Rockiversary

Disruption

"Somewhere, between the sacred silence and sleep..."

Toxicity - System of a Down 

Written by: Forever_Rimaine

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Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is an anxiety disorder characterized by uncontrollable, unwanted thoughts and repetitive, ritualized behaviors you feel compelled to perform. If you have OCD, you probably recognize that your obsessive thoughts and compulsive behaviors are irrational—but even so, you feel unable to resist them and break free.

Obsessions are involuntary thoughts, images, or impulses that occur over and over again in your mind. You don't want to have these ideas, but you can't stop them. These obsessive thoughts are often disturbing and distracting.

Compulsions are behaviors or rituals that you feel driven to act out again and again. Usually, compulsions are performed in an attempt to make obsessions go away.

Source: https://www.helpguide.org/articles/anxiety/obssessive-compulsive-disorder-ocd.htm

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He was a stickler for orderliness, whether it was about the physical order of tangible things, or the more incorporeal matters such as his thoughts and feelings.

He never dreams.

Long before, he schooled himself to keep his mind blank before laying down to rest at night, so that sleep progresses, uninterrupted by dreams that would make him think or ponder during the day, disrupting his thought process and concentration during work. In his day job as a programmer, the order of things was of utmost importance, there was absolutely no room for disarray.

This was how he lived. His life was in perfect symmetry.

Predictable. Safe.

As a child, he grew up in a military household, the son of a general. His father was a PMA graduate, rose from the ranks, went on combat duty several times, and experienced being a prisoner of war. His mother died when he was in his early teens, his only shield from the harsh disciplinary ways of his father.

Perfection. His father expected no less from him. Keeping his room spic and span, making his bed without a crease even when a coin is dropped on it, keeping the bathroom spotless; all those things learned from the barracks were now transferred to him. And he learned with a few mistakes that he paid dearly for, because his father believed in physical punishment.

So he grew up shunning disorder, espousing the tidiness of everything in his life, including his thoughts. He refused to face his demons, especially those that hinted at hating his father and how all the physical pain inflicted on him buried scars deeper than those that remained after his bruises healed.

His safe zone was silence and sleep. It was his sanctuary.

Until she came.

She walked into his office in a fitted red dress, her hair wild and wavy swept in one side, baring her delectable neck. She had the softest doe eyes that looked at him with an unblinking directness, as though she saw through all his cool façade.

"You must be Richard? Richard Faulkerson? Hi, I'm Nicomaine Mendoza. But you can call me Maine."

She extended her slender hand, waiting for his hand to engulf hers. His hand balled into a fist inside his pocket, nails digging into his palm, steeling himself against the sensation of skin touching skin. He reached for her hand tentatively, clasping the softness, feeling electrical charges zipping through their skins where their palms touched. Their gazes clashed, he tugged to withdraw his hand but she briefly held on. He saw the look of surprise in her eyes as well