Touch - Teen Fiction

Chapter Two

Chapter 2: Tara

The morning after my strange encounter with the coffee man, I had to be at the therapist. A chill went through me at the thought of her touching me. My mother had made a promise that every appointment that I made it through, she would take me to the Café by our—well her—small home here in Stoneswood as a reward. You see, I’m not like other seventeen year-old girls. I’m different.

I dress myself and pull my long light blonde hair back and tie it in a ponytail. The door of my room burst open and in comes Mary, my nurse, holding a tray with my breakfast and of course my mountain of pills. The doctors think that I have a mental illness. I don’t. But that’s why they keep me locked up in this musty dark place.

“Get up.” She says harshly.

“I am up.” I say, but it’s barely a whisper. 

“Make sure you take your medicine, this time.” She reminds me. I nod my head and then she’s gone. I toss the pills down the vent by my bed and sit down to stare at my “breakfast.” Thoughts began to race through my mind. The most common one was that if there was less of me, then there’d be less of me for people to touch. Less of me that people could harm.  That’s a fantasy that wasn’t possible yet.

I stared at the bowl of oatmeal, thinking of ways to get rid of it. I couldn’t shove this down the vent. It would start to smell in a few days. Hours passed, and finally my mother comes to get me.

She passes through the door but I don’t hug her. Instead I give her a small smile. Sometimes, if I’m feeling extra brave, I’ll let her put a protective arm across my shoulders, but being touched is almost worse than death itself.

At today’s appointment, my new doctor is supposed to diagnose me with my “illness” or “phobia” or whatever after our regular therapy session. I don’t see how though. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me although other doctors have said otherwise. I just don’t like to be touched.

I know how badly my mother wants to touch me sometimes. She wants to hold me and comfort me in the ways that she used to when I was little. I feel bad for her because she can’t. And it’s my fault.

Once someone finally comes to collect me from my quarters, we follow him to the therapy room where I’ll hold objects and be touched by things that aren’t familiar to me. I don’t think they realize that the only things that I don’t like to touch are moving, breathing things. Also known as humans.

Thirty minutes into my regular session, my corrupt, evil doctor with his pointy spectacles and white lab coat, does something that makes me mentally curl into a ball: he touches my arm.  And not just touch it, he grabs it. I scream and lash out at him. I try to pull away, but my frail body is too weak. Tears begin to form in my eyes and when they start to spill down my cheeks, he lets go. My body begins to tremble as the trapped feeling goes away. I rock back and forth of the balls of my feet and burry my head in my arms. “Get away from me.” I whisper, harshly.

I feel him leave my presence with my mother following behind him.  In the distance I hear the squeak a door open then close, but I know they leave a crack just in case I do something. Too curious to not hear what they say about me, I slowly get up and tiptoe to the door. I crouch down to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“She has an extremely rare condition called Haphephobia.” That was my doctor.

“Yeah, I know… that’s what the others have said,” I heard my mother reply.

“It means that she’s afraid of human touch.” He continues on anyway. My mother must have a confused look on her face, but he must take her confusion differently because he begins to explain it to her metaphorically, “For instance, she has this imaginary protection bubble around her and when someone touches her, they pop that bubble. How would you feel if someone took away the thing that was protecting you?”

“Afraid.” My mother answered.

“Exactly. She begins to hyperventilate, stars to feel out of control, and trapped. Tara’s condition is just as much of phobia as it is a mental illness.” I rolled my eyes. “Condition.” What condition? There is nothing wrong with me. I just don’t like to be touched and I can’t explain why. It really not that hard, people.

Their conversation continues, but it was boring for the most part. It was mostly about my “phobia.” “Is there any way that she can get better?” I hear my mother ask. This question caught my attention.

“There isn’t much. Just taking her meds, adapting, and getting used to people touching her—therapy, but most of all, she needs to start trusting people.” A chill went down my spine at the word “touching.” I really didn’t want to do any of that. The rest of their conversation was quite boring and wasn’t interesting at all. We said goodbye to Doctor Sullivan and he apologized for frightening me. I didn’t say that it was okay.

The care ride to the Café was quiet. I don’t think either of us really knew what to say. Honestly, I didn’t really want to talk anyway. She just stood there and let him touch me. She knows how much I hate to be touched! I don’t care if it is part of my treatment! I still don’t like it.

The clock on the dashboard of my mother’s car read 6:34PM. I have to be back at the hospital in an hour. The bright sunset burns my almost transparent eyes, but it was hard not to stare back at. The sunsets in this town are beautiful. My mother unlocks the car doors and I slither out of my seat. I wait for her to come around the car so we can walk in together.

The two of us enter the small, cozy café. My mother pushes the door open and I walk in in front of her. The same boy from yesterday is standing at the counter staring at me just like he had before. He looks happy that we are here. I look at the ground. When people stare at me, it’s almost as bad as being touched by their sinister hands.

Walking to the counter, I glance at him and still his gaze was upon me. I notice that he is slightly handsome. He isn’t exactly my taste, because I don’t have a taste. I’ve never been in a relationship with a boy because that means a lot of touching. For example, holding hands and kissing; I don’t want any of that.

“What can I get for you lovely ladies?” he asks tearing his eyes away from me and directing them on my mother. 

She smiles a bit at the “lovely ladies.” It’s always good to see her smile. She doesn’t do it very much anymore. “I’ll have a decaf vanilla latte.” She tells him quickly.

I am still staring at the menu above his head when he asks me what I would like. “Just a hot cocoa.” I decide finally. He smiles at me crookedly. This guy was either a total flirt or he is just overly friendly. I chose the same table as our last visit: the one in the farthest corner of the room away from everyone else.

I watch my mother hand him the right amount of cash and put the change he gave her into the tip jar. She walks towards me slowly and I eye her carefully. I wasn’t afraid of my mother. In fact, I trust her enough to let her touch me at times.

Some people tell me I look a lot like my mother. Well, except for our eyes and hair. She has grey eyes and sandy blonde hair, just like her name: Sandy. She’s been an amazing mother to me these past seventeen years. She’s been there for me when I needed her most. I’m extremely grateful for her.