Vanishing Acts

It's always the same story with me, I know. Another dirty day thrown into the mesh hamper, left out for washing as soon as the pageviews break through the roof. I know I lose things, and scream at everyone until they magically appear, fresh and smelling of detergent. Today, it does not matter that you are buried under a mass of new jeans with avocado and blood stains on the right pant, because there's something I need to add to the mix: Panic. I lost my science notebook, which had my lab, which is 60% of my grade. And I panicked. I couldn't breathe, and all the colors started swirled around on overdrive, as though watered down and smeared across a palette. I remember, as I often do after these incidents, the feeling on my fingers of abrasion as I tore through whatever bag had sucked up my property this time. I remember, too, the alien sound of my screams that came inadvertently through the haze and wafting at me; wailing, sobbing, destroying the bonds between the silence and the air, ripping apart the space and reaching inside it, grasping at any glimmer of a green graph paper notebook. But it's gone. And I can't escape the abyss it has left in its wake.