you want to call it.” His eyes sweep over my face. “All it does is make you unlucky. And even that depends on perspective.”

“I’m not —”

“You’re pre-med, yeah?” he asks, cutting me off.

“Yes.”

“Probably want to go to med school. The top med school, I assume. And then, you probably want to be the best doctor that you can be. Isn’t that correct?”

I squirm in my seat uncomfortably. “Yes. What…”

“Might want to be careful about your calling your patients crazy,” he clips. “They take offense at that.”

“I’m not calling myself crazy. But other people can —”

“Well, other people can be idiots.”

I open my mouth to retort but then I realize I’ve got nothing to say.

Which is very unusual for me. I always have things to say. I always have opinions to put forward and observations to share. No matter my poor personal skills, I’m not exactly a shy person when it comes to holding an academic discussion or a debate.

But I’m at a loss here.

Maybe because it is personal, the discussion we’re having. And maybe because I’ve never seen him like this.

In the past year that I’ve known him, or rather watched him from afar, I’ve seen him being all cool and professional, sometimes irritated but never angry, and definitely never this angry. Where his eyes are shooting fire and a muscle is jumping in his cheek.

Still, I try. To say something.

I open my mouth again, but the waiter is here with our food and the moment is broken.

In fact, the whole evening is broken.

The whole mood is ruined.

So much so that for the rest of dinner, we don’t say a word to each other. Atlas doesn’t even look at me and I look at him a little too much. I study his no-nonsense movements as he eats. The way he grabs the fork, wrapping his fingers around it in an all-encompassing manner. There’s nothing delicate about it. It’s all extremely masculine and somehow authoritative.