Page 95 of Fame and Obsession

Admittedly, my rationale was fucked up, but I didn’t want to risk what we’d built. I justified my procrastination with a continual chorus of, “I’ll do it tomorrow,” or, “I’ve got time.”

Then time slipped away.

I’ll probably lose my job once Helena makes her call. I’ll definitely lose the autobiography and any future with MetroGroup. But most importantly, I’ve lost Julian.

The bleak realization escalates my panic, sending my pulse skyrocketing.

Fuck, not again.

Rolling over, I slap the nightstand in search of my pink pill bag. As much as I loathe them, they’re a necessary evil. They’d built a bridge from the dark place I’d lived in after the attack and served as a crutch in reclaiming my life after college.

Dragging my pill bag onto the mattress, I dump out the contents. Depakote, Lexapro, Seroquel—finally, Hydroxyzine. My daily mood stabilizer, anti-depressive, and antipsychotic have become as routine as a cup of coffee.

Chloe insisted that if I wasn’t properly medicated while in New York, I’d go batshit and stick my head in an oven.

My sister is a bit dramatic…

However, at the moment, I’m thankful for her theatrics. I need to down some Hydroxyzine to stave off this impending anxiety attack. Just a few… I’m upset, not suicidal.

No one—not even Julian—has the power to take my life. I’d proven that. I just need to sleep.

Biting off the child-proof cap, I down the capsules.

In ten minutes, I won’t have to think of him. Hell, I won’t have to think of anything. I’ll be passed out in a puddle of my own drool if there’s any justice in the world.

I’ve lost him.

In the silence of my room, my vision blurs with the pain of lost love. Yes, love. Somewhere along the way, I’d fallen in love with Julian Bale, breaking every rule I’ve ever made for myself.

What am I supposed to do with those feelings now?

The panic escalates, causing my heart to thump so hard I swear it’s about to explode out of my chest. Sweat rolls down my temples, and I fight for air as a pile of bricks land on my chest.

Something’s wrong.

Panic attacks don’t feel like this.

Rolling to the edge of the bed, I try to stand up, but my legs turn to jelly and buckle underneath me. As I hit the floor, the room spins so fast I’m sure I’m going to be sick.

My lungs clog, and I gasp, panicked from my body’s lack of response to simple commands.

I need Gage.

Every movement feels like I’m crawling through mud. Finally making it to my bedroom door, I fling it open and collapse on the hardwood. The nausea I’ve been fighting wins, and I vomit, tears clouding my vision.

Before I can catch my breath, strong arms haul me upside down, and hard blows to my back rattle my teeth.

“Oh, my God, Phoebe! What’s wrong? Jesus, Parker! Call 9-1-1, now!”

“Gage,” I whisper, violent tremors shaking me. “I…don’t…wrong…feel.” What the hell is happening? Why can’t I form words correctly? Light begins to darken as worlds collide. “Mama?”

“Parker, hurry! Her fucking face is blue!”

“They’re on their way. Keep her talking,” another male voice echoes from far away.

Gage wipes my mouth with his T-shirt. “Hold on, baby doll. Help is coming. Don’t leave me. You hear me?”

“Gage?” If I wasn’t positive my heart hadn’t already exploded, hearing his voice shake sealed the deal.

---