Seven Fears

Prologue - Chapter Four

Prologue

There aren't many things that I can remember. Most of my memories are of my father. He was the most brilliant man that I've ever known.

There are certain moments in your life where a memory that's been buried claws its way from the depths of your mind. It pleads to be uncovered, it begs for attention.

I was seven years old.

Papa was an immigrant, and his speech would be a mixture of English and German, especially when he was frustrated, but that wasn't often.

He was so wise, my papa. In fact, I was certain that he was the most intelligent person that I would ever come to know.

It was a late summer afternoon in Alabama, the only place that I called home. It was an odd place for a German immigrant, but somehow, it was perfect for him. Amidst all of the other Alabamians, he stood out like a bright star. His stories were captivating, and his laugh, contagious.

Though, now, I can see why some would giggle at his outlandish stories, I held them close to my heart. And, there they would stay. Even now.

"Nixie, do you see the tall grass?" He said, his finger lazily pointing to the swaying ocean of green.

"Yes papa, I see."

"Do you know why the grass grows so tall, Nixie? It is so you may hide."

I looked up at him through my fingers. They served to shield the sun from my eyes as it descended in the distance. "Hide? From what, papa?"

"Oh," He said, his eyes growing wide as he splayed his fingers in front of him, "from the dragons!"

My mouth formed into an "o" as I looked up into the red and orange sky.

"Nixie, duck! One is coming now!"

I leapt into the tall grass, and he did too.

I pressed my cheek against the ground and frowned as I focused. My imagination went wild, and I swore that I could hear the dragon above, flapping its wings wildly.

Papa held his finger to his lips, and we stayed right there until we were sure that the dragon was gone.

. . .

I sniffle as I wipe at a solitary tear that's managed to escape my eye.

The shrink relaxes a bit in her chair as she sits across from me. Her eyes are kind, but her smile is fake. Everyone is fake.

"When did he die?" She asks softly, and my eyes flit from her to my lap where I nervously pick at one of the many holes in my jeans.

"He died when I was fifteen, doc." I say irritably.

"Do you think that triggered your anxiety?" She asks.

I roll my eyes as I entwine my fingers over my chest. "I don't know. How am I supposed to know that? You're the doctor, not me."

I lock my eyes onto hers and she fidgets in her chair.

"Nixie, anxiety can be debilitating. I want to help you. This is a bump, and we can get over it together. You just have to let me in."

I huff as I shake my head. "Let you in? Why? So you can give me some kind of clinical, bullshit answer? Maybe pump me up on some pills? Throw me in a fucking mental institution?"

I watch as her jaw tenses. "You obviously have pent up anger. Look, I understand that it's hard for you-"

I leap up from the couch. "Understand! You understand what exactly? If you understood, why are you asking me these questions?" I holler, jabbing my finger into my chest.