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His throat was tight again. It had been one hard month since Miles has become known as New York’s Spider-man, and he was tired. Miles glanced at the clock, beads of sweat beginning to stick to his forehead and back, it was barely 11AM. This thought came with dismay, and Miles attempted to tune into his teacher's conversation, one on something to do with warfare… a French battle… the Battle of Somme? Regardless, Miles is far too anxious to take notice, and as his grip on the arm of his chair tightens, his head spins.
His work had been long neglected, between his notes, a page had been left with half-completed sketches of people, flowers, Green Goblin and suits, but his pencil was broken and the lead was smeared. He couldn’t break away from the sounds surrounding him, the hum of the projector, a clicking pen, hushed chatter under textbooks, someone chewing gum, and as the sounds clung to his mind, his hands began to shake, clammy from the stress of his situation. Miles couldn’t bring himself to look away from the page in front of him, and as he moved to draw (a reflex natural to him), his arms felt like lead. The half of the pencil he had grabbed slipped from his reach, and Miles watched, paralysed as it fell to the ground with a clash.
“...Miles?”
Slowly, hands shaking, he looked up at his teacher.
“Miles. Is everything okay?”
All eyes were on him now, and as the classroom broke into murmurs and concealed laughter, Miles felt frozen. His head pounded, and his heart raced as he looked at everyone around him. He couldn’t stand it, the eyes on him, the little noises that stuck to his brain like thorns on a rose. They pierced his skin and ears and eyes and tore holes as they grew, implanting their roots in his brain, spreading to his throat, and then his body. He felt weak, his arms were as good as dirt and his mind raced. Why couldn’t he hide it? Why couldn’t he suppress the shaking of his leg? The shaking of his hands? Why couldn’t he hide his wide-eyed look as necks craned to look at him?
“Morales?”
As soon as she said it, Miles was panicking again. The classroom was silent, the confusion and mutters had left, leaving Miles centre stage in his panic. The knots formed in his stomach, and his throat clenched in indescribable pain and fear. His breathing quickened, and no counting or pacing or grounding himself could stop it. Miles felt his leg shake faster now, and his eyes darted around the classroom as he was met with quizzical looks and scoffs. The voice in his head was loud now, and it was screaming now; threatening for him to run, demanding him to leave, but Miles was frozen. His staggered breaths filled the silent classroom and tears formed in his eyes. He looked down and hid his head, a desperate attempt to hide his fear, confusion and tears. The drawings and notes were ruined now, smudged by the tears from his eyes and his hands newfound clutch on the paper. It tore.
His head pounded in pain, his heartbeat had lost its simple pace and was erratic, disjointed against the pace of his breathing.
The whispers started again, a slurry of confusion as the questioning voice of his teacher ripped through flesh and clawed at his head, but Miles, panicked, overwhelmed and paralysed, felt his voice catch in his throat as he attempted to respond. Suddenly, he could feel the weight of his body, his binder obstructing the breaths against a tight chest, the bagginess of his uniform, the clench of the tie on his neck, a blazer that was once comforting now trapping him like a bird in a polished silver cage.
“Miles.” The teacher was by his side now, their hand placed reassuringly on his back. “What’s wrong?”
Their touch was enough to set him off, and Miles broke free from his chair. The chair fell back with a clash, and the other half of his pencil hit the floor as he scrambled to throw his belongings into his bag. There was pressure on his wrist, and as Miles attempted to walk away he was held back, he turned, eye to eye with the teacher behind him. He curled his wrist, and Miles broke free, he ran, a door slammed behind him, and he was met with a desolate hallway.
The glare of the lights burned his eyes, and as Miles readjusted to his new surroundings, one of lights and silence, he stumbled to the bathroom door with weak legs and teary eyes. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, tripping over his laces as he heads to a cubicle. He meets the floor face-first, and crawls into the closest cubicle. He pulls himself up, fumbling with the lock with sweaty hands, and barely registers the metallic taste in his mouth.
The breaths are shorter now. His chest is heavier, breaths erratic as his chest moves up and down. Miles can barely register his heart beat or the rush of blood in his ears, and as he attempts to lift himself from the tiles, his head spins. Tears mix with blood as they pour down his face and meet at the floor below him, and Miles’ vision is blurred. He can’t understand a thing around him. Not the occasional sound of footsteps or the creak of a door, nor the whispers of passing students in the hallways. Miles was sick, and as his breathing staggered the feeling of dread in his stomach only grew. He was alone now. Sweat mixed with blood and tears. His throat let out gasps and choked sobs as he ran his arms along his shoulders, a desperate attempt to calm himself down. No matter what he did, Miles was still sprialling, and no words or actions could break him out of this.
