Falling Through the Cracks
by Aimme,
with touches by My Note Book
Summary: His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.
Author's Note: Let me just say... this chapter went through a lot of editing this week. The beginning part was originally longer, as the flashback stole the keyboard and grew itself. Do not be surprised if sometime soon I post a one- or two-shot about it, since I have a good start already, or rough draft at least, sitting on my hard-drive now. Then I wrote the second part of this chapter...then I ended up adding more to the second part, until it almost feels to me more along the lines of a rewrite of what I had just written a few hours before. Yeah. Fun stuff. But yes, the first part does serve a purpose. And this chapter is dedicated with all the writer love I can muster to our faithful reader, BlackKeys96.
BlackKeys96, I am glad you enjoyed the look into London's character! I felt there is more to her, as well, than we are led to think. There are hints at it here and there in the two series, so I decided to take a closer look at that. It is still vague, but we can definitely see she is deeper than she lets on, at least. Seeing her heart and her feelings for those she cares about is very touching. As for the mysterious old lady, I suppose we might find out later, or we might not...feel free to draw your own conclusions for now! And you are welcome! This chapter is for you, and I hope you enjoy it just as much as all the ones before, if not more!
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Chapter Seventeen - Counting Breaths
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"Tell me when the time we had slipped away
Tomorrow turned to yesterday
And I don't know how"
-(How to Say Goodbye) Michael W. Smith
-
*Flashblack*
She folded her arms. "Well, boys, want to explain yourselves?"
Zack glanced at Cody, but his brother's bowed head did not move. In fact, if anything at all, he withdrew into himself more. Carey's disappointment was tangible and her disapproving tone was obvious—yet she would be willing to give them the benefit of the doubt if they gave her a good reason.
Still, Zack's jaw set and his stubborn silence seemed to the puzzled mother to intensify. She saw his hands fist at his side, and that dark look on his face was not suiting for a five-year-old's expression—this was deemed so by the worried mother in her as she took note of her eldest's brooding aura.
She sighed aloud, exasperated, but even as she opened her mouth to reiterate her question, Zack suddenly shifted and dropped his gaze away from his brother and she heard him mutter, "Dratted bullies."
Her blood ran cold. She'd heard stories; she knew the things that could happen, but surely her boys would have mentioned something if some punk kiddo was harassing them, right? She had always figured if there was a problem, they would tell either her or Kurt. Had she been wrong? Was this boy who had already been sent home a bully giving them trouble?
That might actually explain some things…like why Cody had been in a fight, or the perturbed aura surrounding her oldest.
She wondered if Zack's reticence and brooding mood was because he was disconcerted that he was unable to protect Cody.
But really, could she know that? She supposed not.
*End Flashback*
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Carey sighed and rubbed her neck, feeling somehow wearier than normal as she returned from practice. Already, it felt as though it had been an inexplicably long day. Hassling with her sound crew, mediating disputes between employees (why did everyone turn to her for advice?), assisting Esteban with a fight between he and Francesca, and directing the repairs after Arwin's latest mishap with another explosion (really, who had decided it would be okay to let that guy play with power tools?)—the only thing missing from this crazy day would be either thwarting her boys' next asinine exploit or picking up the pieces afterward and settling an uptight Moseby as he threatened military camp and SWAT teams and having Mr. Tipton "get rid of" the twins.
She had noted this absence from her life, as she had found herself doing often at times over the last three years. Maybe that was why she was visiting memory lane, though why she had remembered that day so long ago, she did not know. Other than eventually getting treats and making her boys smile again after their incident at school the last day before Christmas break, and the odd incident itself, she was not sure what was so outstanding about that memory that it would stick out to her.
Maybe she missed them.
She glanced at the picture frame on the side-table near the door as she kicked off her shoes, one hand resting on the table for balance as she loosed the straps. Smiling faces greeted her in all their inanimate yet precious state.
