“B-b-but wwwwwhy w-w-w-would you … Hhhhe’s m-m-married,” he said again, his stutter forcing me to concentrate hard on his words. “Wwwwwhy would you d-d-do that?”
I set my jaw off to the side for a second as I tried to calm myself. My internal organs all felt like mush. My brain was nothing more than undercooked scrambled eggs and my heart felt like gluey oatmeal.
“I’m a slut, Elliott.” I was almost shocked that I managed to keep my voice even.
He took in a deep, shuddering breath; his eyes were wide, and his mouth was unable to form words.
“Yeah, welcome to reality.” I was just being mean now. If I hurt him first, it wouldn’t hurt nearly as much when he left me.
“Your girlfriend’s a whore. You’re the only one in Damascus that didn’t seem to know that. You should’ve asked Chris fucking Anderson or anyone else about what a slut I was. They could’ve told you and you could’ve saved yourself all this shit! Everyone thinks I did it with Aiden, too. I can’t tell you exactly how many guys I’ve done it with; there are so many that I don’t remember.”
He shook his head, as if denying my words.
“You can’t just bury your head in the sand about everything, you know. You can’t just pretend the shit you don’t want to think about doesn’t exist.” I was fully aware that I was the pot calling out the kettle on this one, but I chose not to address it. This was necessary. Elliott needed to be forced into knowing who the hell he was involved with.
Then he could be done with me and save himself.
He looked sick and as his chest heaved, his hands curled into fists. He kind of stumbled backwards until he hit one of the glass counters.
He sank down. Looking at him like that, my self-hate doubled. I had seen him panicked, but it was never like this. I had thought it was bad before, but this was just … crippling.
The outright terror and fear in his eyes frightened and froze me. It was as if he was dying, the air leaving his lungs, his muscles clenching together and not unclenching at all. The sweat on his forehead made it seem like he was hot, but his face was pale.
It was his eyes that scared the shit out of me. I had never seen that much terror in someone’s eyes before.
I felt like I was dying, too. I was powerless. All I could do was watch and worry.
People were starting to stare and I knew that wouldn’t help him at all. I wanted to yell at them but I couldn’t draw my focus away.
I couldn’t just let him freak out like that. I had to do something. That first trip to D.C., what did he say I should do? I wish my brain would just work as fast as I needed it to. Then I remembered. He said to call the EMTs and then call Dr. Dalton.
I couldn’t imagine Elliott wanting EMTs while everyone stood around and watched, but maybe he needed them. What happened when someone had a panic attack like this? Were there actual physical consequences? Could he die from this?
My body finally worked. It had only been a few short seconds, but it had felt like hours before I could move. Crouching down, I put a hand in his hair. That was the only thing I knew for sure would have any kind of soothing effect.
My eyes finally caught his, keeping them stable instead of dancing all around in the fire that his fear created. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, but he didn’t respond much more than a trembling of his chin. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
His body was shaking but he brought his hands up to my wrists and held on tightly.
It sucked because my first instinct was to shake him off, but I stopped myself from actually doing it. His eyes flashed with fresh panic and he nodded his head.
The way he was breathing made me wonder if he was getting enough oxygen to his brain. Maybe if he could just slow down his breathing, he would feel better. Nothing good could happen when there wasn’t enough oxygen in the body.
Before I could help him breathe, I realized that he’d just told me he needed the EMTs and I hadn’t done anything yet.
So I broke eye contact. Then I brought my hands away from his hair. His fingers were still clamped around my wrists, so I spun my right wrist until it was free and then went to free the left. As soon as they were out of his hold, I found the pockets of his coat and searched for his cell phone. It wasn’t there, so I reached for his pants pocket, but he must have thought I was reaching for something inappropriate because he really started to panic then.
I focused and found the phone, removing my hands from that part of his body as quickly as possible.
Perhaps I should have figured out how to use that damn thing before absolutely needing it. I pushed something and the screen lit up and I thought I just needed to put in the numbers 9-1-1, but it beeped at me.
Goddamnit! It showed me a picture of a key.
I needed to make a call and the damn thing was locked. So I stared at it and briefly considered throwing it against the wall, but realized that it wouldn’t help the situation.
But then the phone showed words, and they told me to push the star key and seven.
Now where was the star key?
I finally found it and pushed it and hit the buttons. It beeped again and I dialed.
I was able to connect with a live human being following what felt like several very long seconds. I told them where we were and what was going on. I don’t know how I did it calmly, but I did.
Before I could hang up, Elliott’s hand clamped down on my forearm and I grit my teeth, holding back my cry of pain. He was going to leave a bruise, but he didn’t mean it. He probably couldn’t even help what his body was doing right now.
