the mind electric | brennan, day 7

[mat]

possible TW: panic, anxiety

〖    b r e n n a n    f i t z g e r a l d    〗

♫

I sit in silence. There is an eternity in between every breath, holding me hostage, daring me to stop.

His blood. The splatters. His bones. The cracking. His face. Expressionless.

Even as I cover my eyes with sweaty palms, blue light flows in and out of my vision, sparks of electricity from Ama's long forgotten sword jolt memories that I have already begged to bury.

This one is different from the others. I didn't see a dead Francine, I only saw her fall through infinity. Dyno fell but only as far as my feet.

When I had tears in my eyes for Calamity, my friends were there to help me focus on anything else. No friends here. All gone.

"Haizea." I whisper her name, hoping we've created some magical bond tying us together. Haizea, I'm scared. Please come and find me. No response. All static. Two cannons blew off today. Maybe she is one of them.

All alone again, Brennan. Left to your own devices.

Dyno is inevitable, even in death. I rub my eyes, hoping it will wash all of the imagery out of my mind.

"I'll put my blade through your thick fucking skull." The currents of shock coursing through my bloodstream almost make me wish he had.

No. I've come too far, the hard way, to think so short-sighted. I scold myself, can't come across as ungrateful when you're still alive, Brennan!

I am grateful, I promise. It's just the fear talking. Fear that I was supposed to outgrow. Boys fall back onto bad habits when we're left alone. How can we know any better? We're just kids.

"Who's that kid over there? He's in our grade?"

Those boys were right. Just the boy, never the man.

I need to quit it. I'm overthinking. The pressure short circuits everything. I can't crumble and die. I don't want Pierce and Ama to be embarrassed if they find out I lived through a week of this just to decide on a whim that I can't handle it. They're going to hate me if I give up and die. Stop it. Stop overthinking.

Muffled cries and disoriented thought are interrupted by a buzzing from above: the first of the Games for me. A simply wrapped gift falls beside me. I drain the welled-up tears from the bags beneath my eyes and start to open it. All it is is a red ball, squishy and soft. In black text, the ball reads: TAKE A DEEP BREATH. Taped to it, a shred of paper.

We're all proud of you. Not for what you've done, but for what you've withstood. Don't be scared. There are people on your side. -A.M.

Atticus was never a good speaker, fumbling through his words and advice as he tried to mentor Duke and I. But he writes simply, with just enough hope to come across as genuine.

I hold onto the ball, squeezing it until my fingers can feel the bone of my palm on the other side.

Breathe. Don't sink. Breathe. Don't sink. Breathe. Don't sink.

I repeat the process, over and over. Trauma is not an easy thing to fix. I don't think anything can fix what we've seen. Bad thoughts are killers in their own right. But a thought about literally anything else is a start. I've been slain that way too many times.

"My heart became deaf long before I even knew your name."

Now, I need to silence my mind before it gives us up.

Breathe. I won't sink. Breathe. I won't sink. Breathe. I won't sink.