Her eyes shot around the ladies' lounge, skipping over everything, bouncing off all the mirrors. Frantically she tried to… what was she doing? Where could she… go—bedroom, upstairs… She had to… oh, God… she couldn't breathe. She was going to die here, right here and now, from her throat closing up tight as a fist.

Havers… her brother… she needed to reach him. He was a doctor… He would come and help her—but his birthday would be ruined. Ruined… because of her. Everything ruined because of her… It was all her fault… everything. All the disgrace she bore was her fault… Thank God her parents had been dead for centuries and hadn't seen her for what… she was…

Going to throw up. She was definitely going to throw up.

Hands shaking, legs like pudding, she lurched into one of the bathrooms and locked herself inside. On the way to the toilet, she fumbled with the sink, turning the water on to drown out her rasping breath in case someone came in. Then she fell to her knees and bent over the porcelain bowl.

She gagged and wretched, her throat working through the dry heaves, nothing coming up but air. Sweat broke out on her forehead and under her armpits and between her breasts. Head spinning, mouth gaping, she struggled for breath as thoughts of dying and having no one to help her, of ruining her brother's party, of being an abhorred object swarmed like bees… bees in her head, buzzing, stinging… causing the death… thoughts like bees…

Marissa started to cry, not because she thought she was going to die but because she knew she wasn't.

God, the panic attacks had been brutal these last few months, her anxiety a stalker with no solid form, whose persistence knew no exhaustion. And every time she had a meltdown, the experience was a fresh and horrible revelation.