Page 18 of Collin: Episodes 1-3
Collin caught himself against the wall and closed his eyes, willing the spinning sick feeling to somewhere below his collarbone. Sick he could do but not if it was spinning him around from the top down. It was simple really. He was such a loser. All he had to do was get his coat, say thank you, find his shoes, go home, put on clothes, and go to his shift at the bar. If he just focused on drinks, he could mostly lean on the counter and get through it. Like that month he’d worked with a sprained ankle.
If he could just breathe. The tightness in his throat joined the roaring in his head. Come on, breathe. Not so fast. Measured. Come on. You can do this.
His knees buckled. He was lower somehow, forehead to the wall.
Loser. It’s over. She’s going to think it’s her fault. But it’s all yours. She was the one who nearly died. You’re healthy. You know what this is going to do to her. Couldn’t even be smart and just go home after your shift, could you? Like how could you forget to eat and then slip and fall. No, you had to make it all about you. Had to get really hurt, make everyone worry. How the fuck do you think you’re going to pay for that ambulance? And the ER bills? You’re fucked, Collin. You’re fucked, and it’s all your fault. You’re never going to recover from this.
The world was so cold. So blurred. His hand trembled. Something scraped on the floor and crashed. He went down hard, but he couldn’t feel it.
The light changed, brighter, then lower. The roaring went on and on. The floor was making sounds. There were voices.
“Breathe, Collin.” Mr. Reevesworth.
More shame flooded into Collin’s body. He flinched away. His head hit something. A bright sharp pain. And for an instant, it was quiet.
More. He wanted more of that. He slammed his head back down onto the floor.
“Collin, no.”
There were arms around him. And a body. A heavy warm one. The arms were tightening around him. There were hands wrapped around his head.
“Collin.”
Collin shook his head. “Make it stop. Please. Make it stop.”
“Make what stop?”
“My head. Make it stop.”
“Maybe the concussion is more serious.” Mr. Moreau’s voice came from nearby.
“No. This is a panic attack. Call the doctor anyway.”
Collin twisted under Mr. Reevesworth. Did he want to get away? No. But he needed something. He tried to slam his head into the floor again.
Mr. Reevesworth caught the back of his head and hauled Collin up off the floor and pinned him.
“Make it stop.”
“Make what stop, Collin?”
“My head.”
“What is your head doing?”
“Thoughts. So many thoughts.”
“Collin. Collin, Collin.”
Mr. Reevesworth’s arms tightened. Collin twisted in his grip, and it tightened. He shivered, and Mr. Reevesworth held on harder.
And then just a little harder.
Collin went limp. His head rolled on Mr. Reevesworth’s shoulder. He gasped for air. Mr. Reevesworth’s hands were so tight. His fingers were probably leaving bruises on Collin’s wrists, and his legs were crushing his shins.
It felt good.
Everything was still there, but this, the warmth, the weight, the restriction. The pulse of another heartbeat against his skin.