Scratch that. She did miss them. It was a sharp, bittersweet pang deep in her heart.
She touched the picture, fingers lingering over the face of her youngest. This was an old picture now, as she rarely received pictures with both of her twins in them at the same time, and certainly not standing for the picture together even if they were both in it.
She didn't know what that was about, but regardless, she treasured every picture. She found herself deciding she didn't get enough pictures and she should really tell them to send more and more often. Well…tell Cody to send more pictures. Zack rarely bothered with even emailing, and when he did, it was short and to the point—not informative in the least. And Cody had long ago stopped sending her news about her oldest.
She lifted her gaze to the two picture frames on the wall above the table, a recent picture of each which Cody had brought with him for Christmas when London bought him airfare to come see her. (She had wondered to Cody why Zack hadn't come and he had shrugged, and said, "London didn't buy him airfare, too?" in a questioning voice so that she wasn't sure what to make of that.)
Unable to resist smiling back at the captured images of her sons, the twist of her lips was tainted with sorrow and the bittersweet longing and recollection of a mother's heart.
When had they grown up? When had they gotten so tall? Wasn't being a mother hard enough without having to learn how to let go time and time again?
The phone rang, startling her from her thoughts. Her smile became a touch more strained when the ID registered Mr. Moseby as the caller, as she wondered exasperatedly what mess her boys (read: Zack) had gotten into which required the manager to call her. Normally he just waited until he saw her in person or he sent her heated emails in the evening after he got off work.
Fond disbelief and vague annoyance ('what have you done this time?') making her shake her head, she picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Tell me where the road ahead is gonna bend
And how to harness up the wind
And how to say goodbye"
-(How to Say Goodbye) Michael W. Smith
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*Zack's POV*
"Start to feel the emptiness
And everything I'm gonna miss
I know that I can't hide"
-(Come Back Down) Lifehouse
"Mr. Martin, Mr. Martin," the voice ebbs and flows in my ringing ears, the volume fluctuates and is distorted as though I am deep underwater. Someone shakes me and the dizziness in my head swirls maddeningly, making a nauseous feeling sink into my gut—and I don't understand why I am being tormented so. Haven't I taken enough of a beating already?
I am jolted around, a firm grip pulling my hands away from my head. Why were they there? Scrabbling in my hair, looking for something to ground me, but I couldn't breathe, I couldn't breathe.
There is a burning where my chest should be and an overwhelming sense of panic overriding every coherent thought. Can't I just be left alone? No…no, I don't want to be left alone. There is dread in my mind, and I know this isn't going to end well. I don't want to be alone.
Cody…where is Cody? I could have sworn I had heard him, felt him, but everything is slipping away now. Empty. Desolate. I don't feel steady, I don't feel right. Why am I shaking, hurting?
My cheek suddenly smarts from a sharp slap, and the suddenness of that sting causes me to gasp, air rushing into my crashing lungs. Oh but it hurts. It hurts so bad.
"There now, that's more like it, you stubborn intransigent," the disembodied voice continues and the sound grates on my nerves. My head is spinning and splitting, and I would much rather curl up and sleep until I cannot remember the fuzzy details vying to be noticed in my mind.
Another catch of air slips into my mouth, but my chest feels heavy, like when Kirby fell on Cody and I. The weight is stifling, overbearing; it defeats me.
My vision blurs in and out, double-images and vague shapes swimming before me, as I blink my eyes open, trying to understand the visual input along with the rest of the jumbled mess boiling within me. But I swear I cannot see, because while the blurry world around me fills my sight, nothing makes sense, nothing has relativity, significance; nothing registers.
A breath which feels more reluctant than blessed presses into my lungs, and the voice still assaults my ears.
"That's it, in and out. In, out. On time. Deep in, one, two, three, four, five…"
Too out of it to really think straight, I comply heedlessly.
