5. hyperthermia
warnings | trauma recovery, recovery arc, hyperthermia, over-exercise.
~*~*~
Sweat had long since soaked his hair and drenched his skirt. Rivulets slithered down the back of his neck, carving the length of spine. Beads collected on his hairline, his temples. They dripped into his ears, off his jaw, stinging his eyes as they caught on his eyelashes.
A crosswalk flashing the bright red hand stopped him in his tracks. Lyric sucked in a deep breath and coughed into his fist. He bounced on his toes to keep moving, feeling the sweat scatter and bounce and soak into other parts of him. It dripped into his mouth, sweaty and grimey.
A woman, holding the handle of a grocery buggy, eyed him with gentle brown eyes. She had sweat through her pink tank top, dense coils of hair pulled up off her neck. Her cheeks were pink. Lyric imagined his cheeks – the skin dry and itchy-burnt feeling – were an unflattering red. He offered her a winded smile. The crosswalk sign turned and Lyric took off, missing whether or not she returned it. Just the action felt brave enough for today.
It was the hottest day of the summer. The weatherman on the local news had told them so, exuding a strange joy at the prospect. A flat 97 degrees in the shade, the air itself a thick 101 degrees; each estimation followed by cheerful warnings about staying cool, keeping hydrated, how to dress, how much activity would be okay to do outside.
Lyric had curled his nose up at the screen. The man’s seersucker suit was an unflattering minty green. His hair was slicked back like an Atlantic City mob boss.
He’d been sweating in his apartment as he watched, the air conditioning turned down low so he could hear. He’d sweat through his shift at the coffee shop. A run wouldn’t hurt and his shower would feel even better after.
He never went far on his runs, staying to a strict four block radius from his apartment building. He never went into the nearby park. He never went out late at night or early in the morning. He felt better surrounded on all sides by people despite his distaste for crowds; felt better knowing if he screamed someone would at least hear him.
His muscles ached the longer he ran. His lungs protested and his head turned pleasantly fuzzy. It was the clearest his head ever was. Coated in soaking sweat, Lyric felt like he was close to normal.
Lyric rounded a familiar corner onto the last block before his building. A little quieter with shops instead of cafes with umbrellas. A little shadier, spotted with trees whose roots turned the sidewalk into a long line of jagged gray teeth. He stumbled a bit as the toe of his shoe caught on a corner of raised concrete. Lyric caught himself with a jolt but stayed upright, kept running.
His insides felt molten; stomach and lungs and brain sloshing around in their respective cavities. He tripped again, catching himself less than elegantly. He blinked hard, eyes feeling unfocused. Like he was seeing through water. Pain throbbed in his thighs and knees, pulsing in time with the vein in his throat.
Lyric slowed his pace, trying to suck in a bigger breath. He coughed, throat drier than his face. He could see the door to his building. He just had to get there, then it would be air conditioning and ice cold showers.
Lyric stumbled sideways, dropping hard onto the concrete steps of a townhouse. He ground his palm into the roughness, the pinprick scrapes centering his head as he gasped for air. His head spun now that he had stopped completely. His legs were seizing up, muscles seeming to twist and tighten under his skin like so much cleated rope. Lyric bent forward, dropping his head. The dizziness grew. He rubbed absently at his collar, as if that alone would loosen the tight feeling and help him breath. Even his hands felt tight, too big for their skin; heavy and useless.
“Hey, are you– Lyric?” A voice said, distant and soft against the underwater soundscape clogging up his ears. “Oh shit. Are you alright? Can you hear me?”
Hands pressed to his biceps and Lyric lurched to the side. The speed of it sent him gagging weakly on the steps.
“Shit shit shit,” the voice came again. “Hey, Lyric, if you can hear me, it’s Wes. From across the hall. If you remember. Can you talk?”
Lyric blinked, coughing weakly. He managed to shake his head.
“Okay, good. Good enough. Do you need help inside?”
Lyric nodded. The dizziness, the sliding feeling underneath his skin; it was enough to start him panicking. Enough to make him shake and gasp. Wes’ hands – yes, he remembered Wes; law student, lots of opinions, bad beer, weird laugh, good smile – gripped under his arms. He tensed just to keep himself from bolting and dropping hard to the pavement.
“Jesus, you’re soaked. Holy shit were you running?” Wes kept talking, sounding more and more panicked himself. “The fuck were you doing running? Today of all fucking days, Lyric?”
A buzzer rang somewhere, a lock clicking in and out of place loudly. Lyric kept his eyes closed, determined that only that would keep him steady. If he kept his eyes closed, things would be fine. He’d be okay. Maybe it was a bad habit, a leftover habit, something just south of denial. He didn’t know, but his brain rang with all the possibilities until his back hit freezing-cold, steady, hard.
The floor.
He was on the floor.
Cold air washed over him, freezing the sweat all over him. In his hair, on his skin, soaking his clothes and his underwear, running down his back and neck and sides. Until he was shivering and shaking, gasping at the involuntary jerking and jolting of his limbs.
“Hey hey, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.” Wes was closer now, voice clearer. “I’m going to get that nurse on the third floor. I’ll be right back. It’s okay. You’re okay.”