Work Text:
She’s sitting in bed crying again. There was no will to get up, absolutely no energy to do anything but exist there. Forever drained to the point of exhaustion, the most that she could get herself to move was to simply sit up instead of continuing to lay, but she still had her blankets wrapped around her form securely. Still cocooned, just in an upright position now.
It’s the middle of the day, nearly evening now, yet she just woke up.
Her eyes were tired and puffy, in a permanent state of desolation that swam in her ocean irises, marking its presence in the tears that escaped their grasp and flowed down her face. Nothing in particular had happened to cause this display of emotions-- sadness is merely Powder’s default setting.
Wake up, remember yourself, cry. Always such a baby.
So much misery stored in such a small, fragile heart.
It’s overwhelming and pitiful just how deep it runs. Like she was always meant to be this way, like she was brought into the world broken from the very start with no way to be repaired. She knows hurt more than she’s ever known anything else, even herself. Because who is she if not an object to harm? Who is she if not the outlet to the world’s frustrations?
It’s actually kind of pathetic.
Nothing happened yet she starts hyperventilating, making herself feel faint and dizzy, making her chest ache with how violently the bruised heart inside is beating. Her arms and legs go numb, fingers and toes tingling pins and needles, constricted throat threatening to hold her breath hostage, and she doesn’t feel like a real person anymore (if she had ever). Fear floods her awareness, screaming that there’s not an ounce of control she has over her mind or body, that she can’t stop this or calm down. Whispers crawling out from the back of her skull telling her that she’s dying, and it makes her cry harder-- but nothing is actually happening.
It’s a panic attack.
As for what triggered it, she doesn’t know. She never knows. It always seems to come out of nowhere when it hits her, and there’s nothing she can do but ride it out, as agonizing as it is. If she could just focus on breathing, she could be fine. She knows that. She knows that, she realizes this is just anxiety, but she can’t snap herself out of it.
So, it gets worse, and she thinks she may actually pass out from how lightheaded she’s become so quickly. There’s this sinking sensation that washes over her, like her soul is leaving the shell that is her, and it only serves to spin her racing, spiraling thoughts further.
God, why is she like this?
So much went wrong so fast. Powder only just woke up, and yet everything is already so wildly bad. Nothing happened. Nothing even happened.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. You’re so fucking stupid. Nothing happened, so why are you acting like this? What is so severely wrong with you?
She shakes her head aggressively in response, unable to verbalize a defense at the moment.
This would usually be the part where Vi chimes in, all gentle and sweet and loving, reminding Powder that there’s nothing wrong with being sensitive. She’d tell her that there’s nothing wrong with her period, that she’s perfect as she is, that she’s cherished dearly for who she is, that she never was and never would be a burden or a jinx. She’d say that this moment will pass, that nothing bad is going to happen, that she’ll stay with her until she’s okay and comfortable being alone again.
But Vi isn’t here to do that anymore.
Powder is on her own.
And oh, how painful a realization that is to carry on your shoulders and continue on in life with. To think, she’s so hopeless that even the big sister that loved her more than anything had finally had enough of it. It’s a tormenting reality.
She shifts her gaze up to the ceiling. Her brows furrowed in a wounded, scared expression and tears poured relentlessly from those big blue eyes as she tries to steady her breathing. In through the nose, hold it. Out through the mouth, wait. Repeat that over and over again, so many minutes passing by in the background that what little light there was outside no longer spills in from the window, but she still doesn’t feel alright.
She wishes Vi were here.
She wishes she wasn’t so defective.
She wishes she could just disappear entirely and not have to deal with any of this again.
She wishes she could just go back to sleep, to close her eyes and never have to worry about them opening again. But that’s ironic, isn’t it? Considering the fact she’s so terrified of dying.
It’s confusing. It doesn’t make any sense.
She just wishes that everything could be peaceful, and wonders that maybe such a thing can only be achieved if she becomes nothing.
But she is nothing, and yet, she feels everything.
And she hates this so much.