Logan wasn’t really sure why he was so scared. His father had come into his room, that much was true. But William hadn’t laid a single finger on him. He hadn’t even so much as grabbed his arm or patted his head. It had been concerning at first, to say the least.
And then the talking started.
William was a politician. He had the ability to sway people with his words, to make them sound honest and true. He could also describe things—future projects he would vouch for, usually—quite vividly and create a near-perfect image in the listener’s mind.
Today, William decided to use that to his advantage. He described the ways he was going to hurt Logan in horribly graphic statements.
Logan hadn’t had a problem with this until William had left. His thoughts had drifted back to his father’s words and his brain had started to think.
His father was going to hurt him until he would rather be dead than alive. His father was going to make him suffer for attempting to escape. His father would kill him before he made it out of his home.
The last thought had remained on his mind for a few minutes. He turned it over in his head, examining it thoroughly. Those few minutes were what it took for the idea to settle in. He was going to die. He would never make it out, never live in a home that he felt safe in. He would never again feel safe, period.
A few tears escaped his eyes and a silent sob wracked through his body. It was followed by multiple repeats of the action until his body told him he needed air. Logan tried to breathe in, yet all that came out was another sob. His body wouldn’t allow enough air to enter his lungs before it was forced out again as he cried. He tried again, harder this time, and failed yet again. He brought a shaky hand to his face—when had they started shaking? Logan didn’t know—and pushed back his hair, leaving his hand tangled in it. It clenched and unclenched around the strands, a flash of light pain shooting across his head each time he tugged too hard.
His mind vaguely registered that he was having a panic attack. Minutes passed, but they felt like hours. Logan still failed to draw in any oxygen. A tingling feeling had made itself present in his hands as they fisted bits of his hair, both now tangled between the strands. His heart was beating fast—too fast—as his thoughts consumed him. On occasion, a short wave of nausea would crash over him. His palms were sweating and he was beginning to feel lightheaded.
He tried to focus on something, anything that would distract him or calm him down. The sheets on his bed were slightly uneven. The stack of paper on his desk was untidy. His closet door was cracked. He repeated those things over and over in his mind, attempting to drive out his other thoughts.
Eventually, it started to work. He took in a few gasping breaths and this time, only part of the air in his lungs was forced back through his throat. The shaking of his body slowed to a gradual stop. The tingling in his hands receded into nothingness. His heartbeat slowed to a normal pace.
Logan was unsure how much time had passed. It had felt like hours, yet it likely hadn’t even been one. He checked the time. He was lucky he didn’t miss dinner, yet it was still narrowly close. There was still time to screw this up.
Standing on shaky legs, he stumbled down to the dining room.
Comments (1)
See all