Proving Webster Wrong

Chapter Five -- Chloe

I touched the pen to the paper and almost scribbled out victim. The problem was that it didn't change the fact that it was true. He had been a victim of Crystals. And when we were younger he had been the kid bullied on the playground.

I looked up to see what he was doing. His head was still bowed down as he scribbled on the page. It was as if he didn't even have to stop to think. He just kept writing without pausing for even a second.

He looked up. "Are you done?" he asked with a hand gesturing to where the journal sat in my lap.

I shook my head. With one of those smiles that you might give a person you kind of sort of know when you see them in the grocery store -- it's like a tightening of the muscles like you might smile and then think better of it -- he went back to work, his hair falling on his forehead hiding his eyes.

Thinks too much.

Maybe that one was about me. But it could have been about him as well. He did spend too much time thinking about how to say things so as not to hurt other's feelings.

I was beginning to think this might not work so well for him. His definitions may be annoy at times but they all could have a positive spin, except for the fact that he wasn't very confident. His faults and strengths all the same thing. I snickered a little at that and then caught myself.

"I hope you're not being too mean over there," he said without looking up.

I snickered again and shook my head even though he couldn't see it. "You know me," I choked out. I wasn't sure exactly how I meant it to sound or how it ended up coming out. Chances are it probably sounded mean. That's just how my luck turned out.

And then it was back to staring at the paper. When I came up with this challenge it seemed like it would be so much easier to think of things to define him. I thought it would be easier to think of for things for myself too, but that list didn't turn out so well either.

Sitting sideways was starting to hurt my legs. I lifted one to try and curl up with my legs crossed Indian style but then I remembered that I was wearing a dress. Sitting like that could have an unwanted disaster. Instead I brought both legs up and lay them straight out in front of me.

"Comfortable?" Andrew asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Mhmm. Very much." I gave him a quick smile.

In response he pulled his legs up and lay them out beside my. I drew in a deep breath when his dusty shoes came so close to me. Another piece of ice. Count to sixteen.

I stared at the paper grinding the pen and ice with my teeth as I waited on him to finish. There was no way I would think of anything else to define him with. Hearing his pen scratching made my stomach flutter with nerves and heat creep up my neck. How could he have so much to say? This wasn't turning out right.

If this simple little part wasn't going how I expected what did that mean for the rest of the plan? Would anything go right? The itching starting with my legs and moved up until every cell of skin was on fire with the need to scratch. Then came the crawling, like there were a hundred bugs running over me.

I tried to tell myself that it wasn't real. It was all a part of my imagination freaking out over the possibility of losing control. It would all be okay. I tried to remember what the psychologist told me to do, to hear her words in my head as a comfort.

A buzzing started up around my ears, like there was a swarm of flies zooming around my head. Don't tap. Don't think about it. Just focus on the fact that everything will be okay and it will go away.

Only, it didn't go away, at least not fast enough. The cabin of the truck was starting to shrink, a cage preventing me from doing what I needed to in order to take back control.