You're suffocating.
There's not enough oxygen coming into your lungs. You're clawing at your throat and neck and shoulders and wrists. You want to numb the fear with pain. Why do you feel this much anxiety? You don't know why. You're afraid since you don't know what to do. You haven't had an attack in years. Nobody's home with you, so nobody can help. Your neighbors surely hear you. But… that didn't save the old man across from your apartment. He simply slipped and couldn't get up. Nobody saved him either.
You're on the floor, pulling at your hair. You're in the fetal position. Perhaps by doing this, you think you'll attain the comfort and safety of a baby. It won't, you know. You need to calm down, fight this wave of unexpected fear. Your body is tingling - a normal thing that happens during your attacks, you know. You shake on your dirty carpet. It smells. You should really clean it, but you know you won't.
You think you're going to die.
Not likely.
One of your many symptoms.
It's suddenly cold. Too cold. You shiver, clutching at yourself. You try to calm your breathing, something one of your doctors told you to do over the years, but it's no good. It's just too cold for you to focus.
Something twists in your stomach.
You vomit.
The foul mixture makes your already filthy carpet filthier. And now you're lying in the partially digested mixture. It's warm. Warmer than anything else. You feel an urge to get closer to it, but stop yourself. You already had a large cleanup.
If only you could reach your phone…
You left it on your coffee table, just hanging on the edge. You're close. So very close to it.
But you can't move.
No, no, no. You'll die if you move. You can feel it. No, no, no. There's no way you're going to move. You aren't ready to die just yet. There's so much to do! Like… like… Like what exactly? Visiting your elderly mother in the summer to get berating for having done nothing with your life? Visiting your father in jail?
Fine.
You don't mind dying.
It'd be welcome in your pathetic life, anyway.
Oh come on, even your cat ran away from you, first chance it got.
If you get your phone, great! If you died trying, even better!
You crawled, slowly, shivering. Sobbing. Like the child you are. And you make it. You actually reached your coffee table without dying. And you reach out and grab the table cloth. You pull, knocking everything onto the floor with a resounding crash!
Your phone - of course - is on the floor now too.
You snatch it up, like it was some kind of treasure you had to keep safe at all costs. No, it was just an expensive phone you bought on a whim. Did you think that the piece of technology would make you happy? You slide it open and type in your password, making a few mistakes. Tears kinda make it hard to see.
And you open up your contacts.
Who would pick up?
Your mom…? No, she was on the beach from dusk till dawn, getting burnt and forgetting about her deadbeat husband.
Your dad's number… You haven't had the heart to delete it. Someone serving a life sentence didn't need a phone.
Joshua? You still have your ex's number? It's pathetic. He broke up with you. He was seeing someone else. He wouldn't care that you were shivering and crying in your shitty little apartment.
Maria. An old friend from high school. You haven't seen or heard from her since the day you graduated. You were always too scared to call first. Now look at you. Seeking out someone to call, desperately wanting them to calm you down.
The numbers were useless.
Your boss, your coworkers, even your mother. They had better things to do than console you. You lost your grip on your phone and it bounced a little. Good thing you bought such an expensive case, right. You always drop your phone.
You lie back down and continue shaking and shivering and sobbing.
No one will help you.