You’re rubbing your fingers down your face. Your fingertips feel like they’re cleaving rifts into your face, river channels for the tears and the sweat to run down. You are shaking.

“Marigold?” Dr. Process’ voice echoes through the room, drilling its way into your skull. “Marigold? Marigold? Marigold?” You can’t tell if he’s repeating himself or if the sound is pinging around in your head like a pinball. Does it matter?

“Oh God,” you whisper. You are convinced that your feet are 12 feet away from your face. You reach down to touch your shoe, just to confirm it’s still even attached to you, and you watch your hand unravel like a spider climbing down its web. Pain erupts through your joints. You can trace the path from your brain into your index finger, every muscle movement along the way.

“Veilleux? What’s wrong?” You jump and startle when you realize he is looking at you. With his big, fucking, stupid eyes. Is that right? You remember that his eyes aren’t normally that big, or wet looking. “Oh gosh, here, let me help…”

“No,” you say, but your throat grinds against itself and you sound way angrier than you intended. “Sorry.”

Wave of pain. Something happens.