You were notorious for your panic attacks, always having them at the most inconvenient times.

In class, at work, halfway through a fucking make out with your ex. Yes, that’s right. Your ex.

You had been lying on her bed, hands pawing at each other, when you felt that familiar hitch in your breath. That awful nausea in your stomach. You pulled away instantly, of course. How embarrassing.

In some way, however, it was worth it. It was worth it because now you were held in her beige flannel clad arms, the drummer’s fingers toying with a strand of your hair as she recalled what Sarah Fier showed her.

“She wasn’t actually a witch, you know?”

Her voice murmured, an anchor to your racing nerves.

“Nah, she was just like us. Young and in love with a girl.”

Deena continued, her brown eyes slowly examining your face. The colour was slowly pouring back into your skin.

“Of course, it was the pastor’s daughter. Hannah Miller, Cyrus Miller’s daughter, you remember Josh talkin’ about him? The first Shadyside Killer to be recorded.”