Kinsley

Two days before I'm set to board a flight to Winnipeg, I'm in the laundry room washing my bedding. It's in the basement of my residential building. I venture here at least once a week.

Any person would find hanging out in a public laundromat boring. I like it, though. Aside from the campus library, the laundromat is one of the quieter places. The whirring of the machines is soft, and the space is warm. Much warmer than my dorm room. Tristan likes to keep it cool.

We had our first row over the temperature, a week or two after she broke Cole's heart. Tristan prefers keeping the room cold and piling up on the blankets. I prefer the room to be above average. After our petty argument, we came to an agreement. The room is warmer than before. However, I still can't warm up. I'm always wrapped in a thick blanket and wearing fuzzy socks. Which is why I love coming here. The heat combined with the smell of laundry detergent is heaven.

Speaking of Cole... I've been meaning to ask how he's doing. Finding him is difficult, though. With finals, I've had no time for outings or side conversations.

After loading my sopping wet bedding into the dryer. I sit down on one of the beanbag chairs. There's an assortment of them in the far corner, next to a mini-fridge that contains small water bottles.

Tonight is a beautiful night. I'm the only one down here, giving me private space to read. It's a young adult fantasy novel.

Before the accident, I never partook in reading young adult novels. Ones that were based on made-up worlds and concepts seemed improper. Now, they're my source of oxygen. Books that have no ties to reality are my drug. They make me forget everything. Books are the beholders of pure magic. They have the power to pull you into another world. Books paint pictures in your mind. They are the art of escapism.

I'm halfway through chapter eleven when I hear footsteps echoing down the concrete stairs.

I glance over my shoulder. There's a shadow on the wall. My stomach muscles clench. People who saunter into the laundry room aren't problematic. This is a public place. I expect them. However, I do mind when they try to talk to me while I'm reading a book. I hope this person is an introvert.

I turn back to my paperback book, forcing my mind back into reading mode. Not paying attention to people repels them.

My intuitive actions work.

Until I hear glass shatter across the floor.

The book slips from my hands as the chilling noise echoes in my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my ears with my hands.

Nononono this can't happen right now.

Panic attacks are another side effect of PTSD. They've only gotten worse over the years. Grandma says it's because I haven't completely dealt with everything. I disagree. I've accepted the loss and grieved over it.

These panic attacks feel like a permanent punishment for being the only survivor. The world's way of making sure I don't forget what happened.

"Kinsley?" a familiar voice asks. I feel a warm hand press against my cheek. "Love, are you okay?"

I glance up into a pair of green eyes as I hyperventilate. As fear consumes me from the inside out. Cold sweat snakes its way down my temple as I attempt to regain control. The thing with panic attacks, though, is that it's nearly impossible to gain control. Fear and anxiety are excruciatingly stubborn.

For me, at least.

Thankfully, this panic attack doesn't last long. It's one of the shorter ones I've experienced. My body doesn't plummet into panic mode because I can't get enough air. I don't pass out.

In a contradictory manner, reality eases back into my mind. It's something I want to escape regularly, but this time I welcome it.

When I'm able to breathe without feeling strain in my chest, I realize Cole is kneeling in front of me. I blink, trying to prevent the tears that are pricking the corners of my eyes. It's no use. They streak my face. Before I know it, I'm sobbing.

What Cole does next is something I haven't experienced from people other than my grandparents. Instead of kneeling there and watching me sob, he pulls me into his arms, resting a hand on the back of my head.

"It's okay, Kinsley," he whispers. "I hope this is okay. Me hugging you."

I nod, crying harder.

His words and actions make me sob harder. He doesn't know. He doesn't know why I'm crying, yet he's trying his best to comfort me. It's more than any of my extended family members have ever done. It's more than I've done for myself.

Although I hate to admit to needing someone, to wanting a shoulder to cry on, I enjoy Cole's presence. With him, I don't feel alone.

Time passes, but Cole doesn't leave me. Not until I've stopped crying and all that's left is snot and red, puffy eyes.

"Blimey. I know you're not the type of girl who enjoys talking, but that was a nasty panic attack if I say so myself," Cole says, wiping my cheekbone with his thumb. "What happened?"

I wipe at the snot dripping from my nose with the sleeve of my sweater. "You scared me," I reply.

Cole gives me a look, and steps back, giving me space. "That's a load of rubbish, love," he snorts, "and don't deny it. Panic attacks like that don't result from being surprised by the sound of glass shattering."

Push him away, my mind says.

Tell him, my bleeding heart argues.

Exhausted, I collapse against the beanbag chair and sigh. I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is another aspect of the trauma I hate. Uncertainty is split down the middle. Half of me wants to tell Cole, half of me doesn't.

In all honesty, I shouldn't. Cole and I don't see each other often. Noel is our buffer—he's always there. We have no real friendship. No logical reason supports telling Cole.

Yet his actions are getting to me.

People stare at me like a deer caught in the headlights when I'm a victim of panic attacks. But Cole... I glance up into his worried green eyes. He's acting like someone I would have called a friend in the past.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss having a friend.

I take a deep breath.

"Two years ago," I start, my voice shaking. Tears prick my eyes again. My nose burns. "I was in a car accident that killed my parents, sister, best friend, and boyfriend. I'm the only one who survived. The sound of the glass shattering reminded me of the windshield spider webbing because of the impact of the vehicle that hit us, okay?"

