In Your Dreams // phan

e i g h t e e n

"I'm ringing them back and complaining right now," my dad said reaching for the home phone.

"Don't bother," I mumbled. I told them what really went down at school today, and because they knew me better than most people they immediately believed my side of the story over Mr Bailey's. They completely dismissed the claim that I was a negative influence as utter nonsense.

"No. They can't do that. This is bullshit," my dad argued.

"Language," my mother scolded him lightly. "But he's right, bear. They can't blame what happened today on your mental illness. It's wrong and unfair and we can't just let that slip by."

In my head, we could in fact let that slip by. Because it was partially my fault. Partially Charlie's for being a dick, partially the universe's for giving Phil me as a soulmate, and partially mine for being a freak in the first place.

For most people, not knowing the answer when a teacher asks you a question isn't that big of a deal. Walking in late to class, even with a permission slip, isn't one of the most nerve-wracking walks of their life. Asking to use the loo in the middle of the class isn't something that they have to work up the courage to do.

I wasn't normal. The tiniest, simplest of tasks were made monumentally difficult for me. Everything that could possibly go wrong, regardless of how unlikely, would flash across my mind and make me doubt every action and every word. I was pretty much constantly in a state of hyper-paranoia and mental exhaustion.

I was a freak, there was no denying it.

"Please, just drop it," I pleaded quietly, staring at the ground. I felt tears burning at the back of my eyes for no valid reason whatsoever and it made me sick. I was weak. I was pathetic. I was a freak.

But my parents didn't drop it. They couldn't hear how fragile I was from my voice. My dad dialled the school's number and held the phone up to his ear. My mum moved to stand beside him so she could listen in.

"Stop," I choked out, but I had already resigned myself to the fact that they wouldn't listen to me. They were going to ring the school anyway and they would make things worse. People will find out that my parents swooped in to save me and the rumours and insults will only grow more nasty.

Maybe the principal will tell my parents that I was lying and they'd believe him. They'll ground me for life and try to stop me from ever seeing Phil, like Mr Bailey did. They'll wish they had a normal son who wasn't such a handful.

A strangled sob ripped from my throat and I ran upstairs to my bedroom. I couldn't really see where I was going and the staircase was rocking beneath my feet, so I kept crashing into the wall and tripping over the steps.

I heard someone, my mum, my dad, a figment of my imagination perhaps, call my name and reach out for me. I didn't like the hands that were on me. They were choking and constricting and I didn't like it, so I thrashed out. I kicked and screamed and flailed to get them away from me.

When I made it to my room I threw my bag off of my shoulders; it was trying to choke me too. I tried to think straight. I tried to calm down. But the only thing that I've found that helps in this situation is Phil.

I grabbed my phone and made to call him before I stopped myself. I couldn't call him. I couldn't dump this on him. Look what I've done already. Look at the damage that I've caused since entering his life.

Without thinking I threw my phone and it hit my mirror with a deafening clang. The force of the impact was so strong that it cracked the mirror, and entirely shattered my phone screen.

"Shit, shit, shit," I murmured, running over to examine the damage. It still turned on, but it didn't register my touch. It was useless. And what fucking perfect timing. Now that Phil and I had no classes together my phone had become my most valuable form of communication. And now it was broken.

In my anger I lashed out at the mirror; it could take the blame for this one, for I was done doing that myself. I kicked at it, punched it, threw my phone at it again for good measure. I smashed it to pieces. I never had good luck anyway, what's another seven years?

I calmed down soon eventually. What's both good and bad about anxiety attacks is that they're utterly exhausting. It's good, because it means they can't go on forever. At some point my body just gives up because it's simply too much of an effort to keep going.

I don't know how long I sat there for after that, running my fingers lightly over my swollen and bleeding knuckles and staring at the worthless phone on the floor in front of me. I kept getting texts from Phil, he even tried ringing me a fair few times, but I couldn't respond.

I cried quietly for what must have been hours, just watching the cracked screen light up with messages and phone calls. I hoped Phil didn't think I was intentionally ignoring him. But maybe it was better this way, because that's what I was supposed to be doing, right? What happened to my resolve to keep my distance?

There was a soft knock at my door and I sighed. "Go away," I croaked out, not taking my eyes off the phone. I heard my door open anyway, which I thought was weird because my parents never pushed me. If I told them that I wanted to be left alone, they'd leave me alone without question.

"I like your room."

My head snapped up at the sound of Phil's voice. He was stood in my doorway leaning against the frame, with a sad sort of smile on his face.