Michael managed to make it back to his classroom, despite the way his legs were shaking or how his blood was pounding in his ears. With shaking hands, he slammed the door and began to pace, his breath coming in short, startled gasps. He was able to suck air in, but he seemed unable to push it out, his muscles began to tighten in agony.
Michael pushed his fingers through his hair, linking them together behind his head, squeezing his eyes shut to try and get a grip. Get a grip on what? What was here for him to hold on to? There seemed to be nothing at all. There was nothing but temporary happiness and permanent pain - the kind of pain that comes back to bite you in the ass, regardless of the many times you've attempted to push it down with therapy, medication and false acceptance.
Trembling, Michael slid down the wall behind his desk. His fingers were still locked behind his neck, his head resting on his knees, trying to focus on breathing, but it wasn't working. The was a ringing in his ears, so loud he couldn't hear anything else. His muscles were on lockdown.
If you would just man up and stay in line, I wouldn't have to do this! Now I have your teachers breathing down my neck about the bruises on your throat? You gotta learn to cover that up, what happens at home is our own damn business.
You're just like your mother. Pathetic. Worthless.
This isn't how I raised you. God help me I tried – I tried to set things right, to make a man out of you.
Michael gripped his hair between his fingers and pulled, trying to pull himself back, but his vision was quickly blacking out. The ringing in his ears was screaming now, Michael couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing there, all he knew was that he had to get out.
Suddenly, a warm hand was pressed against his shoulder. His head snapped up and he jerked away from the touch, his hands flew up to block any attack that was certainly coming. He was confused when his vision cleared up a bit, registering a pair of alarmed hazel eyes and furrowed brows. There was a woman crouched in front of him, her lips were moving but Michael had no idea what they were saying. Michael was aware he knew this person, but he couldn't think of her name or where they'd met.
The woman held her hands up, and Michael blinked, trying with all he had to force the air back out of his lungs. Slowly, as he concentrated on those hazel eyes, the ringing in his ears began to quieten down.
"Michael?" The woman's voice, soft, gentle and soothing as hell, broke through the noise. "Michael. Breathe, alright? You're okay, it's okay."
Michael became aware that he was mumbling something repeatedly, but he couldn't quite make out what it was.
"Breathe, Michael. Just breathe." The woman said again. Michael didn't let his eyes stray from that stare, and with what felt like a backbreaking effort, he pushed the air back out of his lungs. The woman nodded, encouragingly.
"Good. That's good. Keep doing that." She said, reaching for Michael's shoulder again. Michael had to focus way too hard, but soon he had a steady rhythm; taking the air in through his nose, then pushing it back out his mouth, like a pregnant lady going into labour. Except that was real pain, Michael argued that he was just a child who couldn't go a few weeks without having a panic attack.
After a few moments, the blackness around the edges of Michael's vision faded away, the voices in his head and the ringing stopped, he blinked at the woman - Samantha - as he was left with nothing but his heart pounding against his chest.
Samantha seemed to have noticed that Michael had returned, because she dropped her hand from his shoulder.
"Are you alright?" She asked urgently, Michael's breath was far too quick, like he'd just sprinted a mile.
"Um, I don't think so?" He rasped out, the sentence coming out as a question. He hated admitting he wasn't okay, but this felt better.
"I think you just had a panic attack." Samantha said, her voice still soft and soothing. "Do you have those a lot?"
Michael sighed, shame swirling in his stomach. "Often enough."
"Do you have anyone I can call for you?" Samantha frowned, "Maybe Dean? Garth?"
Michael shook his head quickly, though the movement caused his stomach to flip. "No. No, it's fine. They'll only worry - I'm fine."
"Michael," Samantha sighed, "You're not fine. Panic attacks aren't anything to be ashamed of-"
"I know." Michael snapped, instantly regretting it, Samantha frowned. Michael let out an uneven breath, and he realised every muscle in his body was shaking and achy.
"I'll be fine." He insisted. "I just want to get home."
"I don't think that's a good idea." Samantha looked over her shoulder, as if looking for back up that wasn't there. She looked back at Michael. "Unless you live with someone?"
If Michael was in his right state of mind, he would have teased that the question came off as snooping about whether or not he was involved with somebody. As it was, though, Michael wasn't in his right mind, and the question was too logical for the situation. He shook his head and closed his eyes, exhaustion crashing down on him.
"No," He said roughly, "It's just me."
Samantha sighed, looking at Michael thoughtfully for a moment.
"I'm gonna take you home." She said. "And I'm staying with you until I'm sure you're alright."
