I feel detached from myself and the world and the present.
I feel my back against the bed but there's something that pitters and patters in the core of me—in my throat when I swallow, in my mind when I think, in my feet while I fidget here in this twin bed. I am exploding from the inside out. Every sound grinds into me. The cape cod breeze pushing the window shade back and forth makes a messy uniform of continuous slashes and scraps on the wood windowsill. The noise crushes my lungs. The fan at my feet makes its infamous soothing noise that does anything but. As I think and try to explain to you my feet fidget and shake and tap more and more with stronger force and extortion as each milisecond moves forth. The ticking clock watches me from her designated spot. Curious but not alarmed. My heart is racing. It's been racing. Against what? Who? Lots and lots of nothing's and no ones and again I find myself alone only with myself — the most lethal of company.