blue neighbourhood ✧ tronnor (incomplete)

1: Connor

Fear is a terrible feeling. It's a feeling that you can never quite prepare yourself for; it catches you off-guard, your stomach feeling like it's going to fall out, your heart rate increases to triple-speed, you freeze into place when you wish you could run. I believe there's a difference between being scared, and being truly terrified. I've felt both in my life, and I know the difference.

The first time I ever felt scared was when I was three. I had a nightmare that there was a twelve-legged monster beneath my bed, with ruby red eyes and fangs the length of my legs. I remember waking up drenched in a cold-sweat, crying out to my parents who came rushing into my room within seconds - by the way I'd reacted, they probably thought I was being held at gun-point by a burglar. Mom cradled me in her arms and rocked me back to sleep while my Dad rummaged around under my bed for an over-exaggerated period of time, purely to convince me that there were, in fact, no monsters hiding beneath my bed. Regardless of his reassurance, I still found myself dreaming of the demonic red eyes that I'd seen in the nightmare, and the night I had the original nightmare wasn't the last time my Dad was rummaging underneath my bed at stupid o'clock just to put me at ease. As I got older, it was something I grew out of and, by the time I was six, I was no longer afraid of monsters under my bed.

The first time I was truly terrified, however, was when I was eleven. My parents divorced when I was ten; I never got told a proper reason as to why that was the solution they came to, since they probably assumed I was too young to understand. Mom found herself a new partner within three months, and I didn't like him. He was loud and pushy, and even at a young age, I recognised that he was taking advantage of my Mom. Once my parents separated, I didn't see my Dad as much due to my Mom having full custody. It was agreed that I would stay at my Dad's place every other weekend, Friday to Sunday, and then live with my Mom for the rest of the time. At first, going to Dad's place was great. We played video games together on the PlayStation, and we'd go for walks down by the creek and look for frogs. In some ways, I liked the fact that my parents didn't live together anymore, because it meant I got quality time with my Mom and my Dad separately, and I definitely treasured those times more. However, as months went by, things changed quite dramatically.

On my eleventh birthday, I waited all day to receive a call from Dad to wish me a happy birthday. I didn't want to leave the house in case I missed his call, regardless of Mom's countless attempts of trying to encourage me to leave the house to go and eat out. I refused, and we ended up ordering Chinese food for my birthday treat. I wasn't necessarily complaining, but I knew Mom was bothered by it. I didn't mind though, because Jez - Mom's boyfriend - was away because of work, meaning I had my birthday with Mom to myself. I waited up until midnight on the night of my birthday, waiting and waiting for Dad to call. He never did. The following weekend, I was due to be staying at his house. It turned out that Jez had to pick me up from school an hour and a half after the school day finished; Dad never showed up.

I remember Mom and Dad arguing on the phone that weekend. She'd gone into her bedroom and shut the door - obviously trying to prevent me from hearing the conversation - but I sat quietly outside with my ear pressed up against the painted wood, taking in every single word. I can't remember much of the conversation now, but I know Mom was angry. It was strange - she never got angry, at least not to that extent. I couldn't begin to comprehend what could've caused her to lose her temper with Dad like that.

After that weekend, I didn't see Dad for six months. He made the effort to call me sometimes and find out how school was going, but it always seemed that he treated calling me as more of a chore than taking a general interest in how his own son was doing. With every conversation we had, it was like he cared about me less and less. It got to the point that I'd be lucky to stay on the phone to him for five minutes before he made an excuse to hang up the phone. I blamed myself for what was happening; I'd obviously done something wrong and he was mad at me for it. I felt helpless. I wanted to be able to reconcile things with him and have things back the way they used to be, but it was no use. Nothing changed.