As he spun, his vision blurred. Miles shifts, clinging to the toilet seat and resting his head on the cool plastic. Between staggered breaths and sobs he gagged, his throat tight and bitter. Miles shifted his head and slowly, pulled himself onto his knees. Weakly, he lifted the toilet seat, retching as his stomach jerked and he threw up. He shook, choking on tears and pushing himself back. His sobs were louder now, shaky hands attempting to console a heavy body. He couldn’t stand to look at his blood-stained jumper or rest his body on the wet floor any longer, and sweat had stuck to his back. He was covered in blood, sweat, saliva and vomit, and could barely stand, legs wobbly as he attempted to pull himself up from the bathroom floor. Miles screamed now, voice cracking as he wept and shook, barely able to manage the searing pain in his head, and as he screamed, he slipped.
As Miles woke up he shook, grunting as weak arm’s pushed him into an upright position. His eyes were heavy, and he struggled to focus as he awoke. A shiver rippled down his spine, and Miles wrapped his blazer closer to his body. He looked at the floor in disgust, the aftermath of his panic attack a combination of blood and tears. His throat seared and burned from the pain, and Miles slowly stood up, flushing the toilet and slipping off his jumper and blazer, shoving it into his bag. Miles massaged his head, still recovering with a mild headache and sore limbs. His body felt heavy as he wiped down the toilet seat and the floor, using a roll of toilet paper in the process. He grimaced.
“Fuck this.”
Miles unlocked the bathroom stall with weak fingers, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he walked towards a sink. He glanced at himself in the mirror. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and his skin was pale. The heaviness made sense now. The school was silent, and as he stepped out into the hallways, he was met with dimmed lights and abandoned classroom.
‘What time is it?” Miles thought, grabbing his phone from his pocket. He was met with a glaring screen and 21:50. ‘Fuck.’
As he stared at his phone, letting his eyes adjust to the light, he was met with a flurry of messages from his parents, and missed calls, 10 missed calls. Ganke had called him 10 times over the span of the day, and Miles couldn’t push away the guilt that he felt. Miles had been passed out long past Visions’ curfew, and he barely knew what had occurred throughout the city that night. As his footsteps echoed through the hallways and empty stairwells, Miles attempted to maintain his focus on the path ahead of him, but his breathing was still unsteady, and he panted as he headed to his dorm. As he climbed the stairs his body ached, each step sending a searing pain through his entire body. Inevitably, he was at his door.
Miles searched his pockets for his keycard, scanning the card on a small pad near the door handle, and was met with a small ping! As he twisted the handle, he came face to face with a worried Ganke, who pulled Miles into a tight hug.
“Miles!” he said, letting go of a disheveled Miles, “Where have you been?”.
Miles froze. He looked at Ganke, mouth wide open and yet unable to say anything. He was met with a worried look, and Ganke guided him to his bed, sitting him down.
“Miles, is everything okay? You’ve been gone for hours.”
Miles gave him a weak smile and a nod, forcing himself to lay down.
“I can’t… I don’t know what happened, Ganke.”
Ganke gave him a small smile, moving closer to him.
“I heard you left class, do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s… It was just a stupid panic attack, I just forgot to take my meds again. It’s nothing serious.”
The lie was bitter on Miles’ tongue, and Ganke sighed, clearly displeased with his answer.
“If you say so.”
The two sat in silence, one garring and yet oddly comfortable. The bed creaked as Ganke headed over to his monitor, launching a game and lowering his brightness for a squinting Miles. For a while, the room was filled with the clicking of controller buttons and the occasional curse from Ganke. Miles’ head throbbed as he laid down, and eventually the pressure of the tie and belt became too much for Miles, and he slipped out of bed to change. In the dim light of the room his body was bruised, and his cuts from battles were only beginning to heal.
“Miles.”
Miles slipped on a shirt, glancing over at Ganke.
“Mm, what’s up?”
“You need to be more careful dude, you’re gonna really injure yourself soon.”
Miles gave him an awkward chuckle and a shrug. In the silence of the night, Miles could hear the cars outside and the usual hum of Brooklyn. He found comfort in the beeps of car horns and the occasional shout, the noise from Ganke’s video game and the music playing through the headphones he had slipped around his neck.
“Miles.” Ganke’s voice was stern, and he gave Miles a condescending look that was visible even in the dim lighting of the room.
“Ganke, I’ma be fine. Don’t stress.”
Ganke sighed.
“Are you gonna go out?”
Miles shook his head, slipping his headphones over his ears and lowering himself into his bed, rolling over and burying himself beneath the covers.
“Nah, I… I just want to rest now.”
Ganke gave him a smile.
“Goodnight then.”