She looked up, upon a bland wood ceiling.

She panted heavily, her throat burning from the caterwauls in her sleep. She was… on a cramped floor. A single leg was elevated against the bed. Her waist was twisted. She was half curled up the fetal position, a blanket wrapped awkwardly around her soaked frame. From head to toe, she appeared to have bathed in sweat. Her long, unkempt red locks were saturated. Her body was sticky, reeking in stench. Her heartbeat still pounded, her heart might as well explode or leap from her chest. Her eyed darted left in right, still in panic from the terror she dreamt.

Just when she finally evaded intrusive thoughts and triggers… her own blasted dreams reminded her of her haunted past.

Cloud nine was too stormy. She regretted trying to sleep.

Even at night, she was unable to sleep soundly.

The panic attack still commenced. She could not process much, outside her own trepidation.

Every single rock in the ship, every creak upon the wood boards, every muffled voice, had her flying into hysterics. In haste, she straggled to get up. Her tangled up body took a moment to unwind before the shaking teen barely climbed to her cot. She pulled her sword down and death gripped it with trembling hands.

Blood pressure skyrocketed. Chest contractions ravaged her heart. Fight or flight. Adrenaline. Mouth gaped open. Tears. Overflowing tears. Hyperventilation. Blurred, shaky vision. Disassociation. Little perception of her surroundings.

In the fetal position, on the floor, she hugged the sheath of her blade. Panic attacks brutally slammed down, one after the other in an endless barrage. How long did this last?

Who knew?

She must of blacked out sometime in her internal hell.