"Six, seven…now out, one, two, three…"
Where am I? Why does my chest ache, my head pound with the strangely sluggish, unwilling beat in my rib-cage, my ears ring, and a vague sense of unease instil unsteady tremors in my limbs?
"Four, five, six, seven…It's okay, just breathe…ten, eleven… now in, one, two, three… Just relax and keep breathing. You are alright… now out, again…slowly, slowly…"
I force myself to slow my exhalation as instructed, trying to force the ill, anxious knot in my stomach to relax. I blink, the world slowly coming into perspective and focus, the input making the connection in my brain and registers.
Nurse Moustache leans over me, and I absently note that I am prostrate on the infirmary bed now, though I do not remember laying back. My wrist is gripped in her hand, and as I tilt my head to listlessly take that in, one abstract, far corner of my mind realises she is monitoring my pulse.
Breathing in deeply again, to the count of seven she voices, I try to remember what happened. Vague snatches of haunted memories swim through my mind, but the flat response of lost vitality holds me compliant and quiet. I don't really care anymore.
Why did I have to wake up again?
"Five, six, seven, eight…"
Oh. The reason would be that caregiver insistent on me keeping my breathing steady. She had forced me to wake up, to maintain a conscious state and to suck unwilling air into unwilling lungs.
Wasn't there something more beyond that? Something before that? What was that vague, hopeful feeling clinging at the edges of my memory, fuzzy and prickling but there and something promising…
Echoes resound and recede in my mind, and an unexpected sob jerks me.
"Steady breathing, Mr. Martin. Steady there," the voice is reassuring yet firm. "Shh. You are well. It is okay."
I hardly believe her. What does she know? Yet I am too spent to fight back and refute. Another muffled sob hitches my breathing—as I am too removed and weakened and jumbled to control it.
"It is alright. Breathe in, Mr. Martin. To the count of seven. One, two…"
Shaky and breathless, panic and turmoil escalate in my thoughts. Suddenly desperate, I tug at the wrist held captive in her merciless grip. In this confinement, I am suffocating. I am going to die…
My weakened body is bolstered by the emotions awash inside of me, the fuel from my terror giving me the strength to give a harsh tug, and I can feel myself released from her hold. A momentary hint of relief flashes through me, but it is quickly quashed by the panic running rampant ravages throughout me.
I don't know how, but I know this place will be the death of me. There is something wrong, and it spells danger for me. I have to get away, I have to…
I sit up and she doesn't stop me, but does touch my shoulder.
"Mr. Martin, I need you to listen to me, listen to me."
I don't want to. I need to go…I am going to be overcome, this is the end…another sob wracks my frame.
What is wrong with me? I try to lift my hands, but they are shaking so much I can scarce believe they belong to me, but they do…I stare at them, as if I do not register what is before me, but I know…
I know that ruthless voice inside of me is right. Even as my breathing hitches and jerks haphazardly, I know I am done for.
"Please do not run. Try to breathe. A deep breath, in, now. Come on; you can do it."
And what if I can't? What if I can't even do that? Another pitiful, dry sob jerks out, and my body is shaking so much it is a wonder I have not toppled off the bed.
"Calm down. Whatever it is, we can work through it. I won't confine you, but try to calm yourself, Mr. Martin."
I can't. I can't.
"Are you responding to something in the past or what's going on right now?"
Breathing quick and laboured and ragged, I try to make sense of what is going on in my head. But my thoughts are jumbled, chaotic, and incoherent. What's that about the past is the future, the future is the past? Why do I remember a taunting, grinning punk tearing my brother down? What am I responding to?
Am I still in the infirmary? Sweet life, why am I still here?
"It is alright. Take a deep breath to the count of seven. Come on, you can do it…breathe in…" the voice is calming, reassuring, and firm.
I breathed in. One, two…fistfights, screaming parents fighting again, Cody falling, falling… A hitched breath. Count. Count…what is my count? One, two, three, four…the first time words against my level of intelligence were spoken, what was it? I was slow? I frequently acted out, I didn't pay attention to the lesson, I refused to learn my alphabet…
"Mr. Martin."
