Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out.

The words surge inside my head, compel my feet to move. I try to fight it, steeling myself as I cluch onto the bar of the cart and turn my focus to breathing. On instinct, my eyes search for the exit.

There.

It's located maybe four isles over. Or I can take a detour through the plantation part of the store and reach it that way.

I feel a little more relaxed at the sight of it, knowing that if anything goes wrong, I just have to get there. I just have to make to that point and everything will be fine.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I don't know how you'd categorize the attacks I experience. They aren't so much attacks anymore as just intense feelings of being trapped, drudging up the worst case scenarious my head can concoct and being able to clearly visualize them taking place. They never have, though, and you'd think that'd be enough to stop them.

But they still come. And each time they do, I try to remind myself of the truth. If I don't give in, it's a victory right there. I may feel this way, but at least I don't allow those feelings to dominate me; dominate my sense of control. But those feelings generally bring with them all the what ifs; a constant that I've been working to break the cycle of. I call them the kryptonite of all questions, because they literally hold no room for the word impossible to fit neatly inside.

Because anything can happen in a what if.

"You okay, Winnie?" My little brother, Thomas, asks, his blue eyes looking up at me in concern.

I bite the inside of my lip, nearly drawing blood but nod. "Yeah, let's hurry up. I don't want to be in here anymore."

That's kind of an understatement. None of me wants to be in here anymore. Everything is about halfway towards the exit, but I force to move away from it, mentally checking things off as we go.

When we finally get everything needed, I head to checkout and nearly growl in irritation.

Of course.

Of course the only available lane has to be packed with multiple carts. That's another ten minutes and I try to shove the feeling of being smothered away from me.

I'm fine, I chide myself. Nothing's wrong. Everything is just peachy.

I run my hands through my hair. Once. Twice. And then I really have to stop and just tell myself to knock it off. There's no reason to worry. No reason to panic. Everything is okay. I'm just shopping.

I take a calming breath.

"You look nervous," Thomas says, peeking up at me from the end of the cart. His tousled black hair-same color as mine-is nearly blocking his entire forehead, undoubtedly making it hard for him to see.

I just shrug; lower my elbows to the kart. "No, I'm fine."

"Your face is red."

"So is yours."

"That's because I had candy. You didn't have candy, so why should you be red?"

Intuitive little kid, is my little brother. Sometimes helpful, sometimes prying. "It's cold," I tell him, which isn't a lie.

"Wintre in winter," he mocks, smiling boisterously like he's a genius. His name for me during all the seven years of his life has always been 'Winnie,' but for some reason only known to little kids, he finds it funny that my full name matches the time of season.

I smile at him. "Guess so."

"Ughh, this line is taking forever," he drawls and I'm about to say tell me about it, like,seriously, but then I catch the cashier's sharp look and I purse my lips to keep from snickering.

I wonder if she's trying to purposefully take longer, because it seems as if everything stalls and my fingers start to tap against my leg. Another nervous hand through hair. Annoyed foot patting. By the time everything is bagged, I'm about running out the door, dragging Thomas behind like one of those toys connected to a string.

"Stop pulling on me," he insists and I only listen when I'm outside, the biting cold hitting me like a sharp slap to the cheeks. I take a deep breath, a bird released from a cage.

"You're very dramatic, you know," he says.

I raise my eyebrows at him, feeling my heart slow. "You're seven, " I say. "You're prohibited from even using that word."

"What's that mean?" he asks, jumping on the end of the cart and hanging off at arm's length.

"It means not allowed." I say, beginning to push the cart across the street.

"Why not?"

"Because you're seven. You thrive on drama."

"But you're the teenager," he clarifies, "with boys and stuff."

I roll my eyes, shrugging my coat higher across my neck. "For teenagers, drama is a decision. For kids ten and under, it's a lifestyle."

He smirks at that but drops it once we reach the car. I pile all the stuff inside and then we're heading home.

_________________________________________________________________________________

An hour later, we sit around the table, Thomas, mom, and I, dad working late tonight. A bowl of Spaghetti sits in the center of the table and Thomas stares at it beseechingly, waiting in patience, and I pull it over and heap some onto his plate. The little man is a carnivore, able to eat more than I am.

"Thomas, take slower bites! People will think I don't feed you," mom chastises, staring intently at him. He nods, instantly pulling some of the noodles out of his mouth.

"That's not what I,"-mom begins but then catches herself. "Oh, never mind. Just try not to choke."

"Mkay," he says and I smile.

"How was school today?" she asks me, throwing Thomas a stare now and then, as if to insure he's still able to swallow.

I shrug, twirling my own fork into the noodles. "It's fine, I guess. Boring. Homework. Nothing new."

Nothing new except a school arrival coming tomorrow, which my friend, Bailey, has told me repeatedly, so now it is kind of ingrained into my skull.

"Do you have anymore to get done tonight?"

"Not a lot. An essay due on a war that happened in a year that doesn't really affect me. Fun stuff," I say dryly, picking up my fork and watching the spaghetti fall from it.

Mom eyes me tentively. We don't really look related much; her with brown hair and lighter eyes, me with Thomas's black hair but green eyes. I look more like my dad, but since I'm mostly with my mom, I've  received the inquiry as to if I was adopted more than once.

"Never underestimate the Butterfly Effect."

"Isn't that when something continues to affect you, even after it's happened?"

She nods. "Doesn't matter when it happened, it can still affect others right now. You don't even know it it's affecting you. Neat, huh?"

I raise my eyebrows. "A little enigmatic, actually."

"But you have to admit, it's kind of cool. Just because someone made one choice, it still impacts us." Mom lowers her voice so it sounds very deep and very Star-Wars. "Maybe we're all a miniature butterfly effect."

Thomas perks up at that. "I'm a butterfly!"

I scoff mockingly at him, giving him a surprised look. "That's a little girly, don't you think?"

"You're right," he concedes. "Mom, are there any dinosaur effects?"

"With the way you eat?" she asks, widening her eyes. "I have no doubt."

Dinner concludes after a hearty debate between mom and Thomas about what exactly constitutes as a dinosaur effect, and I head upstairs to finish homework. After the paper is done with its very strict format, no holed paper, twelve font, and all that, I jump into the shower before bed.

Thomas runs to give me a quick hug before we part ways down the hall, him going into his room, me into mine.

Before I close my eyes, I tell myself the one thing I've told myself repeatedly, the one thing that will be true on some days, and not on others.

It'll get better.