She couldn't stop screaming, couldn't keep the terror from taking control of her lungs. Fear wove its inky tentacles through her brain, strangling reason and injecting its poison into her very soul.
"What's happening?" She heard her voice in her own head, but it sounded far away and too hollow to be hers.
It couldn't be hers.
The dark purple nothingness swirled with smoke ribbons, blurring her vision, and playing ping-pong with her equilibrium. Nausea battered her and sour bile burned her throat.
Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip. This isn't happening. You're just passed out on the floor of your bedroom having a stroke.