Count. Five, six, seven…out…one, two…three…
"That's right. That's good. Eleven count."
…I needed Riddlin, it was the only course of action now; discipline would have been recommended, but I was already a lost cause…
A dry sob.
"Keep the count, Mr. Martin. Try to focus only on your breathing. I will get you some water."
Another fresh wave of panic washes over me. Alone. I am alone. Again. I didn't particularly like her, but any company is better than what is in my head, what is overpowering me. What is killing me.
I can't breathe.
In deep…one, two, three…
I barely stop myself from reaching out after her. Why does everyone leave me?
"You'll always be alone, Zack."
"Shut up. You don't know anything."
A malicious smirk. "Yes I do. Say, any clue where your brother is, Zackary?"
Forgotten. Always forgotten.
The next breathless sob catches in my throat. What is wrong with me? Have I been reduced to some pathetic, whimpering sissy? Yet I cannot get control.
"Even breaths, Mr. Martin. I said even breaths. Come on, you can do it. Let go of whatever it is. Deep, even, steady breath. Now exhale."
Eleven count. Focus on eleven…not…not everything else…
"That's better. Now drink."
Water. It has never sounded so appealing. Throat dry and lips numb, I struggle to get a drink.
"Slowly, Mr. Martin."
The water catches in my dry throat, but I manage past it, swallowing the coughs and the sputtering that wanted to follow.
"Now breathe."
Right. My seven-eleven count.
"Good. Now, take this pill."
My head snaps up finally, and I focus my dizzy gaze on her. "No."
She frowns. "Mr. Martin, it will help calm your system and help you relax. Another panic attack on the heels of a previous one is a serious occurrence. At this rate, you will be lucky if I don't have you admitted and-"
"Don't confine me," I snap out, but there is a pleading, desperate note in there I can hardly find myself caring for.
She tilts her head, reaches out a hand. I flinch. She touches my shoulder, instead, even as she says, "I'm not going to hit or hurt you," in response to my reaction. Then she says, "This is not a confinement, Mr. Martin. No one is out to get you. Everything is alright. It is okay."
"No, no, it isn't."
She sighs. "Why would I lie to you? I may be a medical professional, but one does not play around with panic attacks. You need to take this pill."
I shake my head.
"What is your aversion to it?" she asks, in a surprisingly gentle voice.
Why does she keep pestering me? Why does she keep interrogating me?
"Stop. Just leave me alone." My breath hitches again.
She pulls back, then suddenly sits beside me. "Alright. Listen to me, Zackary," I almost don't notice she uses my name, but in some corner of my mind, I abstractedly note it. She rests a hand on my back and begins to rub. "I want you to focus on my touch and breathe. Think about anything else."
I try, but thinking about anything else isn't helping. Anything else can involve…
"Come on, boys."
"Where are we going?"
"We're leaving."
"Why?"
"Because. You will understand when you are older, Zack."
"I don't want to!"
"I know you don't, but we have to. You will understand-"
"Shut up. Just shut up."
'I still don't understand, Mom. I still don't.' I blink back the sudden moisture in my eyes.
Something is slipped into my hand. I notice Nurse Moustache has handed me a small, white pill.
It could be anything. What is she trying to do, poison me?
"Focus on my touch, Mr. Martin. Seven count, come on. One, two, three…"
I breathe, the steady rhythm easing some of the tension, but not much.
What does it matter what she has given me? If it gets me out of this, through whatever means it comes by, isn't that better?
The fist collided with Cody's face…red, I saw red…and a haughty grin and patronizing glee…and I reacted. Flesh colliding with flesh didn't satisfy my desire to remove the horror from my veins, the image of my brother collapsing to the ground with a pained cry, the horrible sound echoing in my ears over and over and over again…I hit that grinning face, but no matter how much heat and force and fury came with it, it didn't expel the bile rising in my throat or the brilliant haze overriding my thoughts…
Oh forget it. Poison or not, anything is definitely better than this.