Cole stares at me, and for one moment, I think he will leave.

But he doesn't.

He rubs his jaw. "I'm so sorry, Kinsley. I didn't know."

"Don't apologize," I mutter in defeat. I prefer to keep my life a secret, but I'm always weak after a panic attack. The strength I require in order to keep up my walls is null right now. "I purposely made it so no one knew."

He blinks. "Why? Why not talk about it?"

I stand up and pace the room. "I came here to escape my past," I say. "I will never forget what happened or the people I lost. That's not what I mean. What I mean is I came to escape the pitying looks and sorrowful atmosphere. They all would have wanted me to take advantage of my scholarship, so I made a vow that I would complete it and become a vet in honour of them."

Every word I say is the truth. I will never forget them. How can I when all I feel is guilt? After two years, which were a mixture of rehab, denial, grieving, and accepting, I'm still saturated with guilt. My survival is unfair. How could the world be so cruel? What makes me more important than them?

I choke back a sob.

I shouldn't be alive.

Cole gets to his feet, strands of black hair tangling with his lashes. I make the mistake of looking up. His eyes are full of pity. His gaze makes me feel like a cracked teacup. I'll continue to work but never be whole again.

"I can't imagine..." he trails off. "Christ, Kinsley. I'm sorry."

I glance at Cole, hiding my shaky hands. The rest of my story spills from my lips.

"I tried to commit suicide after I was discharged from the hospital. I'd lost my family, best friend, and boyfriend. The injuries I suffered from were excruciating. My knee was messed up. I needed medication to keep the pain under control..."

Glancing down, I feel my cheeks heat. Shame burns in my chest.

"I took the entire bottle," I whisper, mortified with myself. "When I woke up, the doctor told me they had pumped my stomach. He said I was lucky my grandpa found me when he did. Otherwise, I'd be dead. Sometimes, I still wish Grandpa hadn't found me. Dying would've erased my pain. Thinking about Grandpa and Grandma pulls me back."

Cole stares at me, his face neutral. His lips are pressed in a flat line as he absorbs my confession.

"I'm ashamed of it," I whisper.

His face falls. "Love... You shouldn't be ashamed of it. I can't imagine the pain you felt."

Shame burns hotter in my chest. "Trauma changes you, Cole. I know I'm careless and I'm selfish. Helpless. Pushing people away is my solution. It prevents connections from being formed. One moment can change anything and everything."

With pleading eyes, I glance at him. "Guarding myself is the only way. Even if I have to be rude. It makes them not like me. I'd rather be hated than risk losing more people."

Cole's green eyes fill with tears.

"You can't tell anyone," I continue. "Promise me you'll keep this a secret. I won't be able to endure university if people know."

He wipes his tears away before reaching out and taking my hand. He squeezes it. "Kinsley, I won't tell anyone. I promise."

"Not even Noel?" I challenge.

Cole shakes his head. "Sometimes, keeping secrets from a friend is mandatory. This is one of those moments."

His words hang in the air. If they hold a deeper meaning, I don't ask. My mental strength is exhausted. Depleted. "Thanks, Cole."

Cole hesitates, glancing at me. There's a line of concern between his brows. "Didn't it feel good, discussing it?"

Some weight has chipped away from my chest. "Yes," I admit, my voice small.

"Are you comfortable with me hugging you?" Cole asks.

Until Cole's earlier hug, Aaron was the last non-family member man to hug me. Just before he died. His last hug was in the vehicle. A chill reverberates down my spine, but I shove it away.

I nod.

Cole hesitates before pulling me into another hug.

My first reaction is to push him away. The muscles in my shoulders tense. Panic seizes my nervous system. This is wrong. Becoming close with someone provides a connection. A connection is why my heart is broken.

But Cole's embrace breaks down my walls. The walls I've meticulously built around me crumble. I feel raw and exposed as Cole hugs me, his body warm.

"For what it's worth, Kinsley, I think you're extraordinarily brave and strong for being able to do this. For being able to continue on with your life after fighting such a difficult, heartbreaking war."

I want to argue with him.

On the outside, I have an indestructible poker face. One that took years to construct. It only implies that I'm strong. When, really, I'm broken. I'm a hollow shell that used to have a bright life. Instead of happiness, all I feel is despair and guilt. Instead of light, all I feel is darkness.

I'm stuck in a void.

A void I don't think I'll ever be able to escape.

But although I can't escape, I can still pretend. I am a master at pretending.

With my best fake smile, I nod at Cole, stepping back. "Thanks. That means a lot."

If Cole picks out the hollowness in my tone, he doesn't show it. He doesn't know his words mean nothing.

Instead, he smiles at me. A lesser amount of sadness is present. He squeezes my hand again.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he says. "When I set my laundry basket on top of the dryer, I knocked over one of those lint jars. It shattered."

The guilt consumes me again, clawing at the lining of my stomach. Here Cole is, trying to be nice and supportive, and I'm lying to him.

I mentally sigh.

I'm weak and broken. I'm a liar.

Leaning down, I pick up my novel. All while wishing a magical portal would appear and suck me into a different world. One where I could be the brave, strong heroine that overcomes her fears and defeats the villain.

But I know it's impossible.

In reality, I am Kinsley Hastings.

How do you defeat the villain when the villain is you?