Where is my mask? The only thing keeping these fuckers around me is my mask. Where is it?
I am not stepping out into the world like this. If it were socially acceptable, I'd wear that shit with every outfit.
Mild suffocation isn't new to me, I've dated freaks. This is different. This suffocation is constant, never letting up and crushing the ribs that keep regenerating and bouncing back.
If only mental stability would regenerate, along with my once-mangled and put back together body.
Logan helps me occasionally, but sometimes, I'm too far in. He holds me, tightly and doesn't let go until he knows I can breathe normally again. He's the only person who sees me that way, unmoving, but consistently shaking and tightened up, every muscle scared to move an inch, scared of pain.
People forget that I do feel pain, it's constant. Mutation will never reach to the nerve endings that constantly burn and ache with the pressure of constant regeneration. I am in pain most of the time.
Humor will never fully cover it. Someone will see past the disgusting, inappropriate jokes that I use to shield myself from verbal harm.
But Logan has.
He has seen the extent of my suffering, constant headaches, the memories that will never shake off my constantly regrowing, disheveled, unsmooth skin.
I am caught in my thoughts, spiraling into a drive of fucking madness. Am I alone?
No, I'm not.
Bared, rough but sweet arms are wrapped around me, holding me in the usual, tightly coccooned manner. I know this feeling, and I love this feeling. Familiar scents, bitter and unsightly but so very comforting.
Honestly, he smells like fresh ass, but I look past it for the comfort surrounding my no longer shaking body.
I never know what's wrong with me, can never tell what is happening to my mind, I'm not educated in mental health shit. Nobody told me about it, and I think I'd rather not know the depths of my issues. Logan knows that, and he tells me.
"You're havin' a panic attack again, bub. I'm here, don't fuckin' move."
I do not. I don't move an inch. He doesn't seem upset, his voice just doesn't always line up with his mannerisms. The contrast is hard to get used to, but I love it. He is the best tough-lovey man I know.
He holds me, and I try to breathe, unsuccessfully. Instead, I exhale and don't return the air. I cannot breathe at all.
Eventually, after comfort and reassurance, one after another, I am present. I am conscious again.
He's the best fucking badger in the world.