Page 12 of Graves

With shaking hands and stuttering breath, I take the photo off the wall and stare at it. The image is burned into my brain. I can remember the exact day Ben and I hung it up like it was yesterday.

Sunlight floods the room, blinding me. I hear Ben’s laugh. I can smell the coffee rising from his white I LOVE NYC mug, filling the space.

No matter how hard I fight to keep the past away, it always plays out the same. For five years now. I don’t even need a photo to stir up the chaos in my head. I’m already broken enough to lose it.

I can’t manage to take a deep breath anymore, and I can’t keep convincing myself that everything is okay, that I’m just tired from the long day.

The early release hit me just as hard. The last twenty-four hours have been overwhelming. The flight across the Atlantic was brutal on my nerves. And now I’m home. In my own apartment. Surrounded by my things.

I gasp for air and fist a hand in my hair.

Fuck… Come on… Pull yourself together!

But this is only the beginning. The floodgates above me rip open and dump every piece of garbage straight onto me. Even the one good thing I had left—this apartment—now feels like a threat. I back up until I hit the corner.

There’s my bed, my nightstand, my lamp, my closet. A chair in the corner. And above the bed hangs my painting. The last one I finished right before the tour almost six years ago.

Looking at those dark brushstrokes, the memories steal what little breath I have left. The knot around my chest tightens even more. The walls close in, and a roaring sound rises in my head.

Air!

Like I’m being moved by some outside force, I set the framed photo on the dresser, shove the window open, and gulp down oxygen.

I’m out, damn it!

After five years, I’m finally free—and the fear is eating me alive from the inside.

My hands shake as I grip the windowsill and try to breathe deeply.

I’ve had a lot of panic attacks over the years and still haven’t found a way to stop them. This demon sneaks up on me, creeps out of the shadows, crawls up my spine, and squeezes my throat shut.

A groan escapes me. My eyes fill with tears. My heart feels like it’s going to explode in my chest. Even though I know it’s just pumping massive amounts of adrenaline, the fear of passing out is so strong I want to scream. Instead, I sink to my knees and fight like a drowning man to keep my head above water—or in this case, above the windowsill.

I left prison with my head held high, climbed into the jet like a robot, and used the last of my strength to play the reformed punk rocker the press wanted to see.

They didn’t exactly welcome me back as the prodigal son—not that I expected them to—but I made it through. That counts for something.

Now my strength is gone. I’m done. The temperature seems to drop in seconds, and the trembling spreads through my whole body.

“Aran!”

Suddenly, Fox is hovering over me, trying to help somehow, but he has no idea what to do. He was great at keeping pushy fans away, but this demon is invisible.

“What can I do?” he asks helplessly.

I don’t know.

I had no choice but to ride it out for the last five years. I deserved it anyway.

When the floor feels like it’s opening beneath me, I grab Fox’s muscular arm with one hand.

“Sit down,” he says, supporting me.

I turn and lean my back against the wall. Elbows on my knees, I press the heels of my hands into my eyes while I keep gasping for air. When I feel the leather jacket sleeves against my face, I panic and rip the constricting thing off.

Fox takes the jacket and lays it over the chair, then sits beside me.

“Sorry. I’m not good with panic attacks,” he says. “Want me to get you something? Juice maybe?”