I had no strength left to flee or to fight. My body knew it before my mind accepted it. There was no escaping what I’d done. The verdict had already been passed somewhere deep inside me. I would be remembered as the creepy kid who snapped and murdered his heroic father. Prison would carve me into something smaller and meaner. I would not last long there. And Hell, if it was real, felt less like a destination and more like gravity pulling me downward.

  The edges of my vision began to dull, not all at once, but in slow, deliberate strokes, as if someone were painting over the world with dirty water. Gray barriers slid inward, forming a narrowing tunnel that refused to stay still. The ringing in my ears rose until it drowned out everything else. Lloyd and Derek were still talking, maybe shouting, but their voices were distant. Warped. Like they were underwater or buried behind thick walls.

  My body leaned forward without asking me. I watched it happen like it belonged to someone else. The seatbelt bit into my chest and stopped me from folding completely, the pressure sharp and unreal. My heart, which had been racing moments earlier, suddenly felt sluggish, like it had grown tired of trying. Each beat came slower than the last. The space between them stretched too long. I wondered if the next one would bother showing up at all.

  The world dimmed, not into darkness but into absence. Colors drained first, then shape, then meaning. I was slipping, not falling, more like being quietly erased. The blackness waiting for me felt heavy and close, a crushing void that promised silence.

  Mom? Can you hear me?

  Calling out to my first caregiver felt instinctive, desperate, and useless all at once. There was no sense of sound anymore, only the idea of it. The world was gone. In wanting so badly for it to end, I had either stepped out of it or forced it to abandon me.

  Something moved me in that void. I was no longer upright. I was on my back now. My legs lifted, weightless, and fingers worked at the buttons of my shirt.

  No! Don’t touch me!

  I tried to fight, but my arms were dead weight.

  Foreign fingers loosened the belt at my waist.

  “NO!” I swung wildly, my fist slamming into something warm and solid.

  Sight rushed back in a blur. I was inside a house I didn’t recognize, lying on an unfamiliar couch. A stranger sat beside me, his hand wrapped firmly around my clenched fist. He had gray hair and eyebrows that jutted outward like frayed white wires on an overused brush.

  “Well, now, that’s much better already,” he said in a gentle, practiced voice. “Can you breathe? Show me.”

  I followed his lead, pulling in long breaths and letting them out slowly, as if remembering how lungs were supposed to work after returning from the dead.

  “There we go,” he said. “Can you tell me your name?”

  My thoughts were thick and slow, like wading through mud. “Vincent.”

  “Vincent?” The stranger scratched his head. “Well, that’s odd. Lloyd said your name was Alex.”

  The mistake hit me all at once. “Right. Alex. My middle name’s Vincent.”

  “Just a little confused, then, hmm?” he said. “I’m Dr. Connell. You gave Lloyd and Derek quite a scare there. They thought it was a heart attack, but it looks to me more like it was a panic attack.”

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  A panic attack. So, it had all been in my head. My own fear had swollen until it nearly killed me.

  I scanned the room. A glass cabinet displayed old dishes painted with scenes of children playing and families gathered around dinner tables. A cat clock hung on the wall, its tail acting as its pendulum. A carpeted staircase led up to the second floor.

  Lloyd and Derek stood near the door. Derek rose when he noticed me looking. Both wore worry openly, as if neither knew how to hide it.

  Did they take me to the doctor’s house instead of a hospital?

  The answer came quickly enough. If it had really been my heart, there wouldn’t have been time to drive. I’d have needed a helicopter, flashing lights, sirens screaming to get me to the nearest hospital in time. Instead, they brought me here.

  “You ready to talk about it?” Dr. Connell asked.

  “Talk about what?” My throat felt scraped raw.

  “Whatever got you so worked up,” he said. “It’s not often that people faint from panic attacks, so something must have had you really scared. Sometimes talking about it is the best thing for ya.”

  “No.”

  “No, what?” the doctor asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Alright, I won’t force it,” he said. “But I’d like to make sure we rule out all other possible causes. I’d like to recommend you go to St. Michael’s for an EKG and maybe a few other tests.”

  My pulse jumped. “No hospitals!” The words tore out of me before I could stop them.

  Lloyd stared like I’d just claimed to be from another planet.

  Dr. Connell kept his voice steady. “Now, why no hospitals? They’re not going to hurt you. They’re just going to make sure—”

  “No hospitals!” I said again, louder this time.

  “Alright alright,” he said, irritation creeping in. “Fine. I can’t make you go to a hospital, and it’s your life, so you can do what you will with it.” He pointed toward Lloyd and Derek. “Just know that some good people care about you.”

  I looked at them and tried to smile, though guilt sagged my shoulders and gave me away.

  “I have a few more questions for you, though,” the doctor said. “First of all, do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Drink alcohol?”

  “I’m only nineteen.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “No, I don’t drink.”

  “What about caffeine?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” I lied.

  “He drinks about a pot of coffee every morning,” Lloyd said.

  Heat rushed to my face. “Yeah…”

  “Sheesh!” The doctor’s wiry eyebrows bounced as he shook his head. “Yeah, I’d be having panic attacks too with that much caffeine. You know that stuff makes your heart race, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, I suggest you lay off the stuff for a while,” he said.

  “But it’s how I wake myself up.”

  Lloyd chuckled. “Alex, it’s ok if you’re a bit sluggish for a while. I’d rather that than have to rush you here again.”

  “Aside from that,” the doctor said, “make sure you stay hydrated, eat regular meals, and get enough sleep.”

  Sleep.

  The word alone made my stomach tighten. Sleep had betrayed me too many times. It was when nightmares slipped in and blurred the line between memory and reality. In my dreams my father was still alive, and I was still powerless to stop him.

  “And you should know that panic attacks are nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “Clearly, there’s something that bothers you, so I’d recommend seeing a therapist.”

  A therapist. A counselor.

  School counselors had already taught me how dangerous that could be. And how could I possibly talk to someone while hiding my crimes? Secrets like mine never stayed buried during such sessions.

  The doctor went on with advice about preventing future panic attacks, but I stopped listening. Treatment wasn’t an option. Treatment meant exposure. The moment anyone learned who I really was and what I’d done, everything would collapse. Panic attacks would be the least of my worries.

  And yet, beneath the despair, something shifted. There were people who cared. People who were genuinely good. Maybe the world didn’t need to end just yet. Maybe I could stay in it a little longer.