Trapped

Panic attacked my chest, the feeling gnawing away at every last bit of composure I still possessed. I kept my hands jammed firmly inside the pockets of my jumper and watched as a swarm of teenagers chasing each other madly around the oppressive hall screeched with laughter, unaware that one of them was standing, paralysed by fear, in the corner. With each glance, dread was slowly heaped into the mix of emotion swirling violently in my stomach. I took a tentative step forward, the pressure of looking uncool overtaking my other emotions. Just as I did, a boy slammed himself into my shoulder, an attempt to get away from his even rowdier friend who was hurtling himself across the room. I leapt back. No, no, no. My arm ached, but it wasn’t because of the way I’d just about been knocked over. Thoughts of cancer and heart disease crept their way into my mind. I felt sick. My knees weakened, I bounced from one foot to the other. Why was I so careless? I could’ve avoided everything.
The sound of screeching teenagers was drowned out by the noise of heart rate monitors, beeping rhythmically, singing a monotone tune. The footsteps of the nurse that would tell me my disease was incurable, that my life was limited to a few weeks, if that. All my life would be wasted into a pit of nothingness, the hopes and dreams I’d held for my future were just that, years of opportunity disappearing before me. I’d never even get my first job. Roots of anger planted themselves in my chest. It was my fault.
The loud laughter of a group of friends danced its way into my ears, jerking me back to reality. I could still fix this, maybe. I snuck to the bathrooms at the back of the building. Using as little of my finger as I possibly could, I switched the tap on. Pumping soap onto my hands, I lathered it into my jumper’s sleeve. I grabbed paper towels and drenched them in cool water, layering them over the soap. Finishing my task by washing my hands for a good minute, relief flooded over me as I exited the tiled room. The water and soap acted as weed killers for the roots of worry and anger knotted around in my stomach. I could breathe properly again. The thoughts of slowing heart monitors at the foot of my hospital bed disappeared with my worry. I was safe now.
At least, I’m safe until I bump into another person, or chair, or any other object. And it’s so frustrating looking like the weird freak who washes her hands way too much. Every morning when I wake up, I wonder what more activities lie ahead to be erased from my daily schedule, the spiral of embarrassment and frustration deepening, and every night I fall asleep feeling more and more trapped than I have ever felt before.

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