Lacuna, noun
A blank space, a missing part.
Once I was done with the photographs, I hung them up and left them to dry. I walked out of the room feeling a bit better, though my heart was pounding with anxiety and my nose was filled with the stench of that tiny, trashed little room. I still didn’t completely understand why I put myself through the ordeal of being in there. It wreaked havoc on me, and I fucking hated it, but I couldn’t stay away. It was like my own fucking cross I had to carry for the rest of my life.
When I walked into the living room, I felt lightheaded and weak all of a sudden, and I clung to the doorframe. My head was spinning, the wheels turning faster than ever as I tried to focus on anything but my unsteadily beating heart.
I felt it coming before it happened, the wave of nausea and panic mixing together in a killer cocktail that threatened to make my head explode. I felt the fear coming in waves, washing over my body with nauseating speed and making me want to collapse on the floor.
But I held myself up, willing my body not to move, stay in place and obey my mind instead. I employed every trick Dr. Halen had ever taught me, trying desperately to do what she’d said and calm my body down, distract it from the meltdown it seemed intent on having.
I felt physically sick, bile rising in my throat and threatening to spill all over the immaculate floor in front of me.
Spacing out, I felt my soul leaving my body and floating above myself, watching what my body was doing as though I wasn’t part of the actions that were happening in front of my very eyes.
I watched myself drop to my knees, my palms on the floor, and scared sobs left my lips as I dry-heaved, trying to calm down, trying to take deep breaths, remembering Dr. Halen’s words. Just breathe. Breathing is control. Air in, air out, over and over again, just focus on that for as long as you can.
Except it wasn’t working. I was panicking, my body overreacting to the stressors from outside, desperately fighting enemies that weren’t even present. I heaved and sputtered and choked on my own desperate attempts to call for help, all the while watching it from just under the ceiling, my brow furrowed and my arms crossed in front of my body, angrily looking down at myself, unable to understand why my body wasn’t following the simplest of instructions.
“Help!” I called out, but it didn’t come out right, it was just a desperate little croak.
I felt panic seeping through my pores, making the room stink of desperation. I was all alone, something I’d worked hard for, but that now seemed like the most frightening thing of all.
Crawling on the floor, I dragged myself to the couch and attempted to pull myself upwards, but my motions were shaky, my legs barely able to support my weight. I crashed down on the couch and regretted it immediately, the soft white leather sticking to my skin and reminding me of just how vulnerable I was.
The panic and absolute resignation to my fear were the worst I’d ever experienced.
Yes, I’d had panic attacks before, but nothing like this. Nothing this crazy fucking intense, where I knew with absolutely no doubt it was going to be the end of me and I was going to fucking die like this, all alone, with nobody to remember me.
Her face appeared in my mind, the beautiful line of her stubborn jaw making me want to run my fingers over the bones, her skin, her plump lips. I couldn’t remember her name, though. All that mattered was her face, and I did my very best to remember every single detail of her beauty, as if that alone could save me.
I remembered her lips. The bottom lip slightly exaggerated, full and plump. The way her perfect teeth dug into her bottom lip, making it lose the bright color, as if she was getting ready for me to sink into her. Anticipation in her beautiful eyes. The way her dark brown hair fell down her back so perfectly; the way her tan skin erupted in goosebumps every single time I was near her. The way it felt under my fingertips, tender and sweet and silky. I wanted to taste her. But she wasn’t there. I was completely and utterly alone.
“Help!” I cried out again, and this time, my voice wasn’t as quiet or broken.
My soul felt a magnetic pull back into my body, but I resisted it with all my might, preferring to watch from above. I was hallucinating, fucking seeing things that weren’t even there, and I hated myself for it. Hated that I was so damn vulnerable, that I was crumbling by myself, that I couldn’t even pick myself up from the couch and call for help. I was a fucking mess, and embarrassment flooded my body along with absolute, concrete shame because of what was happening.
You’re a man, Miles, I remembered the bitter voice saying. Act like one! Be better than your parents! Don’t succumb! BE BETTER!
Except I couldn’t, because this shit had been placed in my crib when I was a fucking kid, like a fairy making fun of the man I could have been, and punishing me instead, dumping every fucked-up thing it could think of on me as a baby. Maybe there had been a chance for me to turn out alright, but it was a long time ago, and just like everybody else, I knew now that I was doomed. It was the reason everyone else had given up on me, after all. I was destined to die alone.
I dragged myself off the couch, suddenly unable to stand the heat of the leather and the light above me. I was back in my body, and I regretted it the second I realized how useless that truly was.
I steadied my feet as well as I could and I talked to myself encouragingly as I tried to drag myself into my bedroom.
One step, two steps, three steps, stay in your body, keep your mind strong, keep the demons at bay. and just… Keep. Fucking. Moving.
I needed to get my meds, the tranquilizers I took just in case things got as bad as they were in that moment. I distinctly remembered the bright orange-tinted, translucent bottle of the horse-sized meds on my nightstand. I just needed to get there. The second I took the pill, I would feel alright again. I would be safe. I would be okay. Even if just for a little while.