I pop the pill into my mouth and gulp down more water.
"That's it, Mr. Martin," the voice is soothing, and all of my panic fills me with misgivings—she's just glad I took the pill. Who knows what it actually is.
Who cares? Seven-eleven count. Out…one, two, three…
"It's okay. It is all going to be okay. Don't worry. We will get through this."
I snort, a surprisingly wet noise. I blink, suddenly realising there is moisture in my eyes, my eyes which see more than is there and less than what is there.
Slowly, counting breaths, I can feel the tension ebbing, painfully slow, from my body as a steady breathing count triggers my parasympathetic nervous system response. The catalyst which it is, it causes my muscles to start to relax.
My shoulders droop. My chest hurts, my lungs burn, and part of me is still screaming I can't breathe, but I count. I count anyway.
Eight, nine, ten, eleven…in, one, two…
A sense of calm slowly begins descending.
"That's it, Mr. Martin. Let it go. Let go. Relax. Breathe steady, deep. It's okay. You're alright."
I breathe in deeply again and again and again, and I can feel myself begin to steady. Some of the shakiness leaves me and I begin to think clearly, coherently.
"Mr. Martin, I am going to check your pulse now, alright?" She holds up her hands and I glance at her from the corner of my eye, not bothering to turn my head. She awaits my answer, so slowly I give her a nod, returning my attention to directly in front of me.
She reaches for my wrist, and I battle panic at the irrational thought of being confined. I combat it with another deep breath. One, two, three, four, five…
She holds my wrist and focuses her gaze on the clock on the wall a few feet from us.
My head hurts. Awful. Light-headedness is slow in leaving me, but the ache I know will persist for an even longer while yet.
Minutes pass, minutes I can only get through by refusing to think of anything except the mantra in my head. At last she must be satisfied, because she releases my wrist.
I switch to a five-nine count, feeling utterly exhausted and worn out. I could sleep for days.
"That is better," she says, standing up. "Keep the steady breathing now, sir."
She suddenly frowns severely, eyes dark. "Mr. Martin, would you care to explain yourself or should I give my medical opinion on what that all was?"
I glance away, blinking at the unsteady, nasty feeling behind my eyes. Breathe in deep, five count…
"Picture this, then, Mr. Martin. I leave for but a handful of minutes and return to find you passing out from an oxygen deprivation of severe asthmatic likeness. Are you prone to asthma, Mr. Martin?"
Slowly, I force myself to open my mouth and answer. My tongue feels leaden and clumsy, but I manage to admit, "Stress-induced." Breathe out, nine count…
From my peripheral, I can see her eyebrows rise the slightest bit as she questions, "Do you have an inhaler?"
I give a stiff, silent nod.
"And where is it?" she demands. What, had she checked my person for it? That is kind of unnerving.
I shrug helplessly. "My room?"
Her frown hardens. "You are aware of how severe your attacks are?"
I drop my eyes, swallowing in dread. "Yes," I whisper gruffly, a sense of dejection descending on me. Condemnation followed me like the plagues in ancient Egypt.
"And you don't carry your inhaler with you?" The incredulity is obvious.
I am not going to explain myself to this nurse. I hardly see it is any of her business. I shrug again, then after a moment or two, in which she exhales heavily in exasperation, I say, "It was the panic attack."
Her brows rise. "A panic attack brought this on initially?"
I hate having to explain everything to her, but I feel somehow compelled to have to tell her these things, as she is -unfortunately- my attending physician. And there is no getting out or concealing what happened. If I want to leave here, I know I have to divulge some information to her to satisfy her medical obligations.
