• Abigail Cook

Prelude to the panic attack

Walls close in like they were always meant to. You: four walls steeped in tea made of crushed up leaves, ipecac. And you try and throw it all up but instead you are left staring at your own reflection in the toilet bowl dripping tears into the water. Irony strikes like a match, after all, your job is to comfort those who can’t with small looks and behaviour management skills you never really learnt. And it’s not enough to say you were panicking. Your head like a penny, your mouth tasting of nickel and she says “agency girls do the training too” and you don’t know where to find the worksheets for tomorrow and you’re thinking tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow and it starts like a tram rolling out of the station after your begging. The heavy breath. The chokehold.

©2018 by Abigail Cook.