Work Text:
Open your hand. Count your fingers — one, two, three, four five. Close your hand. Look at the darkness caked under your nails and try to figure out if it's engine grease or blood. Decide it doesn't matter. Open your hand. Note the faint blue of your veins bulging through. Close your hand. Half-shutter your eyes. Let your fingers and palm blur into an indistinguishable smear. Try to breathe. Try to feel real again.
You're not sure what set you off this time. You're in one of your uni classes, though you can't remember which. Your professor is lecturing about different coding languages. Nothing here, so far as you can tell, would have pressed on any bruises.
Well, you're fine now, at least. You can breathe again, and that's good.
Your notebook is open. There are notes there, written in pencil with neat, tidy handwriting. Red pen underlines the most important parts, a habit you picked up in high school. Near the bottom of the page, the red pen overtakes the pencil in a messy scrawl.
I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go home.
It reminds you of your handwriting back in elementary school. What, was that the kid, then? Sounds like him. You feel around mentally, but it seems he's retreated. Oh, well.
Your hand picks up the pencil and starts taking notes again, clean and tidy, though you can barely even hear the lecturer through the static in your brain. You watch the words appear on the paper with detachment and a little gratitude.
You really do have to wonder what happened.
Something about the professor's coat, answers a part of your brain, pulsing to the back lefthand side. You imagine the shrug of someone who looks awfully similar to you, as if to indicate that that's all she knows. Well, that's good enough; you avoid looking at the professor himself. That should settle that, you think, and back-lefthand agrees.
It's annoying, not quite knowing what your sore spots are until they've been grazed. Reminds you of life when you were younger, finding scrapes and bruises on your skin with no memory of how they arrived there. You've learned to treat it just as lightly, though. The brain is just a part of the body, after all.
Oddly, your legs won't stop shaking. You try to steady them, but every attempt at tensing the muscles just makes it worse, like a leaf in wind. Alright, well, maybe that's where the kid is? Shit, what would calm him down? You frown. With your non-notetaking hand, you rub your thumb against the lowest knuckle of your index finger. It's a soft, comforting gesture. Your legs loosen up, just a little, in response.
See? It's okay.
I wanna go home.
I know. Not yet, but soon, okay? I've got you.
We've got you.
'Mkay.
The jittering stops. You try to tune back into the lecture.
It's fine, I'm already listening.
I want to too.
Back-lefthand relents, and the static in your mind wanes. Your grip on the pencil returns, though halfway, shared between yourself and her.
When the professor goes on a long, rambling aside, the red pen is picked back up. Cats and little cars with flame decals are doodled in the margins. You don't smile often, but the corner of your mouth is pulled up just a little at the sight.
You're thirsty, you realize, suddenly and forcefully. Mechanically, you grab your water bottle from your bag and take a gulp. There, that's better. Thanks. Yeah.
The lecture ends not too long after. You pack up your stuff and sling your bag round your shoulder. It's a little heavy, but ah, whatever.
We're gonna want to take another look at those notes later. Yeah yeah, I know. I wanna nap first. Well, I'm hungry. Good on you. Don't be a jackass. I wasn't.
Christ, it's noisy in there.
Though the hailstorm of thoughts in your head doesn't let up, you block it out. No need for all that right now.
Surely this is a completely typical experience.