She hooked a hand beneath Michael's arm and attempted to help him up.
"Woah," Michael muttered groggily, "At least take me to dinner first."
"Very funny." Samantha deadpanned. Michael allowed himself to be dragged to his feet, but he gently pulled away from Samantha when he was there. Trying to hold on to the little dignity he had left.
"I got it." He said, but when he turned to walk out the door, a wave of nausea hit him. He managed to grab the trash can beside his desk and pull it towards him just in time, before spewing the pitiful contents of his stomach into it.
So much for dignity.
Michael straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Samantha looked at him with an alarmed expression.
"Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital? You're obviously not well."
Michael bit back a witty retort and got to his feet again, only answering when he was sure he wasn't going to throw up.
"I'm fine, I told you... Will you drop it if I let you take me home?"
"I'm taking you home regardless." Samantha replied sternly. "There's no 'letting' involved."
Michael rolled his eyes at her.
Under other circumstances, Michael would've complained about Samantha driving his car. But he didn't have the energy: he spent the journey with his head resting against the cool glass of the car's passenger side window, mumbling directions when Samantha asked for them.
Michael sighed as he opened the door to his apartment. "Home safe and sound. Pleased?"
Samantha shot him a dubious look and closed the door behind her, glancing around the apartment. "Not yet. You still look terrible."
Michael collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and rested his elbows on it. "Yeah, well. I'll live."
"You should have something sweet. It'll pick you blood-sugar levels back up." Samantha glanced at the fridge. "Can I?"
"Knock yourself out." Michael said tiredly. "I don't think I've got anything but beer in there."
Samantha walked over to fridge anyway and opened the door. Michael closed his eyes, knowing that she was right. He felt weak and unstable, undoubtedly because of a drop in his blood-sugar levels, that was Panic Attack 101. He felt like he'd just gone ten rounds with a baseball bat, and like he hadn't slept in weeks.
There was a dull thud and Michael opened his eyes to see a glass of orange juice in front of him. He looked up at Samantha, slightly surprised.
"I had this?"
"Yeah." Samantha smiled and nodded, taking a seat opposite Michael. "Please drink it."
Michael cocked an eyebrow, but grabbed the glass anyway and took a tentative sip. He didn't trust his stomach, but once the liquid hit the back of his throat, he wanted more. He managed to take three large gulps before placing the glass back on the table.
"Thank you." Samantha said, her voice coming out a soft whisper. Things were quiet for a moment, and then Samantha asked softly, "Do you wanna talk about it?"
Michael inhaled and shook his head. "Not really, no."
Luckily, Samantha took this without question. She only nodded.
"But..." Michael continued, "Thanks for talking me down. And driving me home. Gabe's got enough on his plate, it would've killed me to worry him."
"Don't mention it, really." Samantha's voice was heartfelt, and Michael allowed himself to look up into her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, "Gabe?"
Michael realised how little they knew about each other, which seemed odd, somehow. "He's my brother." Michael explained, Samantha nodded.
Michael picked up the glass again and took a sip. Something was bothering him, and he'd do anything not to have to ask, but he had to know. "Listen, Sammy, when I was... out of it... did I say anything? I feel like I did, but I can't remember."
Samantha's eyes hardened, but she looked at Michael levelly. "Uh, yeah. I couldn't quite make it out at first, but you kept repeating 'get me out'. That's it."
Michael swallowed thickly and averted his gaze to the table. "Okay. Thanks."
Samantha put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. "Feel better?"
"Yeah, thanks." Michael nodded. "You seem good at this."
"At what?" Samantha squinted curiously. Michael shrugged his shoulders.
"Not freaking out when people lose it. The whole care-taking thing."
"I guess part of it comes naturally." She replied. For some reason, her eyes looked sad. "But I've had plenty of practice."
Michael thought about asking her what she meant, but he decided against it.
"Sammy, D'you, uh...do you think we could keep this between us? It's happened before, I don't want to worry anyone. It's not a big deal."
Samantha just looked at him for a moment, before she swallowed and nodded.
"Yeah, of course. If that's what you think is best, Michael."
Michael felt a great warmth pool in his stomach, because he was pretty certain that was the first time in his life anyone had said that to him.
Samantha liked to stick around after school. If she could finish a good amount of marking now, it meant she wouldn't have to take it home. That's what she had done for her first week, but balancing stacks of paper for a four-block walk got old fast.
Plus, there was the fact that she wasn't exactly in a hurry to get back to her motel. She'd been in Houston for a few weeks now, and she supposed she should start looking for an actual place to live. She had the money, and there was a realtor's card burning a hole in her purse, but there was something holding her back. She just wasn't sure what it was. Her motel room was quiet and stuffy. She liked her classroom, because she could spread papers out on the desk and get lost in noises of the school.