But putting one foot in front of the other was a fucking ordeal. A task so ridiculously hard it felt like I was trying to climb Mount Everest. My arms and legs were shaking, and I was terrified of everything, every sound and tremble magnified until my head was left ringing and pounding in their wake.
Finally, I reached the threshold of my bedroom. I stumbled inside, the rumpled sheets reminding me of the one in her room, her body pressed close to mine. I realized with a huff how badly I needed her. How much I wanted her to be there with me. I was desperate for it, clinging to the idea of her, the thought of her lashes on her cheeks, every single one pronounced, dark and thick against her skin. That image ingrained itself in my mind until I could think of nothing else, obsessed with the idea of her, the girl the only thing keeping me from falling into the precipice I was standing in front of.
“Please help me,” I said.
But my legs refused to keep moving and I collapsed like a tree coming down, my limbs banging the floor. This was what I hated most about my condition, the bone-crippling anxiety and panic attacks that could happen at any minute. I’d felt this one coming, but sometimes they came completely out of the blue and made me feel like a perfectly capable man living in a body that just wouldn’t fucking work.
I sat on the floor with my back against the hardwood and forced myself to keep breathing, knowing that if I stopped I’d start to lose consciousness. It was all I could do, the only thing I could focus on. There was nothing else but the rise and fall of my chest, the swelling of my heart and the panicked gasps of air as I struggled to stay in my body yet again.
I wanted to scream, but no sound came out, reminding me of the nightmarish dreams I’d had as a child. I was afraid, so fucking afraid now, and all I wanted was for the girl whose name I couldn’t remember to come and help me.
In my mind, I convinced myself that it would all be alright as long as she reappeared, with her bright smile and bubblegum lips and her sparkling eyes. As long as she was around and looking out for me I would be perfectly alright. But she was gone, fucking gone, and I was on my own.
I couldn’t move, my body refusing to do what my mind was trying to tell it to. I saw my life flash before my eyes, feeling like I was going to meet my end right there, on the floor of my own bedroom. It felt like I was dying and even smelled like death as I raised my eyes and realized I’d left the small room open, the stench and the trash spilling out into the hallway.
Groaning, I tried to focus on something, any-fucking-thing to take my mind of the horrible tightness in my chest. But it wouldn’t work, and there was nothing left to do but wait for it to be over. I tried to remind myself that it would end, like these things usually did, in a couple of minutes. It didn’t help the way I felt though, like a fucking failure.
What kind of man couldn’t even go outside to help a woman out without collapsing back at home?
What kind of man was so afraid, such a fucking pussy, he couldn’t even handle an everyday activity for every other person?
What kind of fucking man was I, if I was a man at all?
The deep hatred I felt for myself burned through me like a vicious fire, but I couldn’t stop it. The flames spread, licking tentatively at my ankles before engulfing me in ash and smoke. I was a mess, a fucking mess, and Bebe didn’t deserve me.
Bebe.
Bebe.
I remembered her name… Her sweet, beautiful name that fit her so perfectly.
I felt tears in the corners of my eyes as I came to a realization.
The only thing for me to do was to get the fuck lost. Get as far away from her as possible before I fucked up her life in all the ways I’d fucked up my own. I needed to get away, needed to breathe. Needed to let her live her life so I could waste mine on bleach baths and throwaway sex.
I picked myself up with tremendous effort and walked to my closet. I got out a suitcase, one I’d bought years ago in the hopes that the purchase would encourage me to go on a vacation. Fat fucking chance of that happening.
One thing was still true though—Bebe would be better off without me. And for once, that suitcase would finally come in handy. I’d walk away from her, walk away from the mess I made her into.
Knowing I’d never forgive myself for it, I started packing. But a lifetime of hating myself was better than years of ruining Bebe’s life, until she finally realized just how miserable she was with me. She may not have known it yet, but she didn’t want me in her life. And I’d be the one responsible for cleansing her of my mess.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered to myself as I started packing. “I’m sorry, Bebe, I’m sorry for hurting you.”
My words renewed my energy and I packed with anger and vigor, hating myself every step of the way. Leaving her would break me completely, and I knew the moment I left the apartment I’d never be able to make a human connection again. Bebe had fucking ruined me, but I needed to get the hell away before I did the same to her.
I’d send someone for the rest of the stuff, but for now, I had enough. With trembling hands, I sent a text to Meyers, the PI, with instructions. I put my suitcase on the floor and filled a big glass with water, drinking it in long, shaky gulps.
It was time to say goodbye once and for all. And once she understood—once some time had passed—Bebe would know I’d made the right call. Leaving her alone was the only option that made sense, the only way she’d have peace in her own life.
It was time to leave. Time to walk out of her life.
Grabbing my suitcase, I turned around to walk out the door, only then noticing the figure standing in the room.
“Bebe,” I whispered, and she stared at me, her eyes blank and then filling with hurt as she watched me.
She took a step back, then another one.
“I’m sorry,” I admitted brokenly, but she merely shook her head.