Too Scared To Say Something Sooner - TMD [Mainly Chadam]

Chapter 4: Anxiety Is A Bitch

Adam

A/N: Please ignore the fact that their dorms now magically have bathrooms. I thought it be better to fit with the plot, even though it's not in the movies. Thank you.

(TW: Anxiety/Panic attack)

"Shit," I hissed, grabbing my big toe and hopped on my right foot. "Stupid desk." I had stubbed my toe on the leg while trying to get to the light switch that was so conveniently on the other side of the room. I needed to remember to get a lamp for Charlie and I later.

Still hopping on one foot, I flicked on the switch and the room flooded with light. Charlie groaned from his bed and turned so his face was pressed into his sheets. I had to blink a few times to get my eyes to fully adjust. "I know, Char, but we have school." Another groan.

I tiredly stumbled my way to my nightstand, figuring I could shower and then wake him up. I fumbled through the top drawer for my contact case.

I was embarrassed by my vision problems. Unlike Averman, I looked very... odd in glasses. Contacts weren't much better with the comfort bit, though at least I looked like myself.

I only really wore my glasses after showering, if I wasn't going right to bed, but I always made sure no one saw me in them. But since I had to share a room now, I deemed showers in the morning more appropriate, unless there was hockey. Then I would just have to wear the contacts until I got a chance to go to the bathroom and take them out before bed.

I grabbed my clothes -a pair of slacks and a blue polo shirt with socks and underwear- and stacked them neatly in my arms. Careful not to drop anything, I balanced the plastic contact case on top of my clothes. I had to jump a complicated series of steps to get around the dirty laundry scattered on Charlie's side of the room.

It's been less than 24 hours and Charlie had already made it look like he's lived in the dorm for years. I thought of my room back home. The best proof I had that somebody actually inhabited that space was my hamper of dirty clothes and a couple of posters on the wall. Even then, I normally did my laundry every Saturday. Everything was always spotless. I had to make sure of it.

Growing up with my dad, everything had a routine or was in the right place. One thing out of line could set off a chain reaction of unfortunate events.

One morning, when I was ten I think, I had forgotten to make my bed and my room had been fairly messier than usual because I had woken up late for school. My dad had gone into a drunken rage later that night after a few beers. He'd given me a fresh new bruise collection and sold the hockey tickets I'd gotten for my birthday that year.

Fun times.

I made my bed the second I woke up for months after that. Even now, I always made my bed before I left my room to go eat breakfast.

I turned the shower knob to hot and started to undress. I stood in only my underwear, caught by my reflection in the mirror.

There was a purply-grey-ish bruise on my shoulder blade from a couple days ago and once dark, but finally fading finger prints covering my tricep. My eyes were slightly puffy still, from sleep, and faded black-purple circles rested under them from the lack of. My hair was also a hot mess and tangled.

Hideous.

I sighed, grabbing a towel from the bathroom closet and hung it on the rack on the wall next to the shower. I finally took off the rest of my clothes and stepped into the steaming water. It burned slightly against my skin, but I welcomed it. It was comforting more than painful.