Then everything started moving quickly. The EMTs came in and did a whole bunch of stuff. They put an oxygen mask on him and tried to get him to relax enough to release his hold on me. They explained a ton of shit to me about how his hands were frozen or what-the-hell-ever due to lack of oxygen from his hyperventilating. To tell the truth, I could barely hear anything they said over my racing thoughts.
I had done this to him. I hadn’t been nice. I’d been downright mean because I was ashamed of what I had done with Ian. I’d known from the beginning that Elliott should’ve never given me the time of day, but instead, Elliott could only sit there on the floor, trying not to pass out in front of what seemed like the whole world.
Now I was outside, holding Elliott’s phone, wishing like hell that those EMT assholes would have let me go with him. I didn’t have the keys to his car and I didn’t even know where he’d parked the thing.
After a minute or two of freaking out, I remembered again what he told me. I dialed Dr. Dalton.
An hour of nail-biting and self-hating went by, slow and painful, before David showed up in his old SUV. I wasn’t exactly thrilled at being in the vehicle alone with him, but I figured if Elliott trusted him, then I should, too.
Plus, he was my only way to Elliott.
He tried to speak to me on the ride to the hospital, but I had a hard time listening. All I could think about was how Elliott was going to hate me and how I had failed him. It didn’t matter that I had screwed Ian and all the rest of them before he was my boyfriend. I was still a slut, just like my mom said.
I had no right to expect someone like Elliott to accept me into his life. I didn’t deserve him.
I only deserved assholes like Ian who cheated on his wife while his kid took a nap in the next room.
I only deserved to get screwed by dicks like Anderson.
I didn’t deserve Elliott’s kindness. I was wholly unworthy of the care and tenderness he put into every word, touch and look he gave me.
I was a slutty whore who had broken Elliott in the middle of a department store right before Christmas.
Then it hit me. There was something worse than my whorishness.
I had done this to Elliott so close to Christmas, so close to the time when his mot
her killed herself, when she killed herself in front of him.
I was the worst human being in the universe.
I sat in the sterile-looking waiting room for hours while David told me that it was going to be okay, and that I didn’t need to worry because Elliott was always okay after one of these attacks.
But how could I really know that?
And even if he was okay, why would he still want me?
It was bad enough having a conversation with Sophie about her having sex with someone else, with some stranger. What was worse was that the guy was married and had a child. What topped even that was when she kept calling herself horrible, horrible names that wounded me just as much as they hurt her.
Then I couldn’t breathe.
Unlike some of the small attacks she’d seen before, this one was bad and I couldn’t focus on anything. My lungs kept seizing and my heart wouldn’t listen to my brain’s frantic pleas to just slow down. I could barely hear anything, but I finally understood Sophie asking me about an ambulance.
I hadn’t wanted to make a scene but it was obvious from the way everyone was crowded around me that the time for worrying about that had long passed.
Even though Sophie’s hands in my hair felt wonderful, they didn’t help my body to relax like they normally did.
The EMTs didn’t let her ride with me. It made me mad. Instead of being calm because I knew help was just moments away, I worried about Sophie the entire ride to the hospital. How would she get home? Would she still like me after seeing me like this? What if someone took her from the store and I never saw her again?
In the ambulance, they gave me oxygen, which only helped my lungs. My head and heart still raced at a scary pace and I felt like they would explode at any moment.
I was quite the loser.
I knew that Sophie had been with other people. I would have to have been blind and deaf not to have known, but to look at someone she had been with like that and to know that he had forsaken the love of his family, proved to be too much. I hated myself for my reaction, but I hated him for taking from her when it was so obviously clear that she wasn’t old enough to give it.
She kept calling herself a whore and a slut, and the words burned me deep. She wasn’t either, but she believed what she said. I was no fool; I knew she did it to push me away. The tactic was all Sophie and it wasn’t a surprise.
What she wouldn’t be able to handle was that even after knowing that she had sex with that man, I still loved her. What she did in the past was all a symptom of a larger issue, but she was my girlfriend now and she didn’t do those things anymore.
I constantly worried that I wouldn’t be enough for her. Jason could give her the physical closeness she wanted. Obviously the man with the wife and child could too, and had, on at least one occasion. Then there was me who could barely even think about sex without becoming panicked with fear.
The words she used to talk about herself, seeing that man staring at her, people being so close to me, and my own fear of being inadequate all rolled into a giant panic attack.
I wished that I’d had more control over my body and mind than I did, but with all that was going on, I lost focus.
The entire trip had been one big exercise in keeping my cool. I avoided touching everyone but Sophie. She was my lifeline, the anchor to my boat of calm in a sea of panic. I held tight to her, typically only holding onto one of her fingers, but eventually having to grasp her entire hand as we wove our way through the crowded mall.
But now I was in the emergency room with an IV in my arm, an oxygen mask on my face and no familiar faces in sight. I ignored the bustling of the doctors and nurses around me. Once they left, I knew Stephen would be on his way, so I rested just a bit easier. He would take care of Sophie.