So I give the slightest nod I can muster and count my breath. …six, seven, eight, nine…
She is quiet for but a moment, then, arms folded and foot tapping the floor, she says, "Mr. Martin, your medical file has no mention of asthma anywhere. And why would I bet my paycheck I will get that patient information form back from your brother and the 'no' will be check marked beside asthma?"
I grit my teeth and remain quiet.
"Mr. Martin, your file holds no hint of asthma or other breathing problems nor panic attacks, yet you seem familiar with your symptoms. And your inhaler?" she questions.
"Over-the-counter," I finally answer the query posed over all this. "I don't have a prescription because I have never been to a doctor for a diagnosis, whether for the asthma or panic attacks. And no, my family doesn't know about either. Does that settle it for you?"
Her eyes flash fire at my irritated tone, but I hardly care. I would much rather leave and deal with my own problems by myself. It has never been anyone else's business, so why does it have to be hers now? I know why. Because Cody dragged me here.
And then left me.
"No! No, Martin, it does not," her glare is heated and her tone matches. "Why have you never sought professional medical attention for these problems?"
I laugh, a sharp, bitter bite—a travesty of laughter if there ever was one. "Do you think I have money to pay for the ridiculously high fees you and your buddies charge people? As if I could afford to visit a doctor and then pay for a prescription inhaler. And I most certainly will not put my mom out more."
Something in her face suddenly changes, and I am nearly unsettled by the way her rough, sharp features soften. Nearly, but not entirely. Most of me doesn't want to care about a thing.
Nobody thinks I think about these things, but I do. I haven't forgotten the feeling of being a burden, and I rather doubt I ever will. I ask for petty cash from my parents, but I cannot bring myself to ask for that much money.
No. I find ways to get by with counting breaths and using the over-the-counter inhaler and dealing with the side-effects it sometimes causes.
"Well." She finally says. "You certainly are in rare form today."
"You caught a bad day." I snipe back.
Her eyes glitter with some thought I cannot understand. "Perhaps." She stares hard at me. "Or perhaps not."
I resist the sudden urge to squirm, suddenly afraid she is seeing right through me. No…no what she said didn't mean she thinks she's seeing the real me. And that would make it a good day on that count. No, no…that's not what that meant…
Deep, even breaths. In, out. One, two, three…
"Regardless, Mr. Martin," she speaks.
I hide a wince. Does she have to call me 'Mr. Martin' every time? I hate to admit it, but it makes me feel worse. It makes me feel held accountable for my actions and that every single one she is aware of is deplorable—that I should know better.
I do know better. I know best. And the best to be done is what I am doing. How could I talk to any of my family about my panic and asthma? They don't need that. Mom doesn't need that stress. And if Cody should know…I don't even want to know what would happen. It is best for him not to know. He is safe…and he is safer that way.
"You need an inhaler, prescription strength. Those over-the-counter ones have side-effects; they are rescue medication, not long-lasting treatment. Your asthma is too harsh, too severe for those inhalers to make the cut. You need more than they can do for you."
Feeling the impulse to grit my teeth again, I sigh heavily and push myself to my feet, where I waver, unsteady.
I know what I am up against; I know what I am dealing with and the risks involved. The last thing I need right now is a lecture. "That's easy for you to say, Nurse, but I can't come by one. And I will not have my mom take me to a doctor to be diagnosed and get the prescription."
"Where do you think you are going?" she asks as I steel myself to move forward.
"I would like to leave now. Isn't that obvious?" I quip back sarcastically, forcing a haughty grin across my numb lips. I try to step around her, but she simply grabs my arm.
I jump, nearly wrenching my arm from her grip. As if realising her mistake, she lets go and I exhale in relief.
"You cannot leave yet, Mr. Martin. I have not checked all of your vitals, and I most certainly have not released you."
Remembering how long she kept Mr. Moseby when he was in here after Kirby had fallen on him and how confined she had kept him, I breathe in deep, steady and even. "I am not staying," I grind out firmly. I also remember the times I have been kept here, and I do not feel inclined to catch the next rerun of those particular episodes.
