Pray for Silence

The panic attack came out of nowhere. One moment he was putting the pedal to the metal, concentrating on his driving, on making time, on reaching Kate. The next moment, it was as if a giant hand reached into his chest and squeezed all the oxygen from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. His brain couldn’t form a single coherent thought. The only thing he could discern was the grip of a fear so primal he honestly believed it might kill him.

 

Gasping for breath, Tomasetti backed off the accelerator. He gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles ache. The Tahoe slowed. He tried to look for a rest area or exit, but there was nothing on this particular stretch of road, so he pulled into the bar ditch. The truck bumped over something, but Tomasetti was too far gone to discern what it was. He could hear himself gasping now. The sounds tearing from his throat reminded him of a wild animal in the throes of death. The hand squeezed his chest, twisted his lungs into knots. He couldn’t draw a breath. His face went numb. Darkness encroached on his peripheral vision. He was going to pass out. Pain streaked up the center of his chest.

 

“Fuck,” he choked out. “Fuck!”

 

Shoving open the door, Tomasetti stumbled from the truck. Vaguely, he was aware insects flying in the headlights. The flicker of lightning on the horizon. Terror like he’d never felt before turning him inside out.

 

A few feet from the truck, he went to his knees. He couldn’t believe the sounds coming from his mouth. Whimpers. Choking gasps. He fell forward, his hands plunging into wet grass. Mud squeezed between his fingers. Soaked into his slacks at his knees. Panic was like some small, clawed animal trapped inside him, tearing at his guts, trying to claw its way out for air.

 

Tomasetti didn’t try to get up. It took every bit of effort he possessed to draw a breath. But his chest was too tight. Someone drawing a rope ever tighter, cutting off his oxygen.

 

His nose, lips and fingers tingled. He could hear his breaths rushing in and out, like a hacksaw cutting through wood. A hard knot of nausea rose in his gut. He opened his mouth, tried to suck in air. A string of drool hung from his lips. His stomach clenched. He tasted bile at the back of his throat. Gagging, he spit, threw up on the grass. Inhaled puke and gagged again. He didn’t care.

 

Intellectually, Tomasetti knew what was happening. He knew this was a panic attack. He knew he wasn’t going to die. That he should breathe deeply, count backward from one hundred, and tell himself it would only last for three minutes if he calmed himself down. None of that knowledge helped.

 

The next thing he knew his cheek was pressed against the cold, wet ground. He had mud in his hair. Dirt in his mouth. The rank aftertaste of vomit. He was lying on his stomach in the bar ditch in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the fucking night. He’d blacked out. . . .

 

Cursing, Tomasetti slowly got to his feet. His nerves jittered beneath his skin. The muscles in his legs twitched. Fatigue was a black hole he was about to fall into. The fact that he’d survived gave him the strength to bend and pick up his keys.

 

He’d pulled over in a forested area south of Killbuck. The chorus of frogs and crickets was inordinately loud on the deserted stretch of road. At some point, it had begun to rain. Not a storm, but he could smell it coming. He could hear thunder, see the lightning above the treetops ahead.

 

Ten feet away, the Tahoe sat at a cockeyed angle in the bar ditch. It looked wrecked out, but it wasn’t. Tomasetti hoped the damn thing wasn’t stuck. He looked down at his clothes, wondering how he was going to explain the mud. He’d helped a motorist who had been stuck. He’d hit a deer and fallen when he’d gotten out to check the vehicle. On second thought, fuck it. He didn’t have to explain. All he wanted was to get to Painters Mill. To Kate.

 

Opening the door, he slid behind the wheel and backed onto the pavement. The township road would take him to Clark, which was about twelve miles away. Painters Mill was another five. With a little luck, he’d be at the Zook farm in fifteen minutes.

 

 

 

I dream of death. Blackness is all around me. Inside me. Like hot tar that covers and burns and smothers. I fight for air, but I can’t breathe.

 

Pain rattles me awake. My chest heaves, some primal instinct telling my body to get air into my oxygen-starved lungs. Every breath is an agony, and I choke out animal sounds. Confusion is a cotton ball inside my head, but I’m aware enough to know that my ribs are broken. Maybe my spine. Shit.

 

I open my eyes to darkness, but I can see the kitchen window. The occasional flash of lightning. I’m lying on the floor on my back with my arms above my head. I glance down at my chest. The sight of blood shocks me because I know it’s mine. Black, wet stains on my dress, on my arms and legs. Drops and smears on the floor around me. I’m bleeding, but I don’t know where it’s coming from.