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He could hear everything, but dare not open his eyes. Various voices kept murmuring soft words, telling him he was in the middle of a panic attack. One girl— his sister?— placed her lithe hand on his chest and pressed. His ragged breaths rose and fell into her palm as she cooed to him.
“What are five things you can see, Bentley? Look at me. Can you do that?”
Bentley shook his head, tears dripping from his chin to his shirt. He heard a sigh, and his lungs tightened in guilt.
“I can’t, Opal. I can’t.”
Opal’s fingers popped as she increased the pressure of her touch.
“Okay. Okay. What are four things you can touch?”
Raising one shaking hand, Bentley gripped his sister’s face.
“You. My… shirt is touching me. I—“
He shuffled his feet underneath him.
“Both of my feet are falling asleep.”
Opal laughed and patted his knee.
“We’ll count that as four. Three things you can hear?”
Bentley gathered his knees up, unintentionally forcing Opal’s hand away. She made a small huff as he heard her fall backwards, and not long after— a yowl arose. She apologized to Deacon, her Maine Coon, and cleared her throat pointedly. Bentley took a deep breath, his first in minutes.
“I hear Deacon complaining. I hear YOU complaining. And I hear them talking.”
Opal made a small, concerned noise, but pressed on.
“Two things you can smell?”
Another deep breath in.
“Rust. Mold.”
Bentley listened as Opal’s voice broke on the last question.
“One thing you can taste?”
He ran his dry tongue over his teeth, unsurprised by the greasy film left there. He was starting to come to.
“Bile.”
With this one word, the whispering stopped and his panic subsided. He opened one eye, then the next— and threw up again from the sight of his sister gutted on the basement floor.