"You will leave when I say so," she pushes me back on to the bed, because I am too weak and unsteady to resist. "Look at yourself. You're pale as a snowman in deep northern winter, you're cold and clammy and unsteady. And it is no wonder. Now, sit and regain your equilibrium. Regulate your breathing and for your own sake, do stop being so uneasy and stop panicking!"
Easy for her to say.
My head spins, but I focus on another breath. The repetition is mind-numbing, but perhaps that is better than the ache trying to pound its way out.
I have to get through this, and she has to let me go. Scrambling for any semblance of normalcy, anything which would translate as normal to the rest of the world, anything that will register as me being fine, I plaster a smile on my face. "You know, Nurse Moustache, most people say 'you're pale as a wraith' or that you 'look as though you've seen a ghost.'"
Her brows draw together, and her sharp, hawk-like gaze zeroes in on me as she pauses where she is, retrieving some medical implement. "Moustache, Mr. Martin?" she demands. "Is that supposed to be humorous?" she asks sharply.
I can ride this out.
I shrug. "It makes me laugh." I try, so hard, to not let my smile reveal the strain with which it is painted on my face.
"You would think someone your age would be above name-calling, but who can account for young ones these days?" she snaps back as she turns away, but I have the sudden realisation the quip is just as baited as my own banter.
I snort. "Nurse Moustache," I repeat and I can see her eyes narrow, "I am not a child." How long would I be having to convince everyone around me of this?
"Good," she quips back, turning around, "Then you might just try acting like an adult. Buck up and take this like a man, Mr. Martin. I have to check your vitals."
Exhaling in exasperation, I slump where I sit on the mattress, dejected.
One, two, three, four…
"Start to breathe and fake a smile,
It's all the same after awhile"
-(Come Back Down) Lifehouse
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Author's Note: If Zack seemed odd at places, let me explain: he was having a panic attack. People act irrational, emotional, erratic when they have them. Panic is the overriding thought and certainty of doom is the only logical thing which connects in one's mind, so keeping the person calm, being reassuring, comforting, and firm with them is the best course of action. You don't hold on to them, as that can make it worse; confining them, or even the thought of being confined, can compound the issue; it is best not to deny their fears or tell them they are being ridiculous or overreacting, but simply assure them "it's okay."
So that helps explain Nurse Hatchet's behaviour, too. Being a nurse, I think she would know this. But she is also a rough-edged, jaded woman, so that was still showing through, too. Zack being stupid about his health does not sit well with her.
I found this chapter interesting, in the disjointed snapshots of background we received. I, myself, know a little bit more already (or basic ideas) about what some of those memories were about or what they mean, but I would love to hear thoughts from you readers! Why would he be remembering these memories while having a panic attack? There you go. There's a question to consider.
But don't be fooled! There was a lot of interesting tidbits in the first part, both the beginning flashback and the following scene with Carey. I can't say much, but I can definitely say there are some interesting things to ponder in there, too.
Vocabulary:
intransigent - (n) unyielding person: somebody who refuses to compromise or change an attitude or decision, especially in politics
travesty - (1) false representation: a distorted or debased version of something
Important Notice:
I will not have access to a computer for writing starting tomorrow and lasting for most of the upcoming week. After that, I have preparations for a wedding I have to help with the rehearsal dinner for in barely two week's time. As you can see, these things will keep me busy and occupied, which brings me to my point: I will not be able to update next week.
I feel exceedingly bad to have to miss a week, but I have little choice. It is my intention to make sure I only miss one week, but looking at what is ahead, I cannot promise an update on the 10th either, though I will certainly try to get back that soon. I am not abandoning this story. If nothing else, it holds too much appeal, and I would not dream of leaving my readers hanging. I just have to delay an update by a little extra time, but time which is not indefinite and should be over shortly.
My apologies.