Never A Saint (COMPLETE)

One: Danika Reeves

His Disorders:
-Selective Mutism
-Separation Anxiety
-Social anxiety
-Reactive attachment disorder

"And how do you come to that conclusion?" My therapist, Tracy, asked.

"Well I don't know. I just never feel alone. I've had surprise jewelry be added to my dresser. The same car following close. My things are always slightly shifted differently that I corrected them to."

"How long do you think this has been occurring?"

"Long enough. I don't know. I think I'm just paranoid living in a small apartment. It's a small words and tons of people own jet black Mercedes." I nodded.

"I agree. I don't mean to excuse your concerns but I think maybe you've been so stressed with finances that you're over analyzing every feeling you get. Which is okay. It's normal, but we can work on lessening that."

"For sure."

"Today was good. Thank you." I grabbed my things and said my goodbyes as I left and got inside my car.

I rubbed my eyes, being careful of my mascara.

I sighed, looking right in front of me and of course a blacked out Mercedes was there. Taunting my irrational fears.

I flipped it off, hoping they didn't have a dash cam.

Time to work a 6 hour shift.

I groaned.

-

"Can I ask a question?" A kind girl smiled at me.

"Of course." I set the box of canvases I was stocking down.

"Do you paint for fun?"

"I enjoy it occasionally."

"Do you have any good oil paint recommendations? I want to get into it more and those paints look so nice." She said and I began walking through the isles feeling the same feeling I have been.

I'm being watched.

But I shook it off.

I stood in the isle, showing her shades and how the processes work from this and how it differs from acrylic.

I was kind, attempted to keep focus.

And when she thanked me and left, I took my 15 minute break a bit early but it was needed.

I came back, collected, and running into a damn wall.

I backed up, looking upward.

"I'm so sorry sir. I was not watching my step." I pressed my hand to my chest.

He didn't give so much as a smile.

"Can I help you?" I offered.

His face was chiseled, dimples perfect, eyes nearly black and boring into me with what seemed to be hidden anger.

He wore a black hoodie, removing his hands from his pockets.

"My mom is into art. Paint. I have no idea what I'm looking for though." He crossed his arms over his chest.

The bagginess of the hoodie did nothing to hide his arms.

"Of course, follow me." I smiled, starting at watercolor.

I explained it to him, his eyes on me the entire time, only looking at the actual items when I pointed to them.

He was strange. Handsome, but eerie.

But I was also too nice and social for my own good sometimes and forget not everyone likes speaking.

I led him into acrylic and his hand adjusted his hair.

It must've been decently long as it was all pulled back into a gentle bun, his hair curly and spiraled in the actual bun part.

Emo Jason Momoa? More like Roman Reigns.

But I moved when he seemed uninterested.

I moved to the oil ones.

I expressed my personal favorites.

And he picked out what I advised.

"I can ring you up." I walked to the counter and he came, checking out the items.

I placed it in a bag and handed it back to him.

He paid before handing me a $100.

"I can't take this sir-" but he was gone.

And ironically enough, he drove a blacked out Mercedes.