It was distracting, and she needed a distraction. Why? Because when every time she let her mind wander, it would undoubtedly settle on greyish-blue eyes and dark brown hair. Her students papers on the Cold War were much safer to get lost in.
She was running through a student's paper when the door to the classroom opposite her's slammed shut with a loud bang.
Michael's classroom.
Samantha put the paper down, slipping the cap back on her pen before placing it back on her desk, listening. She'd worked with Michael long enough to know he didn't go around slamming doors. Michael from what Samantha could see, was a very good teacher. The voice that would float through the open doors was always even and encouraging, Samantha saw that Michael's students treated him with respect. He was a "cool" teacher. He was the kind of teacher that his students went to for condoms or other personal problems, never fearing that Michael would rat them out. Samantha respected him for that.
So the slammed door, was slightly unnerving. She sat quietly, trying to listen for any movement, also wondering why the hell she cared so much. The silence eventually got too much and Samantha stood from her desk, heading out to the hall, before even bothering to ask herself what she might find.
There were no windows on the doors at the school - just tall, solid oak. Samantha tapped her knuckles on the door three times, and waited for a reply.
There was nothing. Frowning, Samantha leaned towards the door, her ears straining to detect any odd or unusual movement.
"Michael?" She called, assuming they were friendly enough to be on a first-name basis.
She told herself to go back to her classroom, Michael was probably fine, accidentally closed the door harder than he should've. But still, goosebumps were rising on Samantha's skin, and she could just feel the vibe of wrong coming through the door.
She rested her hand on the door handle, hesitating for a moment before turning it and pushing into the room.
Michael was curled into a ball behind his desk, his forehead pressed against his knees and his hands locked behind his neck. Samantha knew the position well - she'd seen it a number of times, on the low-level dealers and bookies her fucked-up family had decided weren't worth the trouble anymore.
It was the position of someone who was certain they were within inches of their dying breath.
She rushed over to Michael and crouched in front of him. He was shaking slightly, his knuckles were white as they gripped his hair, he was mumbling something that Samantha couldn't quite make out.
"Michael?" Samantha hated how scared her voice sounded.
Michael kept repeating himself and Samantha was finally able to make out the words:
Get me out, get me out, please get me out, I need to get out of here...
Eyes widening, Samantha reached out to put a hand on Michael's shoulder.
Michael jumped as if Samantha had shocked him. His head shot up and he looked around, his eyes were wild and scared. His hands flew up, ready to defend himself.
Samantha held her own hands up, hoping to show that she had no intention of hurting him. A pain shot it's way through her chest as she thought about why Michael would think she would want to do so.
"I'm not going to hurt you." Samantha tried her hardest to push the fear out of her voice. "Are you alright? Can you hear me?"
Michael just blinked at her, as if he'd never seen Samantha before in his life. His breath was ragged and uneven, each inhale rattling, and he couldn't seem to manage an exhale. Michael was pale, every inch of him shaking, and Samantha tried to remember the first aid treatment for shock.
"Michael?" Samantha said, more stern this time, "Michael, breathe, alright? It's okay, you're okay."
Michael just kept repeating those words.
"Breathe, Michael. Just breathe." Samantha was almost begging. With great effort, Michael pushed a breath out of his lungs. Samantha nodded, relief making her dizzy.
"Good. Just keep doing that." She said. She waited patiently, reaching her hand out again to rest it on Michael's shoulder. This time, Michael relaxed a little bit under her touch, his eyes fixed on hers as he forced out another breath. After a few minutes, the panic in his vision cleared and his breathing began to even out.
"Are you alright?" Samantha questioned, now that it seemed like she might get an answer.
"Um... I don't think so?" Michael asked, almost like Samantha knew better than he did. Samantha frowned.
"I think you just had a panic attack." She said cautiously. "Do you have those a lot?"
Michael nodded. "Often enough."
"Do you have anyone I can call? Dean, maybe? Garth?"
Michael didn't seem to like this suggestion at all; he shook his head forcefully. "No. No, it's fine. They'll only worry - I'm fine."
"Michael," Samantha sighed, "You're not fine. Panic attacks aren't anything to be ashamed of-"
"I know." Dean snapped, and Samantha tried not to take it personally. "I'll be fine. I just want to go home."
"I don't think that's a good idea." Samantha glanced back over her shoulder. The door was still sitting ajar, but no one was passing by. She was certain Dean or Garth would've arrived by now, but they'd probably gone home. She looked back at Michael. "Unless you live with someone?"
