I sat in the corner of my bedroom nook, comfortably smashed into a violet bean bag chair as I flicked a screen over and over again, pouring over as much data as I could about the “ZeRoSeRuM” treatment as I possibly could. Depending on where I read the info, it either sounded like the panacea to end all panaceas, a deathtrap, or a complete and utter hoax. Nevertheless, I persisted, doing my due diligence as much as possible.
Even the company behind the serum itself, Logicon Industries, was replete with all sorts of data and content, which made my research-happy self tingle with self-satisfaction. The sheer amount of testing they had done with the product, which looked as though it spanned decades, was what alarmed me a little, however.
“How has something like this flew under the radar for so long?” I pondered aloud to the empty walls in my room. The tiny, cramped space seemed to spit the words “so long” back out at me, and I frowned, catching my reflection in the iPad as I did so.
The inability to ever find a steady mate had left the entire studio a silent, stoic soldier to my inane chatter, and I was always curious if any of the tenants below me over the years ever got to revel in the insanity that was me listing off healthcare routines or engaging in awkward phone sex with “boyfriends” from other countries that always turned out to be in it for my “sexy voice” instead of my “well, you have a good posture” body that never seemed to garner a whole hell of a lot of comments.
I placed the iPad on top of my posture acceptable tits, and let out a deep sigh as the anxiety and nerves of the day started to creep back into my psyche, like a child that had done something wrong and was trying to sneak back into bed with me. I knew that anxiety was only going to fuck me up again, yet I always let it in, protecting it by keeping myself isolated and immune to danger from anyone nearby.
My hands began to make a familiar motion, my thumb brushing against my pointer and middle fingers back and forth in a quick, circular rhythm, while my head began to bob up and down as if I was riding in a wagon on a gravel road. I closed my eyes, something one of the many therapists over the years had taught me to do during an attack, and attempted to just focus on the blue and black dots crossing over my “closed” plane of vision. The colors and patterns continued to swirl as my chest began to pulse, which always brought with it a snap sense that this was the attack that would cause me to finally have a heart attack and croak.
I shut my eyes so hard, that I could make out the appearance of a white corona of light at the center of my “vision” that had me even more terrified that I was before.
Shit, am I dying?
Same damn question, every time something remotely scary happened to me. The question of the day/hour/month/year, without fail, and the question that left me relatively crippled to function in society without a giant asterisk affixed to my tiny forehead.
I opened my eyes after a minute or two of vision surfing, and let them dart around the studio, looking for all sorts of unseen danger that could be lurking about. As usual, after a few seconds of searching, nothing out of the ordinary could be seen, aside from my calico cat, named Calico because of a sheer lack of creativity at the time of purchase, cocking her head at me from her cat tree with a knowing look of “…the fuck are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I said to Calico, answering her unspoken question.
“I don’t fuckin’ know.”
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