Dreams of 18(12)

And my dying roses are lying crushed and scattered at his feet.





Ten months later…



He’s staring at me.

Like, really.

At first, I didn’t notice. I had my head down and my headphones on, listening to “Surrender” by Cheap Trick. But then, I felt a little prickling in my scalp and I looked up.

This guy is sitting right across from me and his eyes are glued to mine.

I’m not sure why.

Does this guy know who I am? Does he know what I’ve done?

But that’s impossible, right?

I mean, look at where I am.

I am at a coffee shop in the city, miles and miles away from Cherryville, Connecticut. No one knows who I am in New York City.

In fact, no one knows anyone in New York City. That’s the beauty of it. Anonymity.

But why the hell is he staring at me? Why?

Why?

If he knows me – if – then doesn’t he also know that it freaks me out? I’ve never been good with people’s attention anyway. So if he knows me, doesn’t he know what happened to me and how I lost it when people wouldn’t stop staring at me and harassing me?

I hate it, okay.

I do.

My doomsday brain has started ticking. I’m already going flush around the throat. My heart is swelling and swelling in my chest and I know it’s going to burst.

Not to mention, I’m starting to lose my breath. I’m sweating. My body is itching to curve itself into a ball.

I’m losing it. I’m losing it.

I knew it.

I knew going out of the house was a bad idea. I don’t even know why people go out and walk on streets and talk to other people when being alone is just so damn wonderful.

When you’re alone, no one’s staring at you. No one’s pointing fingers at you. No one’s snickering or stopping you on the street and asking you questions.

Did you really do it?

Is it really you? From the photo?

Did you really kiss the coach at your school?

But!

But…

Everything is going to be fine. It’s going to be okay.

Everything is going to be fucking perfect.

Because I can stop it. I can.

With trembling hands that almost knock my coffee cup down, I reach across the table to get to my baseball cap and my Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.

I put them on. I lower the rim of my magenta cap and inch upon my huge sunglasses and bring my dull blonde/brown hair forward.

Now, I’m covered.

I’m protected against the dark rays of people’s eyes.

I fold my arms across my chest and try to breathe.

In and out.

Out and in.

I do it. I keep doing it. I keep breathing. I keep breathing like they taught me back at Heartstone.

“Hey.”

The voice makes me flinch and look up. It’s my friend, Willow. She’s standing by the table and immediately, a rush of warmth flows through my body.

She’s blocking me from that guy’s eyes.

Everything is fine.

See?

I blow out a breath. “Hey. When’d you get here?”

“Like a second ago.” She turns to look at the guy before taking a seat opposite me, appearing concerned. “You okay?”

I sit up and wipe my clammy hands on my shorts. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her concern grows. “Because when I came in, I thought I saw you having an almost panic attack?”

I wave my hand. “Oh. That. It’s nothing. It’s, uh…” I wave my hand some more and clear my throat. “I was just trying to, uh, breathe. That’s it.”

Sighing, Willow cocks her head to the side. “And you have your disguise on because there’s a lot of sunlight in here? And not because that guy was staring at you?”

My heart jumps.

She sounds exactly like my therapist, Nelson.

If he knew that I put on the cap and the glasses to ward off – for argument’s sake, let’s call it a panic attack – he wouldn’t like it.

He’d say, “Violet, you’re using these as a crutch.”

When in fact, crutches are not so bad. They help me. It helped when I colored my hair pink for a while so no one would recognize me. But it was too much maintenance, so I stopped and got myself a disguise.

So what? Shouldn’t I be helped?

Besides, I’m fine.

Everything is fine.

I smile, or at least, I try to. I’m still recovering from what she calls an almost panic attack brought on by some random guy’s eyes on me.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. And look, I can even take these off.”

I make a big show of taking off my disguise and putting it on the table.

Willow smiles back. “Oh yeah, you definitely can. Definitely. You’re definitely not denying anything.”

At this, my heart doesn’t jump. It leaps off my chest and gets jammed up in my throat.

Deny.

I don’t like that word.

I’m not denying anything.

I’m not.

So yeah, I can’t handle when people stare at me. I can’t handle talking to strangers so I never go out of my house, and yes, I use a crutch from time to time.

And okay, fine. I do get panic attacks sometimes.