[ CW ] Write a horror story with no gore or death , not even implied .

New acquaintance. You feel that the invitation was rather forward, but why not attend. You have n't had an attack in a while, you should be fine for a night on the town. 
 You walk from your front door to your car, you're deciding whether to go back for a bigger jacket. Maybe one with pockets so you have a place to store your hands during seemingly forced conversations. But you say no and forge on. 
 You arrive, and its nothing like you had expected. With this individual's qualifications you expected a very legitimate establishment, not some low-pro church funded dinner theatre. You walk in the front door. You stumble on your words as you explain that the owner invited you and the entry fee should be waived. They ask how you know Kevin, and all you say is, `` Just met him today''. They laugh and question you condescendingly. You are n't sure why, but you feel like something is amuck. But, your intentions are true so you pass their tests and are granted entry. 
 The person you came to meet is no where to be found, so you sit down and stare at the buffet. You're not sure if it is free or not, so you just sit. You've been concerned, you have n't had much of an appetite lately. Maybe one good meal a day, if you're lucky. Its funny how here you feel hunger but the food seems to evade you by your fear of a social situation, the social situation being to simply ask if the food is complementary. Looks like your anxiety won on this front as well. 
 All of a sudden the curtains open and the person you came to meet turns out to be the drummer of the band. Looks like you wo n't be conversing too much. 
 You notice the light on the singer's face. How well lit it is. Too well lit. The whole stage is well lit. It contrasts the dark room where we sit and listen. You do n't know why, but these lights do n't seem right. The whole idea of light does n't seem right. You shine light on something to see what? You notice your chest moving in and out, in and out. You ca n't unnotice it now. And you catch yourself there, keep in mind the combative techniques you have read. Observe, label, watch, and move on. Enjoy yourself. 
 As the show progresses it becomes stranger and stranger. Why is this woman bringing old men on the stage and singing to them? What kind of people spend their time like this? Not anyone you know of. Nobody. You do n't really know anyone anyways. 
 As the country music insists upon itself, you notice your hands. They seem discolored. What is wrong with your hands? They tingle, they certainly tingle. Is that bad? Google it. Google it now. First result states that commonly during an anxiety attack your hands will worry you in ways of color, feel, and texture. Relieving, right? Not in the slightest. What kind of life is it to live in constant fear of your own mind? Where do you run? Where do you hide? You ca n't, its just there. You look back at your hands, a symbol of your demise. You notice your wrist, there's a band on it. When did you get that? It has got words on it, too dark in here to read it though. You take your phone out and use the light to read, `` Southside Mental Hospital: Patient''. And then you look up, realizing you're still in the institution. Trapped.