The best part of being sedated was my mind’s ability to slow down. I found myself thinking about music. In my head I played every song that came to me and even worked on a new piece.
I was conscious, but not fully aware when Stephen came in. He checked me over and just like usual when I was chemically altered, I let him without flinching or worrying about his intentions.
I wanted to ask him about Sophie, but the words never got to my mouth. I blinked and when I opened my eyes, the room was darker and she was there, looking so sad and I wished that I could have provided her some kind of comfort.
“I’m sorry, Elliott,” she said as she rose out of her chair and moved to the side of the bed. “I’m fucking sorry. I didn’t mean …”
Just her words made me tired. I didn’t really need her to say she was sorry. I knew that she didn’t mean half of the hurtful things she did or said. Even sober, Sophie had little to no experience dealing with emotion.
It was just like when I told her that I loved her. I knew she wouldn’t be able to accept it. I knew that she would have trouble hearing those words because I would have trouble, too. It hurt when she asked me to take it back, but I understood why.
I wanted to tell her that it was okay, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to speak. Hearing my voice stumble and stutter over simple words a three-year-old could say without issue, was the last thing I wanted.
I took her hand and gave her a small smile. I knew her well, and her face had the look of the guilty. She thought she was the cause of this. She thought my body’s reaction to what was admittedly unsavory news relayed in a vulgar way was her fault, but the honest truth was that I’d felt this coming on for weeks.
Everything in my life was different now. My routine wasn’t the same. My thoughts weren’t the same. I found myself letting my mind wander where it wasn’t supposed to more and more. I didn’t want to be alone all the time; I wanted to be with her.
Despite what happened, things were better now that she was here.
I was incredibly tired, so I let my eyes slip closed, focusing all of my thoughts on the feel of her palm against mine.
At home on Tuesday, it was my goal not to speak. I had grown tired of my voice and had used it too much since meeting Sophie.
Also, I didn’t want to leave my room.
Dr. Emmanuel’s visit ruined my second goal. There was no way I would allow him to set foot in my room. He tried to get me to abandon the first goal, but I could be stubborn when I wanted to.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how worried everyone is about you.”
I shook my head. Robin used to say the same thing. It wasn’t news to me that “everyone” was so involved in my “well-being” that they would be worried when I had an attack that landed me in the hospital.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
I slowly shook my head, wondering if he’d talk about it anyway.
“Do you know that there are quite a few musicians who have some form of anxiety disorder?”
I sighed. Disorder was such a horrible word for shrinks to use. Nothing let someone know how abnormal they were than saying that they were not in order, which was what “disorder” meant.
I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit. That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered.
I hated the Bible verse that echoed in my mind.
He was waiting for me to respond, so I shrugged. I really didn’t want to talk about other musicians. Dr. Emmanuel’s stories about Beethoven and Mozart still haunted me, and I didn’t think I could stand to hear about how someone else felt as bad as I did.
Besides, perhaps it was those musicians’ vanity that caused their anxiety. One couldn’t keep insulting God by playing music and not expect consequences. Since I was twelve, I’d let music flow from me instead of remembering my place within His kingdom. Maybe that was why I suffered from anxiety.
He who tills his land will have plenty of bread, but he who purs
ues vain things lacks sense. The wicked desires the booty of evil men, but the root of righteous yield fruit.
I swallowed hard and shook my head, trying to clear it. My father had been wrong; I just needed to remember it. There was nothing wrong with music. It was only in his head that it was an affront to the Lord.
I wished these passages of Scripture would leave my mind. It was unfortunate that after five years I was still mentally assaulted by ancient words.
The doctor asked a few other questions, obviously hoping to draw out my voice and thoughts, but I stayed silent. Eventually, I let my mind wander to Sophie, hoping that I would see her today and at the same time not wanting to see her at all.
She represented a huge contrast for me. I was desperate for her and yet there were times when I ached because of her. I wanted her to know everything about me, and yet I was powerless to give her the information to help her understand. She represented the failure of my mother and the hope she never had. She was light in the dark depths of my soul and yet she was the dark shadows in places untouched by the sun.
As confusing as it was, I still found myself shrugging on my coat after Dr. Emmanuel gave up.
Stephen stopped me before I got to the garage.
I gave him his chance to tell me all the reasons why I shouldn’t be leaving the house, but I wasn’t drugged and my head was as clear as it was going to be under the circumstances. He tried to get me to speak, even going so far as to tell me that I wasn’t allowed to leave, but in the end, I just sighed and walked to my car.
Sophie opened the door. It was good that her father was at work. I didn’t want to speak and I might have felt compelled to under his intense scrutiny.
“Elliott,” she greeted with a small, self-conscious smile.
I had to look at her eyes to see if she was sober. For a second I thought she was high but then I realized she was just tired. I wondered if she’d slept.
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