AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter One
“I just want to be normal.”
Have you ever felt like you’re an outsider looking in on your life? It’s how I feel every day. I have something called anxiety. It’s because of a past traumatic experience—well, that’s what the doctors said anyway. They gave me these little white, round tablets and sent me on a course to learn how to overcome it: something called cognitive behavioral therapy. It was interesting, and I learned a lot, but for me, it was utterly useless. I still have anxiety, and I don’t think it’s ever going to go away. Anxiety isn’t just something you ‘get over’ with a sound night’s sleep, or you can just ‘pull yourself out of’ as people often say to me. It’s ingrained in my mind; in every pore of my body. And, just like now, as I try to take a step out of my front door on what is a particularly bad day, it is completely debilitating.
My knuckles are white as snow as they grip tight to the wooden frame of my doorway. ‘You can do this,’ I tell myself. ‘You’ll be fine. There’s nobody around to see you and laugh at you. Nobody’ll hurt you.’ My heart rate accelerates; I can feel it almost beating out of my chest. Thump, thump, thump. Ouch, it hurts. My palms are sweaty and start slipping on the door frame, which I grip hold of for dear life. This is just crazy. Next, the world begins to spin. I’m dizzy and disorientated. How can I be this weak? How can I be this much of a freak? I force my feet forward, but my legs turn to jelly. They’re barely holding me up. Last of all comes the nausea, I want to vomit. Many times, in the past, I have. Supermarkets, doctors’ offices, even walking down the street when someone has looked in my direction and smiled at me, I’ve opened my mouth and brought up the contents of whatever meal I’ve just eaten. If there’s anything going to bring on more anxiety, it’s people gawking at you while you stand in a pile of your own sick. With a trembling step, I lift my foot and put it down a few inches in front of the other. That’s the threshold of my property. I’m over it. The world hasn’t exploded, a plane hasn’t fallen out of the sky and crash landed onto me, nor has lightning appeared in a flash of fury and struck me down. I’m alive, breathing, and standing just outside my house. On a bad day, this is a massive achievement for me. This is what they taught me in the cognitive behavioral training. Look at the positives. When I was standing behind my door, the thought of being in this position filled me with nerves. My anxiety level was at about hundred percent. Standing outside now, it’s reduced to ninety-nine percent. That one percent makes all the difference.
“Hello, Jasmine.” My neighbor, an elderly man named Ernest Jefferson, calls out from where he’s standing in his porch, flicking through the letters the mailman just delivered. I jump. “Beautiful day isn’t it?”
I look up at the sky, and there isn’t a cloud in it, but then I live on the California coast in Cambria, just outside San Luis Obispo. It’s typically sunny. My home’s traditional for the area with brick and wooden siding. I’m not on the beach and don’t have a view of the sea because those cost an arm and a leg, which I don’t have, especially as I can’t seem to hold down a job. My home has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and is a nine hundred square foot bungalow set back into the pine forests, which surround the area of Cambria. It’s my sanctuary, and I can only afford to keep it because of my inheritance. What was I doing? Oh, yes, my neighbor. I look up and smile at him, well half smile at him. I don’t want to encourage him and give him the wrong impression of me. I’m not that sort of girl, and I never will be, not anymore.
“Good Morning, Mr. Jefferson. I hope you are well?”
He screws his face up.
“My sciatica is playing up a little bit. Mrs. Jefferson says it’s because I’m a pain in the ass.”
“I’m sure you aren't,” I respond, and my entire body shivers. Was that too overfamiliar a response? I shouldn’t have said that. He’ll read something into it? My mind’s screaming at me to run back into the house, but my legs are being stubborn, as always, and are firmly planted on my porch.
Mr. Jefferson laughs.
“Just you wait until you have a man living with you. I’m sure you’ll feel the same as the wife does.”
A man living with me…I’d need to have a boyfriend before that could happen, and there is more chance of hell freezing over than me even going on a date.
“I’m sure I will, Mr. Jefferson.”
“I bet they’re falling over their feet to be your guy, pretty little lass like you.” He winks at me. The part of my brain that deals with common sense tells me he's just being friendly, but the portion riddled with anxiety has gone into self-preservation mode. It’s shutting down to being friendly and preparing all aspects of my body that are required for fleeing.
“Sorry, Mr. Jefferson, I have to go. I’m not feeling too well.”
I don’t wait to hear his answer as I rush back through my front door, slamming it shut behind me. Grounding, I need to center myself.
Five. I count, five things I can see. Out loud I call, “Keys, coat, table, shoes, bag.”
Four is next, four things I can touch.
“Floor, walls, door, rug.”
Three, three things to hear.
I shut my eyes and listen.
“Clock.” I can hear it ticking from its position on the wall. “Dishwasher.” I can hear it from the kitchen, still washing the dishes from this morning. Another sound I need another sound. A car goes by outside, and I scream, “Car,” and sink down onto the floor by the front door.
Taste, I must name two things I can taste.
“Candy.” I have a bowl by my front door. My head flicks around the room, but I can’t find anything else I could taste except the thin layer of dust covering my furniture, which is there because I haven’t been out to buy any polish. I’m sure that wouldn’t make for a gourmet meal. My body’s too weak for me to get up and walk. I get onto my knees and crawl along the floor to the kitchen.
“Apple.” I exhale on a deep breath when I see the bowl of fruit sitting on my kitchen counter. “Apple,” I repeat.
Smell is the final one I must find. I’m in my kitchen now. This will be easy. I crawl over to the fridge, open it, and pull out a lemon.
“Lemon,” I say while taking a long inhalation of the yellow fruit, its citrus essence bringing a sense of calm to my body. I’ve grounded myself, but I’m exhausted. I push off the floor and stumble on still wobbly legs to my bedroom. The simple room consists of a dressing table, adorned with a few products I use on my frizzy, black hair, and perfumes. I have a matching wardrobe, filled with mainly casual clothes. I don’t really have any need for luxurious evening gowns or sparkly ensembles for clubbing the night away. They’re not places I would frequent. My king-sized bed dominates the room. It’s the first thing I bought when I moved in, knowing it would be the place I spent the most time.
I strip my ripped jeans and ‘Nirvana unplugged’ t-shirt off and leave them in a heap on the floor. I climb into the bed and pull the soft, white Egyptian cotton covers over my head. Bed, my safe place. Nobody can get me here. My eyelids begin to feel heavy, and I allow them to flutter shut. I don’t ordinarily sleep too well, due to recurrent nightmares. When I have a bout of anxiety, I allow the accompanying exhaustion in my body to take over. Within minutes, I feel slumber take hold.
“You’re such a frigid bitch,” the blurred face shouts at me from across the living room as I lay back in shock on my sofa. “Why did I have to pick the one who’ll lead me on? Get me all hard for her pussy, and then shut her legs tighter than a gnat’s ass.” A hand comes out and smashes directly into my face. I feel pain shatter through my jaw and metallic blood floods my mouth. “Well, I’m not going to listen to the lies that spew out of your mouth anymore. You’ve been asking for it for ages with your short skirts, flashing everything at me, and tits on display in tops tight enough I can see your nipples poking out. You act the cock tease, and I’m going to show you just what a cock tease gets.”
