Panic Attack

The sun is bright behind the glass window and I have to crinkle my eyes against its glare. It's beautiful, of course, but like most beautiful things, you may not look for long - or look at all - because it'll hurt you. And I've had enough of being hurt for a while.

The car makes the usual groaning noises as it labors to move us in the right direction. Mom and Dad sit in the front, but they don't look at each other or at me. They're staring out the windowshield, and Mom is crinkling her eyes against the sun's bright rays. Some stray ray hits Dad's glasses and the reflection blinds me again. I look away.

I'm sitting in the back, with my feet close together and my hands locked into tight fists by my sides. I know that those fists can't really hurt anyone, even if I had wanted them to. I'm not that strong.

A bag with most of my possesions is on the seat behind me, where my sister should have been. If I had a sister, that is. Mom lost the baby before we knew if we would call it "Jacob" or "Jane". But I'm sure it would have been a girl, either way. I would have braided her hair, and she would have gotten all my old dolls. She would have had Mom's orange hair and Dad's honey colored eyes. And my nose. And Grandma's ears, but that's not really a compliment. She would have been perfect. But Mom lost the baby. I hate the way it sounds, like it's something Mom did on purpose, or caused by neglegance. Dad treats Mom like she did. Like she really did lose little Jane at the mall. At the beginning I half expected him to print flyers of "missing child" and hang them up everywhere, with Jane's little face drawn on them, portraying his eyes and Mom's hair and my nose. Maybe Grandma's ears as well, seeing as they would pop out. Maybe someone would recognize her. Probably not.

We're passing a lot of buildings right now, and they're hiding the sun. It feels like the air is heavy all of a sudden. Lots of buildings mean we're in the city. The city means we're closer. A tight fist of stress curls in the pit of my stomach. Closer.

Mom and Dad are still not talking to me, though I do see them glancing at each other. The gaze is loaded with emotions and speculations and questions. Mom is softer. She looks away first, fixing her eyes on the road, the set of her mouth showing her feelings. I can almost trick myself into believing that it's just like old times. Like how it all used to be. Like the the silence isn't suffocating or penetrating or heavy, but peaceful and calm. But the sun, the set of Mom's mouth, the passing buildings... And all of a sudden I can't breathe. I can't breathe at all.

And I'm scared.

That's what's wrong with me, I guess. At least, that's what Mom and Dad said is wrong with me, and that's why we're going to fix it. Or, well, I am. The hospital will be nice. I can't keep being locked up like that. I need to be around other children. I can't scream, or hurt myself anymore. Everyone gets worried about living, about life. I'm taking it to an extreme.

I'm scared of being hurt... I notice the edges of my vision shimmering and almost smile. Too late.

I think the opening to this story is great. The first line is particularly vivid, and it serves as a great jumping off point for the reader to delve into your story. I love how you then move effortlessly into the second paragraph.

However, the story begins to go wrong here:

A bag with most of my possesions is on the seat behind me, where my sister should have been. If I had a sister, that is. Mom lost the baby before we knew if we would call it "Jacob" or "Jane". But I'm sure it would have been a girl, either way.

Whenever you start using phrases like "should have been" and "that is," it pulls the reader out of the dream you're creating. In fact, it felt very odd to go from reading the excellent beginning to the lines above. I don't mean to say the lines above were bad by any means, but they aren't as well-crafted.

The problem lies in the telling rather than the showing. The part I quoted is where your story should have a painful emotional punch, but it comes off feeling somewhat empty. The speaker just seems totally detached as she resorts to simply describing things as-is.

When you're going for emotion, it's best to leave as few details as possible. The reader will then supplement the missing details with their own experiences, which in turn strengthens the emotional effect. Take this six word story (allegedly) written by Ernest Hemingway:
"For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn."

Do you feel the emotional punch despite almost no details whatsoever?

Your story, though, picks back up here:

Mom and Dad are still not talking to me, though I do see them glancing at each other. The gaze is loaded with emotions and speculations and questions. Mom is softer.

It's still a little too descriptive in places, but I love that line "Mom is softer." There are so many different ways to interpret it, and as a result you convey the emotional complexity raging within her in just three words.

And I think you end this story perfectly:

I notice the edges of my vision shimmering and almost smile. Too late.

Wow. So, I quite like this. I was expecting something totally different going by the title, but--no, this is good. Unexpected. (Even if I was expecting something to make me feel like my anthrophobia is more normal by living vicariously through your character. Just sayin'.)

Anyway, I think the dream-world you paint is very intense. However, you are apt to repeat certain things--someone else squints into the sun, maybe important but it doesn't seem like a pattern so it's a bit off. 'The parents look at each other' moment is a bit--I don't know. It sort of spikes out, not a part of the whole.

Otherwise, I enjoyed it. It got me into the mind of someone who is quietly accepting but not accepting enough, of someone who is insightful (perhaps inciteful--even though isn't a word, I know), and it shows a certain level of reality. When my parents lost the kid between me and my sister, my father went 'no emotion' on us (my mother and I) for a bit. Yet, instead of figuring out their problems and saving their other child by talking to her, treating her like a human being, they take what I would have once considered 'the coward's way out'. Now I don't think like that as much, but it's somewhat true. The parents here act like children and I'm aware you probably meant for that.

One small problem exists in my brain, though. I'm probably just being morbid as ever but I imagine the person having knocked back some pills or something and is dying in the backseat while their parents pretend no one else exists but them. Because I'm morbid.

That isn't right, right?

(Otherwise, I'd like to know why this is dubbed "Panic Attack". I'm curious.)

This was very well-written and compelling. Right off the bat, I could tell from your language that this was from the perspective of a child. Writing from a child's perspective is often difficult to do, but can be a very powerful tool since children often look at the world from a completely unbiased perspective. Great job on pulling it off.

One remark I'd like to make is on your synergy of two strong themes. The loss of a baby seems to be your main theme, but at the end of the story, it is revealed that the narrator has a serious medical condition that prevents him/her from living a normal life. While you did make an effort to blend both concepts into the story, it seems slightly disjointed, especially in such a short piece. Are the panic attacks caused by the parent's ineptitude or negligence when raising a child after the miscarriage? Is there something having to do with her family life that has caused her to be this way?

Nevertheless, your piece is interesting and provocative, and I thank you for it!