"No, it's just me." Michael replied.
Sammy let out a shaky breath, and one tiny, pitiful part of her brain quietly rejoiced that Michael didn't live with anyone - crushes were so much harder to get over when said crush was with someone else. But the larger more mature part of her brain was quietly cursing because he didn't have anyone to look after him in such a bad state.
"I'll take you home." Samantha said. "But I'm staying with you until I'm sure you're okay."
Samantha tried to haul Michael to his feet, but he was too heavy for her to lift alone. Michael wasn't particularly big - in fact, Samantha made the assumption that he should probably have more muscle and fat on his body than he did - but that still didn't mean she could lift him.
Thankfully, Michael was able to carry most of his own weight. "Whoa," He muttered, "At least take me to dinner first."
"Very funny." Samantha said flatly, though she was secretly relieved that Michael was joking again. She didn't know Michael that well, yet it still seemed more like him - more like Michael than the shaking, hyperventilating mess she had found.
"I got it." Michael pushed Samantha away half-heartedly, before leaning over and promptly being sick in his classrooms trash can.
"Michael," Samantha's eyebrows knitted together in concern, "are you sure you don't have to go to the hospital? You're obviously not well."
Michael braced himself on his knees, his face pale and shining with sickly sweat. "I'm fine, I told you... Will you drop it if I let you take me home?"
"I'm taking you home regardless." Sammy couldn't help the authoritative tone in her voice. "There's no 'letting' involved."
Michael rolled his eyes but in the end, he succumbed.
He relented into Sammy walking him out the classroom and driving his car all the way to his apartment building. He had allowed her to follow him into his apartment and pour him juice, and then he let Sammy sit down on the chair across from him.
It didn't seem like much, but Samantha had the distinct feeling that Michael letting her do all those things wasn't a small deal. She was certain it wasn't actually anything to do with her though - Michael was on the edge of some sort of mental break, he probably wasn't even aware of what was actually going on around him.
Still, Sammy watched with satisfaction as Michael sipped from the glass! the colour slowly returning to his cheeks.
"Feel better?" She asked hopefully. Michael's eyes flicked up to hers, but they didn't rest there long.
"Yeah, thanks. You seem good at this."
"At what?"
"Not freaking out when people lose it. The whole care-taking thing."
Suddenly, a long-repressed voice filled Samantha's head. You've got too much heart, Samantha. In this life, it'll kill ya.
"I guess part of it comes naturally." She pushed the thought away. Instead her mind flicked to long days during winter; midnight runs for medicine, a small girl curled into her side, feverish and coughing, while they marathoned Disney movies. "But I've had plenty of practice."
Michael looked slightly confused about the statement, but he didn't ask anything of it.
"Sammy," He said instead, "do you think... do you think we could keep this between us? It's happened before, I don't want to worry anyone. It's not a big deal."
Samantha studied Michael for a moment. Sure, he'd had panic attacks before, but the one in the classroom seemed intense. And the words Michael had repeated over and over, his voice distant and pained... Sammy still shivered when she thought about it. But Michael was looking at her with pleading eyes and she felt herself cave.
"Yeah, of course. If that's what you think is best, Michael."
After a moment of studying Samantha's expression to see if she actually meant it, Michael nodded.
Samantha left about twenty minutes later. She made sure Michael was alright; tried again to convince him to call his brother or his mother, but Michael wasn't having any of it. She left him at the table with a pile of unmarked papers in front of him. The colour had returned to his cheeks and his eyes were bright again, even though his hands were still shaking.
Samantha had scribbled her cellphone number on a piece of paper and stuck it to the fridge, just in case. Sometimes it was easier to talk to someone who wasn't family. She reminded Michael she was there if he needed help or to talk and Michael muttered a shy thanks before diving into papers. Samantha excused herself and left.
To her delight, Michael's apartment was only a fifteen minute walk from her motel. It was dark by that time, and the crisp late-October air was nipping at her skin. Samantha just pulled her jacket tighter around her before taking out her phone, navigating her way to the most used contact in it.
It rang twice before someone picked up.
The voice on the other end was bright and warm, Samantha felt her body relax instantly.
"Mommy!"
"Hey, princess." Samantha could hear the smile in her voice. She stuffed a hand in her pocket, jingling her keys while she walked. "I miss you, too. What did you do today?"
Samantha laughed at the chirping voice coming through the phone. Her chest still felt a little bit tight, the memory of Michael crumbling was still sitting in her head. But that little voice kept her feet firmly on the ground.