24th Day - Panic Attack
Reading time: 2 min
You can’t breathe.
You’re dying; there’s no other explanation. Your chest is collapsing like a neutron star and soon the pain will be the least of your problems.
No, wait, what did the doctor say? It’s a panic attack. And what are you supposed to do during a panic attack? Focus on details. Ok. Focus on details. You remember the exercise, don’t you? Yes. Yes, you do. Come on then, let’s start.
Five things you can see.
You see the yellow seat so close to yours you can barely fit your knees. You see the other passengers covering their children’s eyes. Out of the window—no, don’t look out of the window. Focus. You see a blue shoe on the floor. You see the hostess’ legs, unconscious right next to you. You see vomit, green vomit smeared on the bathroom door.
Four things you can hear.
You hear screams. God, that’s all you hear; how are you supposed to find another three? No, wait. You hear the moans of the creatures on the landing runway. You hear gunshots. You hear your own heartbeat exploding in your eardrums.
You did it, but it’s not helping. What’s next?
Three things you can smell.
You smell coffee, the coffee that was poured on your lap when the lady next to you tried to jump off the plane. You smell shit. Where does it come from, though? Is it that baby, or is it his father, who’s screaming that they’re getting closer and that we’re all going to die? You don’t know. You smell burnt metal. One of the motorised ladders has caught fire, and now the creatures’ skin is black and scalded, but they don’t seem to notice.
Two things you can feel.
You feel the raspy and sticky fabric of your jeans. Good raspy, they cost an arm and a leg after all, but bad sticky, from the coffee and the hostess’ blood. You feel the shiny cold of your seatbelt buckle between your fingers, paralysed between unlocking it and running away and staying there in the hope the plane will actually take off.
One thing you can taste.
You taste blood, and flesh. You’ve been chewing your cheek, you idiot; tomorrow it’s going to hurt, if there’s going to be a tomorrow at all.
You hope it’s going to hurt.
You breathe again. The exercise worked; good for you, good for the doctor, but then the corpse of the hostess twitches and starts raising from the floor, her neck bitten off, her head dangling unnaturally, and you know it is finally time for panic.
