First of all, this is not a cookie-cutter seizure. they're never all alike with me. second, I'm doing this mostly to give anyone who thinks about faking one of these for attention a look at what it's like to really go through one, when half-conscious.

Cold. So cold. Then a jumble of sounds. My physical sight is stabbed by the misty light filtering in through the shaded window at the far end of the room. I can see very little to begin with, but this doesn't help much. Ouch. The floor is colder, and everything hurts. I take a breath, and knife-like pain twists itself into my chest. I moan, and can feel something. a difference in the texture between floor and something.
My left leg is freezing cold. So is the corner of my mouth. What's going on? I realize that I've lost the power of speech. Oh sure I can vocalize but not form words, nor put them together into anything recognizable as speech. This is not a good thing.
An intense cold feeling sweeps over me. My body curls in on itself and I vomit copiously. There's no stopping it, and this shames me.

Even in my half-stupor I can feel regret.
Her voice breaks through the fog, but the sounds are only that.

Sounds. A scrabble game of sounds and phonyms that make no sense.

Another pair of hands. These have seen more lives die, snuffed out in violent ways.
Body parts ripped, torn,blown to hell and back. He is surprisingly gentle for a man. I trust him, and he cleans me up. Regurgitated coffee and drool dribbles into my thankfully shortened hair. Another jumble of syllables, although I can make some of them out.

"rag" "phone" "meds" It makes no sense, but whatever she says, he knows and obeys.
Something warm on my face. I'm shivering so violently my teeth are clacking together. I should form my own band made of castinett players.
The warmth travels down in long, slow swipes to my collarbone, and

then the warmth rests on my neck. I'm shivering now and I can feel a curious banging in my chest.
Fingers on my neck and wrist. One syllable, and a flurry of movement.

I'm wrapped in something that's not very warm but it's there and it starts to take the tremors away. Two syllables, spoken to me. Slowly, deliberately. Not condescending.
I pull an arm free and point to my bear. They can't understand. Why can't they comprehend?
"pants?" Now the syllables are making sense, though I can't yet speak.

I shake my head and fold my arms like I'm holding onto something for dear life.
"Blanket?" Another shake of the head.
"Her bear!" The man's voice above me, quick footsteps and then the soft furry warmth of my bear in my arms. The room goes hazy again and I whimper. The woman's voice, urgent this time, no-nonsense.
"my phone. Now." The man brings her something and she dials, but does not put the call through. I remember nothing more as life goes away, then comes back. Again, it's colder than before, again I've lost speech. This time there is no vomiting, just dry heaving and intense cold and shaking, and pain through every nerve and bone in my body, and the screaming rips the still air to pieces, waking neighbors downstairs. The drug dealer across the hall starts yelling about calling the police. But the woman insults him and he is silent.
Slow warmth, though exhaustion still cling like a heavy blanket. I slowly sit up, rubbing my face, no memory of what just happened. It hurts, everything is stiff and sore. The woman explains while the man cleans up the mess. Apparently I tipped over the cat's water dish in addition to throwing up on the floor.
The woman filled me in, using short sentences, keeping my attention with great difficulty as though I were a small toddler, as I flutter in and out of sleep. The man pulled me up and half-carried, half-dragged me over to my bed and laid me down. It was going to be a long, long day. So much for going out and doing some window shopping.

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