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“Popcorn,” I reply in a voice so quiet that I’m pretty confident only dogs could hear it.
“Lady, I can't hear you.” He rolls his eyes at me, indicating that I’m stupid for speaking like a mouse. Well, I am aware that I did, but I can’t actually help it.
I clear my throat, which is now as dry as a parched desert. “Sweet popcorn, please.”
He turns away from me and starts to fill a tub. I dig into my bag, pull out my wallet, and retrieve a twenty-dollar bill. I don’t tend to go out a lot, so I don’t have a lot of small change.
The clerk turns back to me and looks down the end of his nose at the twenty-dollar bill.
“Got anything smaller?”
I shake my head and squeak, “Sorry.”
“Typical.” He opens the till and shuffles through the change. “Hey, Rob,” he calls out to a man over the other side of the foyer. “I need some change. She’s only got a twenty to pay for a small popcorn.”
Everyone in the place turns and looks at me, oh no. This can’t be happening. Why did I listen to my stomach? A couple look at me and whisper together. They’re talking about me; I’m sure of it. They probably know who I am, and what happened to me. They can see it. They know how dirty and damaged I am. My hands start to shake, and I drop my wallet on the floor. The small bits of loose change that I do have tumble out, along with my cards and a tampon, which I keep there for emergencies.
“Jesus.” The clerk rolls his eyes at me, and I bend down to hurriedly scoop everything up. A gentleman, who’s about forty, comes over and starts to help. His hand accidentally brushes mine when we both reach for the same card.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap and pull my hand into my chest. I’m shivering.
“I’m sorry,”—he holds his hands up in a show of surrender— “I’m just trying to help.”
“Please, don’t. I’m fine.” I stutter and try to get to my feet, but my legs are already like jelly. I use the popcorn counter to pull myself up. My breathing is ragged, and my skin feels clammy all over my body.
“Are you ok?” the gentleman asks and reaches out to me. The sensible part of my brain tells me this is genuine concern, but the other part, which is much bigger, screams at me to panic.
“Don’t touch me,” I shout this time and flatten myself against the counter.
I feel a tap from behind on my shoulder. It’s the popcorn seller.
“Hey, you want this or not?” He holds the popcorn out to me with my change. I want to reach across, grab it, and run out of the theater, but my body is shutting down. I’m taking ragged breaths trying to get air into my lungs. My head is spinning, and I’m trying to ground myself but can’t seem to even get my mouth to say the word ‘five’.
“Hey lady, you ok?” The spotty boy looks at me like I’m mad. I think, maybe, I am.
“Can’t...Can’t…” I gasp in between labored breaths, “Breathe.”
“Shit!” he exclaims. “Rob, she’s having a heart attack.”
It’s the last thing I hear before my world goes black.
“Jaz, Jazzy.” A male voice enters my head, and I instantly panic as I start to regain consciousness. The machines that are around me start beeping rapidly, and it’s then I realize I’m in the hospital. “It’s okay.” A male voice comforts me, and I recognize that it’s my brother, Aladdin—yes, my mother was crazy about the Disney movie. Thankfully, my brother uses the name Al. I open my eyes to see him, sitting next to me in a plastic hospital chair. His jet-black hair is shaved close to his head, and tattoos cover his muscular arms. He wears a cut emblazoned with the word ‘Prospect’ and the logo of the motorcycle club I know he belongs to, ‘Jade riders’, or something like that.
“What happened?” I ask with a gravelly throat.
“Do you remember anything?” he replies and hands me a glass of water with a straw to sip from.
“I was at the movie theater, and I fainted.” I deliberately leave out the part about my anxiety being the reason for it. My brother has always been a matter of fact person and doesn’t understand why I’m a recluse.
“They thought you were having a heart attack because your heartbeat was erratic. You fainted, and they called me as your next of kin. Thankfully, it wasn’t a heart attack. They aren’t sure what it was. A couple of the doctors will want to talk to you now you're awake.”
“It was probably the heat.” I try to offer a reason. “I remember it being boiling.” It’s not exactly a lie. I was sweating, so it seemed hot. They don’t have to know it’s because I was terrified of everything and everybody around me.
“Maybe.” He narrows his eyes at me. “They said you had a card in your wallet saying you were on anti-anxiety tablets. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, that.” I lie again, “It’s old. I stopped them a while back. I forgot to take the card out.”
“Ok.” I’m not sure if he believes me or not, from his tone. “I’ll go get a doctor. He can examine you, and then we can get you home.”
