"None of these people are your friends, Jake. They love the party; not you. Don't you see that?" She frowns, reaching out to plant her hands on each of my shoulder.
Not wanting to believe a word she says, I take a step away from her. I can't help but to let the hurt show on my face.
"Thanks Jen. You're the best," I choke out, shaking my head with frustration as I turn around and walk right back to the party.
"Whatever Jake!" Jen shouts angrily after me.
I glance over my shoulder to see her marching right back towards her car, throwing the driver door open with a frantic speed. I can't help but to let out a groan, knowing very well I'll have to deal with her in a few days after this blows over.
Most of our interactions end up with us arguing. We really do act like siblings. I love her to death but she really pisses me off sometimes.
"Jake, my man!" Someone shouts at me, replacing my irritated frown with an amused, drunk smirk.
Ah, what the hell! I grab my bottle and take a large swig of it before wrapping my arm around the shoulder of some person I can't quite put my finger on their name.
Charlie.
My entire body shakes with anxiety as I'm shoved from every direction as I try to find a way out of the house. I feel incredibly dirty, needing a shower right now, as sweaty bodies press up against me as I walk through the dancing area.
Somehow I managed to walk in a complete circle and I end up right back where Pia had left me a half hour ago.
Feeling extremely light-headed, I plop down on the couch beside a group of people passing around some sort of cigarette. They completely ignore me, all too concentrated about their deep conversation about life and death.
I close my eyes and bring my knees to my chest, ready to burst into tears at any moment. Why did I think coming to this party with four people I hardly know was a good idea? If this is what normal feels like, I'd rather be cooped up with my dysfunctional self.
Knowing if I'm here much longer I'll end up passing out, I fish through my purse for my phone. There has to be something I can do.
Call the police? Call my parents?
Both of those sound like more trouble than necessary. My parents are literally the last people I want to see at the moment. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be in this situation right now. I know my disorder is a inconvenience for them, but can't they just let me live my life cooped up in my bedroom?
My hands land on my cellphone and I fight to breathe. It doesn't help that the smoke wafting off of the cigarette is blowing right into my face, thanks to the guy in dreads that's seated beside me. I give him a terrified expression which causes the entire couch to burst into loud laughter.
I scroll through my contacts - the little amount I have - desperately hoping one sticks out as a safe person to call in this time of need.
Luckily for me, one does.
Wesley.
He's the son of my therapist/shrink. He's always hanging around her office. He's a really great guy; only a year older than me. I've known him since I started going to Dr. Kohler's office when I was about ten years old. He had given me his number in case I ever needed someone to talk to.
Is this an okay time to need to talk? And by talk to him I mean give him this address so he can save me.
Not knowing what else to do, I press his name, holding the phone up to my ear to wait for him to answer. I have to plug my other ear to even be able to remotely hear him.
R E S P O N S I B I L I TY.
Start from the beginning
