Page 38 of Coiled Tight
Everyone said Daddies had a sixth sense for this shit, but it wasn’t like they had X-ray vision.
The problem was that none of my attempts to reassure myself helped slow down my heart rate, or the stupid need to get out of bed and maybe open a window becauseoh fuck, I needed to breathe.
I was going to throw up.
I hated anxiety attacks.
And now I did whimper. I turned my face away, too. Maybe that would conflate the meaning that this wasn’t about him. It really wasn’t. He wasn’tbad, and I didn’t hate it when he was near. Certainly didn’t hate it when he talked with that voice and worried and acted like I mattered and like it was important that I felt safe and comfortable because, of course, I saw that’s what he did.
I didn’t deserve it, but I found myself rolling on the feeling it left behind for hours at a time each time it happened.
No, this was just me and my stupid body thinking every single thought was a threat that would lead to imminent death until it knocked me out first. Or something. My therapist would hit me if she heard that was how I explained anxiety attacks.
Whatever.
I had to drop her a few months before I moved to the sanctuary because of bullshit with my provider, and I couldn’t cope with dealing with insurance claims anymore, and then I got the interview for the refuge, and it felt pointless to start the whole process again, and now I was here, and I didn’t even know what mental health providers there would be available. And did I even have the time to follow through with appointments? Saúl might insist on me not overworking myself and sticking to my shifts, but it was a live-in position for a reason, and he was also the first one to call if there was an emergency outside of my shifts.
Would a therapist understand if I had to rush out of an appointment because two panthers were trying to kill each other? Probably. Would the insurance people do? Definitely not.
It would just be another source for a headache.
I did have a psychiatrist appointed—mostly because Ineeded Xanax, and because he didn’t expect me to stay on the phone with him for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Did that speak badly of psychiatrists?
I’d had some who tried to fill the role of psychologists and ran hour-long appointments.
I didn’t know who was on the right, though, and I was not going to bother looking it up.
“Cam.”
Not fair.
Why didn’t he get angry? I had never seen him angry. Unsure, yes. Full of fear, yes. Worried. Tired. Downright exhausted. Sad.
Frustrated, even.
Exasperated.
Never angry.
I didn’t know if it was that realization or the sheer calm in his voice, but I opened my eyes.
Saúl had moved, which made me confused because I usually was very aware of where he was in reference to me at all times, but I also knew I lost awareness of my surroundings when I was struggling with the need to get some air in my fucking lungs and?—
Whatever.
It meant that I could sit up, so that’s what I did. The blanket bunched up around my hips, and it was too heavy, but I didn’t know if I could unclench my hands to get it out of the way, or if I wanted more of the cold air hitting my chest.
“Sorry,” I rasped out.
I wasn’t on my probationary period anymore. It was a good thing, or I’d be fired the second we stepped back in Colorado. Who the fuck wanted to keep a guy hired who couldn’t spend twenty-four hours without completely losing his cool?
“What do you need?”
“Stop doing all the right things.”
I spoke to my neck, but I didn’t doubt he’d heard the words. They just came out because it really was unfair how he managed to do just that time after time.
“Answer me.”
