I wanted to tell her everything—every terrible detail of what had just happened—but the words died in my throat. Fear spread through me like poison.
Would she believe me?
Or worse… would she find me disgusting?
A girl who almost got violated by her own guardian—who would ever look at me the same again? I could barely stand to look at myself. So why would anyone else?
No… it was better to stay silent.
"I—Ma'am, please help me," I whispered instead, forcing the lie through trembling lips.
Mrs. Whales guided me gently into the living room, her eyes filled with concern but not with judgment—something I didn't even realize I was searching for. "Sit down, dear," she said softly. "Take a deep breath and try to compose yourself. I'll get you a glass of water."
Water.
The same thing that started it all.
I watched as she walked to the kitchen, my hands clenched tightly on my knees. My body still trembled uncontrollably. When she returned, I accepted the glass with shaking fingers and drank greedily, desperate to drown the fire in my throat.
But the more I drank, the harder I shook. The cold water hit my empty stomach like ice, and I started coughing violently. Maybe I choked. Maybe I didn't. Everything blurred together until all I could feel was Mrs. Whales' hand gently patting my back.
"Easy now, sweetheart. Breathe. It's okay."
Her voice was calm, steady—everything I wasn't. And that made it worse.
I felt embarrassed. Exposed. Like a fragile thing barely holding itself together. Her small act of kindness—the warmth of her hand, the concern in her tone—broke something inside me that I had spent years trying to build.
It made me miss them.
My parents.
Even with all their flaws, their drugs, their chaos—part of me still wanted them there. To hug me. To tell me it wasn't my fault.
But they weren't here. They'd left me to survive this cruel world alone.
So I did what I always did.
I killed the emotion.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, forced the tears back, and locked every feeling deep inside where no one could reach it.
Because that's what survivors do.
We break quietly—and keep living anyway.
Mrs. Lisa took the glass from my hand after I finally calmed down—or at least, that's what I wanted her to believe. The truth was, I was barely holding it together. But I hid it well, just like I always did.
She sat opposite me, her kind eyes searching mine. "You can talk to me now, Vivian," she said gently. "Tell me what happened."
I hesitated, then spoke before I could change my mind.
"My life… it's falling apart. Please, help me, Mrs. Lisa." My voice trembled. "Someone killed my uncle in our house. I have no one else to turn to."
The words came out in a rush, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened, my throat felt like it was closing, and my hands began to shake uncontrollably.
Seeing me panic, Mrs. Lisa hurried toward me again. Her voice was steady but calm. "Vivian, you're having a panic attack," she said softly. "It's okay. Just follow my voice. Breathe in… breathe out."
I tried.
God, I tried.
Her voice floated gently in the air—slow, patient, soothing.
"Breathe in… breathe out…"
Each breath felt like a battle. My heart was racing, my lungs were burning, and my body was trembling as if something invisible was squeezing the life out of me.
So this was what people in books called a panic attack.
It felt nothing like the stories.
It felt worse.
It felt like drowning in open air, like something was cutting off my oxygen, trapping me between the urge to scream and the need to disappear.