Saving Laurel

5. Heart Shaped Box

Wes Thompson

"Hey baby how was school?" My mom breezes into the kitchen just as I tic and almost knock my glass of water over.

"Fuck you." I grind the words out, hating myself as I say them even though it's unintentional. "Sorry. Bitch!"

I jerk my head to the side, trying to release a breath to calm the sensation inside me.

"It was fuck! good." I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling, a tic rippling through my body before I end it with a whistle.

Blowing out a breath, I inhale sharply, brushing my hand to my noise before one last stupid tic gets the better of me. "Fuck off!"

And the whole time my mom just moves about the kitchen, ignoring them all.

"Sorry." I apologize again. "I love you."

"Love you too Wesley." She beams at me as she pours herself a glass of lemonade.

"Schools got me a little fuck off! argh (insert the my usual string of tics here), stressed." I explain. That and meeting your boyfriend, but I keep that to myself.

I watch as she reaches for my hand, the whole time I fight the urge to tic again.

"Maybe you should go play for a little. Give yourself a break." She suggests, her warm fingers curling around my hand and I can't suppress it any longer and I slam my open palm into the counter.

It doesn't completely satisfy me but it's better than the alternative.

I hate days like this. Because I can't stop it. Or control it.

A string of cuss words fall from my mouth, my body jerking on its own accord. I have one tic or compulsion, really take your pick at what you want to call it, they all blend together at this point, that I avoid at all cost. And I really want to do that one, right now. It's screaming in my head, begging for me to give in.

"Fuck!" I shout into the kitchen, my breathing a little labored as I struggle against all the chaos that I am. My hand slaps the counter hard, my skin stinging and I scrunch my face up muttering "ow". But at least it's even now.

And I'll take it.

I meet my mom's green eyes, thankful there's a momentary satisfaction in my body. I hate when people see the bad tics. Even my mom, though she's the only person that doesn't judge me for them. Even I judge me for them.

"You okay?"

"Whoop." Whistle, stupid noises. Inhaling sharply, I brush my hand to my nose again as I nod.

I could do without the stinging ache that's crawling up my arm up but it could definitely be worse.

"Cunt!" My head jerks. "Sorry."

"Go play, maybe it'll help." She pushes off the counter, her lemonade in her hand.

It will help. The piano always helps. So I abandon my water at the counter, cycle through my usual string of tics, gotta keep it even so that can of worms doesn't open, and walk the short distance to the piano that's nestled against the wall in what's supposed to be our dining room.

I need to get myself together before Ryan shows up. The only problem there is, the more I stress about my tics the worse they get. It's a nice little trick Tourette's likes to play on you. Like here, meeting new people is already hard for you but let's stress out about it and amp up your anxiety which will amp up your tics because I'm definitely going to make you say something you shouldn't which will probably, definitely offend this person you don't know. Just think how embarrassing it'll be when you jerk and twitch like you're on crack and then why not toss some vulgar obscenities in there too just to really make sure you seem legit out of your mind. And if that's not enough, make sure you satisfy all of your weird compulsions so all the fears in your head don't become true. Sound good?