Phobia

[Chapter 5]

Autophobia- Fear of being alone or of oneself

A week passed without any contact from Jack. Or my parents. Or my neighbors. Or anyone at all. Life was grey and stupid and pointless. I became angry at my parents for leaving me. Angry at Jack for listening to me and leaving me. Angry at myself for being so damn scared to do anything and screwing up any and all contact I had with life outside my bedroom. Lonely doesn’t even describe how I felt that entire week. I had to go out in public and shop on my own. I had to buy my own food and cook, and that was a fucking disaster. I had to live on my own. It was completely and utterly traumatizing, no matter how much I hated people and how scared I was of strangers. Nothing is worse than your own breath being the only sound you hear for days on end.

Being alone was the worst kind of torture. It was my new worst phobia. The emptiness felt like death had taken over. Like my life was supposed to have so much to it and all of the variables are missing. I was supposed to have a mother who would nag me about chores and ask how my day was and talk to me about boys. I was supposed to have a hyper-active dog whose main goal in life was to get me to pet him every waking moment of my life. I was supposed to have friends who laughed with me and picked me up for a movie night or to go to a party. I was supposed to have something. I had nothing.

I was so absorbed in my own sadness that I jumped when I heard a knock at the front door. Then something weird happened. My stomach did this weird drop, and my heart started working overtime, and my mind was filled of pictures of the one person I wanted to see. It was then I realized how attached I had grown to Jack in a matter of days. I rushed to the door in excitement of seeing Jack, hearing his voice, feeling his arms around me when I hug him.

Instead, Sam stood on my doorstep.

Sam, Jack’s friend. Sam who put a bag over my head. Sam who helped me when a man attacked me in a building. Sam who left me in the street to make sure his best friend was okay. Sam, with his loose-fitting hoodie, cargo pants, scuffed vans, light hair cut short, and light brown eyes, who I assumed Jack trusted completely. Sam’s face was angular, his cheek bones prominent and a smile made for breaking hearts, though his stance said ‘I’m uncomfortable and out of my element.’

“Sam?” I asked, the disbelief evident in my voice.

He gave a weak smile and seemed to relax a bit, “So I don’t have to introduce myself.” He pushed  past me and walked straight into the house. I stood dumbfounded at the front door, letting the cold winter air inside the warm house. He didn’t seem to notice my surprise. “Good thing, too. It would have been awkward introducing myself as the guy who almost suffocated you.”

Allodoxaphobia- Fear of opinions

He turned to me and gave me an analyzing look. “You’re letting all of the cold air inside.”

“Right,” I said quickly, closing the door and turning back to face him. “What are you doing here?”

He looked around the empty house with a blank expression, his long, slender figure showed none of the uneasiness he felt when I first opened the door. He finally looked at me again, catching my stare and holding my gaze until I looked away.

“You’re alone.” He stated simply.

“Well, yeah. My parents aren’t home and I don’t have any siblings.” I scoffed at his observation.

“Not what I meant.” He frowned. He opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it a second later with a look of pure concentration on his face. “You’re parents are gone,” he began. “They haven’t been home for what? Two weeks? So of course you’re alone here,” he made a grand sweep of his arms, indicating he meant in the house. “But I meant you’re alone here,” he pointed a finger to his head. “And here,” he touched his chest, pointing towards the area where his heart would lie behind his ribcage. “You’re so alone that you don’t even notice or care to find out why. You’re so scared of everything, but you’re biggest fear is not knowing.” He looked at me intently, walking closer to me, the volume of his voice increasing as he became more aware of what he was talking about. “Then tell me why the hell you don’t go outside for a few minutes and ask the questions whose answers you’ve been dying to know?” He was close enough for me to touch him; a wild look crossed his face.

I could feel the heat of his words and question and I suddenly felt like everything I had ever done was laid before him to judge. I was scared of what he would see, of what he would think. Then I stopped myself. This wasn’t Sam. “Did you just try to psycho-analyze me?” I asked.

“Yes and I promise to never do it again,” he burst into laughter. “God. That was awful, wasn’t it? Minus five points to Sam for being an idiot! I didn’t even sound smart.” This was Sam.

I laughed dryly and shook my head, “And now you’re talking in third person? What is it that you came by for, Sam?” It had just occurred to me that I hardly knew him, yet he had known where I lived and came barging right in. He and Jack must be cousins or something, not just friends. Stalking people and going into their houses might run in their blood or something. “Need an extra bag to put over someone else’s head?”

“No,” he laughed. “Not exactly.” He turned in the direction of the kitchen and walked towards it. “Got anything good I can eat? I’m starving.” He didn’t wait for my answer as he continued towards the kitchen like it was a familiar path he took.

“Then what is it?” I asked, following him into the kitchen and watching him search the countertops for any food, wrinkling his nose at an old banana. He proceeded to search for food.

“What is what?” he asked absently.

“What did you come here for?” I began to grow impatient at his distracted manner.

“Aha! Now we’re talking,” he had opened the refrigerator to see it full of food I had planned to cook during the week.

“Sam.” I said harshly, catching him off guard as he looked at me, confused.

“Jack wants to see you,” he shrugged, taking a jar of olives out of the refrigerator.

My heart jumped at the mention of Jack’s name. “Why didn’t he just come over himself?” I asked.

“Unlike you, he sometimes listens when people tell him to do things they want,” he said pointedly, taking a fork from a drawer and stabbing at the olives in the jar.

“You’d have an easier time using a spoon, you know?” I said. He shrugged and continued his dramatic array of trying to eat a few olives. It seemed like a usual thing for him. I suddenly had a sense of déjà vu, as if I’d seen Sam do this plenty times before. After a few seconds of silence and Sam successfully eating three olives, I spoke again. “Sam, I don’t know your last name.”

He tensed for a moment, but made himself relax. If I wasn’t paying attention, I would have missed it. “It’s Wilkinson, but Jack and one of his friends he used to be really close to shortened it to Wilk, so just use Wilk.”

“Used to be?” I asked. Where was Jack’s other friend and what had happened to him?

“You’ve never told me your name,” Sam changed the direction of the conversation, lifting his gaze from

I hesitated, mainly as a result of my instinct to keep my guard up. “Aubrey.”