I'm holding my hands over my eyes as I hyperventilate and panic. It makes the world seem smaller. Safer. Like I'm not going completely fucking bonkers right now and about to get checked into a psych ward and have my life ruined and no job options when I get out so no way to support my family with a stigma to carry for the rest of my life. I kept my eyes closed to avoid seeming my hands and all the colors they were. Not so much colors, but cell shading. Just like a Japanese anime show. It made me want to cry, but it was impossible through the shear sense of mind-numbing anxiety and fear. This was it. My life is over. I've lost my marbles and they ain't coming back, not after this. I lose control of myself and start coughing through my harried breaths as it becomes harder to reign myself in.

I can hear the footsteps pounding in the hallway, and it makes me more uncomfortable. I never liked the sound of frantic activity. It makes me nervous. It usually means that shit's about to happen and I'll get dragged into it. This time it's the really sour kind of shit that I don't even want to be near, let alone involved with. The steps stop right outside my door, where the other two guys converse for a little bit. Aaaaaaand here it is. They're gonna take me away now. Goodbye future, hello white walls and 24/7 supervision. One of them knocks on the door and opens it slightly... but he doesn't come in. He offers me a soda instead. Of all the ways to deal with this sort of situation, that might've been one of the last ones I would expect. I take the soft drink because why the fuck not, and focus on getting my breath long enough to take a swig and not choke on the damn thing. The cold sensation is familiar, and so is the taste. That slight chill of a drink that's not-quite room temperature, but certainly isn't ice cold anymore. The flatness of having been sitting around for a while. A syrupy and disgusting taste like cough medicine that hung around in your mouth for a while. Diet... something. Maybe Coke. Or rootbeer. Do they even make diet rootbeer? If they do, I'd rather drink rubber glue. I start to chug the whole thing anyway. My mouth gets dry when I sleep, and it was soothing on the throat. Especially after my freakout session.

[color=9e005d]"*cough cough* Ha- *hack* ha, ahaha. Haha... ah,"[/color] I chuckle. The absurdity of the situation was pretty hilarious. [i]Hey, this guy's going absolutely apeshit in his room, let's get him a fucking soda![/i] It's funny as hell in a cosmic sort of way. Probably doesn't help me look any more sane than I'm not, though. I laugh a little more and crush the cup in my hand, throwing it among the clutter of my destroyed room. Carefully, I stand up and lock the door again. I'm shaky from my panic attack, but I can still function alright so I lock the door again. Time to face the music, might as well get going. The soda made me aware of my other needs. I used to be thirsty, now I was kinda hungry, and if I didn't get a cigarette in the next 10 minutes I was going to slit someone's throat. Wasn't anything I could do at this point but start moving. I lifted my nightdress over my head and callously tossed it with the other clothes on the floor, stepping into my tracksuit. In all honesty it was probably my Marine Corps one, but I couldn't give a fuck if I tried at this moment. Sorting through the sandals and pairs of penny loafers, I found a pair of pink tennis shoes. Decent quality, unlike the ones I have that are beat up with holes in them. No socks. Some things never change. Eventually I find a few pairs, none of them good. Dainty ankle socks with some fringe, stockings, and some kind of rainbow patterned ones. I pick the rainbow ones for comfort, slip my shoes on, and head back to the door.

I'm insane, and I'm worried about what socks I wear. This is my life now. My wrist throbbed slightly, making me aware that it was still there and still twinged at me angrily. I'd have to have it looked it, I really hope that I just twisted. A broken wrist is one more thing on my list of shit that I don't want to have to deal with. The two guys at the door are at the top. The cell-shaded craziness is a close second. Casually, I open the door and jam my hands in the pockets of my jacket. My face reflects exactly what I expect, and if they eyes were windows to the soul then anyone could see that mine is in definite need of some Gorilla Glue because it was just fucking shattered. Blank-faced, thousand-yard stare, I look past the two guys who I happened to assault earlier opposed to looking at them. I didn't want to see their cartoon faces right now. Or any cartoon face. Or any cartoon. I wanna go back to fucking bed and wait for the crazy to wear off.
[color=9e005d]"...Do either of you have a cigarette I can steal...?[/color] I croak emptily. After this, I fucking need one.