Stifled by the internal conflict, Ryan's body went into panic mode. His vision shut down, along with control over his muscles.
He collapsed.
Fully conscious but unable to do anything, Ryan saw the world rotate beneath him. His mind, fighting to keep him conscious, was frightened that if he relaxed, he would miss something vital. But against that, his body was forcing a hard shut-down. His brain had kept him going for 96 hours without rest, and his body couldn't cope.
The glands got involved now in an attempt to help – but perspiring just added to the panic.
'Panic attack, or fit – I’m not sure...,' he heard Sandra say to someone.
The scramble of everyone in the meeting room made the voices unclear. His vision returned but only to rough colours in the light. Everything was so blurry, it was as if he was looking through the grease-soaked wrapper of his Gregg's sausage roll that was still on his desk from breakfast.
The second wave of the panic attack set in now with full effect. Someone had removed his ability to breathe. Short, sharp, desperate gasps for air seemed in short supply.
He blacked out.
This was new.
Ryan had been secretly dealing with panic attacks in private up until now. People knew he had trouble with sleep, but no one knew how severe the insomnia had got.
He meticulously tracked his sleep, and the panic attacks had first started four weeks ago when his sleep got down to one hour a night – always broken, with no rest more than ten minutes before waking. Now though, it was only half that, and the panic attacks were happening multiple times a day. This mess, collapsing in a client meeting, was overdue.
The company first-aider arrived with the med kit.
'Get the fuck out of here with that, you buffoon!'
Jeremy had taken charge of the room. He never cared for ceremony or being any less direct than necessary. Before retirement, he had been an Army medic. He knew exactly what to do and, although he was the client, now this was his office. He was in charge – for Ryan's sake.
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