A One-Man Masquerade
Whoever said laughter is the best medicine really knew what he was talking about. I can't give definite proof that a positive attitude speeds healing, but I have personal experience with a negative attitude making me feel ill. And I mean legitimately ill. My stomach was uneasy, I found it difficult to breathe, and it was an effort to keep from shaking. I felt I could do with some medicine, but I really didn't see a reason to laugh.
Forcing a smile was difficult, but I had plenty of practice. I could fool practically anyone with it if I wanted to. Today, though, it was harder than usual to keep up the façade. Much harder.
Breathing should be easier. I mean, you do it from day one. Ever since I left the womb, I've been breathing on my own. I had asthma as a kid, but I haven't had any trouble from that in years. It was easier to breathe then than when I had an asthma attack, but somehow, this felt worse. Much worse.
My eyes kept from tearing only with effort. I'd dealt with the pain and annoyance of having something stuck in my eye before, and this was just a light prickling compared to that, yet this pained me more. Much more.
Usually, this symptoms is caused by something. Mine weren't. They were caused by the lack of something, and that lack hurt me more than a bullet ever could. Not that I'd ever been shot, but give me physical pain over this any day.
I wished I could slip away to some quiet place and let out my emotions, but that wasn't possible. I was stuck here in a public place for another hour. If I just left, it would spark questions--difficult questions that I didn't want to answer. Better to tough it out. I was good at that. Far too good. I've never really opened up to anyone and always kept everything to myself. Due to this, I had gotten very good at hiding sadness and the like. Whenever you look sad, someone always asks what's wrong. To avoid the awkward question, I never looked sad around anyone when I could help it, even when depression held me under a cloud of despair. So, even though I wanted to collapse on the bed here and cry, I stayed sitting with a neutral expression.
I was waiting, really. I wasn't sure yet, so I was waiting--waiting to see if I would be raised up or sent into the pits of despair. I was never very good at waiting, but this time, I had no choice. I just sat there, occasionally running a paw through the fur on my head, dislogding some hairs and dandruff, which fall into my lap.
More than anything else, I was scared. No, scared is too mild. I was terrified. I was a shade below utter panic. I didn't know what to do, and worse, if my fears were realized, I couldn't begin to conceptualize what I'd do. I needed a hug, yet despite being in a building with over a hundred people in it, there was no one to give me a hug.
So I sat there, clutching my tail, neverously rubbing at it, keeping up the masquerade, hoping that the mask of comedy would hide the knife of tragedy that threatened to pierce my heart.