Fear played dark notes in Baylin’s mind and froze her thoughts against all rational thinking. If time sped up or slow down, what difference would it make? The anxiety would still be present. The push to escape, take charge, break free of the bonds and chains demanding complete control, fought a weak battle in their plight to break down the heavy door marked panic.

Trapped in the silent ceremony of predawn anxiousness, Baylin pulled her eyes opened and raised herself from the bed. She glanced at her husband wrapped in blankets. Contentment smoothed his face. She longed for possession of the same restful peace.

The cold wooden floor numbed her feet. The bathroom mirror offered unforgiving images of her restless night. Baylin didn’t drink coffee. Didn’t like the taste. Staring at the dark circles under her eyes made her re-consider her palate. Heavy make-up, she decided. She ignored the pink slacks and swearer she’d laid out the night before. Instead, she dug through her closet and pulled out black jeans and sweatshirt. More fitting her mood.

The jeans fit too snug. She did a couple of squats, laid flat on the bed, tugged on the zipper, fumbled with the button. No breakfast for her this morning.

Jack rolled over and yawned. “I thought I felt an earthquake.” He smiled.

She frowned. “My jeans shrunk.”

“They look great to me.”

“Everything looks great to you.” Baylin stomped from the bedroom.

This morning, she noticed Jack took two bites of cold cereal, laid his spoon down, turned the page of the newspaper, picked up his spoon, and repeated the ritual again and again. It rubbed an irritating sore spot in her mind, one she knew she’d carry all day.

An nauseous gaze at the tuna sandwich she made for his lunch pitched her stomach into a session of twists and turns, then it knotted and shut down. Rain against the windows added a wave of dizziness to her symptoms. She hated the rain, it’s chill, the despair that seeped into her bones, drenched her mind in doom. Each drop fell into the deep, dark pool of gloom at the bottom of her soul. Her promise to fight if off forgotten. Robbed by the beat of her heart pounding against her chest, her emotions, all polished, take careful aim, and ready themselves to trigger and fire. The air in her lungs thinned.

Baylin pulled at the neck of her sweatshirt and dashed onto the covered kitchen porch. The thick downpour held no match for the rain gushing inside her tormented soul. Those tears crashed against her heart and left bruises meant to scar. She lost all simple reasoning and could do nothing to turn off the valve and stop the drain of her sunken feelings. A new measure of hope needed to burst forth, cast warmth and light over her empty shell, like sun rays to dry the rain, and deactivated her panic button.

Back inside, Jack hadn’t noticed she’d slipped out. The smell of tuna hung in the air. Her stomach pitched again. Baylin threw the unwrapped sandwich away, along with the bowl of fresh tuna salad. She spread peanut butter and jelly over bread, wrapped the sandwich with haste and slid it into Jack’s briefcase, along with an apple, and a cup of yogurt.

A quick peck on the cheek and Jack left for work.

Baylin glares at the phone perched on the counter. “Don’t ring,” she ordered. She didn’t want to tell her editor another lie.

She folded the newspaper, wiped down the counter, placed the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and made a cup of chamomile tea. The phone rang the same instant the teas kettle whistled. Baylin jumped, eyed the two noise makers, turned off the gas flame, and glared at the phone. The receiver turned heavy in her hand. Baylin swallowed around the lump in her throat, tired to ignore her stomach, turned sour like vinegar stirred into sweet milk. Her head began to pound, just enough to press on her nerves and start a fresh batch of tears.

Her editor’s rapid fire tone intensified her headache. The lie tumbled out. A two week extension granted. Too distrait to fight her wake of writer’s block, Baylin sipped her tea and wiped her tears.