Hands at her throat, clutching, grasping, she cannot get air. Nothing to breathe, suffocating. The hands slacken and slip to her sides, and air returns. Oh. Her hands, then.
Thoughts race. She knows she is panicking, but the knowledge has little effect as a calming agent. Seems silly that people would draw on observations to quiet somebody- "shh… you're panicking". That should not calm a person. You do not encourage happiness by absently noting "shh… you're sad", double standard for the range of emotion is perfunctory. She is unimpressed.
It's not real.
To say that, to her, seems to be to say 'you're not real'.
Is she?
The fear, the psychotic churn of shapes and colours, made giddy by hyperventilation and terror… unreal, then?
Maybe.
All her own making. Sing-song voice in her head…
'You'll make you self sick'
Silly voice. She is sick. Sick is she. She is I?
Dwelling on it, she concludes that she might, indeed, be I.
Needle in her arm. In my arm? Maybe.
A wall of white noise engulfing, she whirls… things blur. She is searching. Where is he?
Hands cup her face, gentler, no stopping the air now. The hands direct her face, she lets herself be led. The hands feel nice.
There he is.
"Simon"