transitioning | ch. 60 (pt. 2)

Instructions

previous part: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1318026728/ tristan pov cw mentions of abuse + panic attacks text below “You’re responding now… are you feeling a bit better?” The voice– It’s Mr.s. Woods, of course– asks. Better? I guess. In comparison to before I got the ice pack. “Do you know why you’re feeling like this?” The nurse asks. “I think you’re having a panic attack– do you know what that is?” I nod weakly. That makes sense. Why I couldn’t breathe. Why I couldn’t move or think properly. “Can you tell me what happened? If you feel comfortable, of course?” I think back. How did this all start in the first place? Right. Mr. Morrison was yelling at me. Which heavily reminded me of my mother. Very much so. Too much. But how do I explain that? “Someone was yelling at me…” I start cautiously. “Um… it scared me..” I swallow, squeezing my eyes shut. “Are you scared of yelling?” Mrs. Woods asks. I nod weakly. “Because of… um….” How do I tell her? I tug on my hair, thinking hard. I trust her. It’ll be okay, right? “My… my parents… yell at me sometimes..” Sometimes? Understatement of the century… Mrs. Woods’ gaze softens. “Oh?” She vocalizes. “When do they yell at you?” I chew on my lip anxiously. The ice pack is melting rapidly. Water drips onto my shoes. “Just when they’re angry.” Which is a lot. I don’t tell her that. “Do you do something to make them angry?” My jaw tightens. Mrs. Woods looks serious now. “Not really, n-no…” I admit. It’s true. Unless you count my existence as a reason for anger. “Do they ever… harm you..?” She tries. My body tenses up. “N-no,” I answer, almost too quickly. I can’t look at her face. She knows. She definitely knows. Oh god. My chest heaves. The air is leaving my lungs too quickly. She leans forward in her chair to gently touch my hand. “It’s okay,” She promises. “You’re safe.” I force myself to take a deep breath. It’s fine.. She’s right– I’m okay. I’m safe right now. “Thank you for telling me, Tristan,” Mrs. Woods says.” I nod, breathing in and out slowly. “You’re… you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” “Do you think I should?” She asks. Yikes. “I-i mean– I don’t– I just–” “Tristan. It’s okay. I don’t have to tell anyone anything unless you want me to, or if someone’s life is in immediate danger. Are either of those things true?” I shake my head, watching the condensation from the ice pack drip to the ground. “Okay,” She says simply. “How did I get here..?” I ask. Mrs. Woods gestures outside. My vision is clear enough now to see more than a couple feet in front of me, and I see Kaden pacing back and forth outside the window– /him/? “Kaden brought you. I’m not sure why he didn’t come in for long after he got you here, though.” I stare at my shoes, barely resisting the urge to scratch at my hand. “I think I know why…” I mumble. Nurse Woods frowns. “Did something happen?” She asks. I give in, digging my nails into my skin. “I– I did something I shouldn’t have… and now he’s mad at me…” I confess. “Really mad… He won’t talk to me– I can’t believe he’s the one that brought me here…” Mrs. Woods hums. “Have you tried talking to him about it? And apologizing? God, why does everyone say the same thing?? “That’s the problem…” I groan. “I tried– I really did. But I couldn’t say anything– I froze up. no words would come out..” She leans back in her chair, arms crossed in thought. “The problem is that you’re having trouble expressing your thoughts verbally, yes?” She asks. I nod. “Why don’t you try writing down what you have to say? Give it to him in a letter and let him read it, instead of trying to articulate everything on the spot.” My eyes widen. I stop scratching. That’s perfect– that’s actually perfect!! She’s so right– writing down everything would be /so/ much better. I feel a smile forming on my lips. “Thank you,” I tell Mrs. Woods. “I’m gonna do that.” She smiles back at me. “Good. Are you feeling okay to head to class soon? I can write you a note.” I inhale deeply, nodding. “Thank you so much,” I say again, standing up from my seat. She notices the red patch on my hand. “Ah. Let me take care of that before you go, Tristan,” she offers, getting up to grab some supplies. She pours some sort of clear liquid onto a cotton ball, reaching for my hand and dabbing at the wound. I wince a bit. It stings. “Sorry,” she apologizes. I zone out as she continues dressing the scratches, thinking about what I would write. I need to tell him that I’m sorry for not answering him when he was trying to talk to me. Tell him that I miss him. And maybe… Maybe I’ll tell him that I like him.