Weekly Writing Challenge 21
My First RECord - Fear
There was no logic to the snap. The loss of control. The outpouring of emotion to an empty room. Cursing everything. Lashing out at the air. Tears of frustration. Pounding fists. Silence.
If looks could kill, he would have looked in the mirror.
He had been afraid of this before. It was a deeply rooted, gnawing, nagging doubt. A fear which was always lying below but never far from breaking the surface. He turned his hands to the piano and, for a moment, fear was lost in the emotion of the music. His breathing relaxed and his eyes closed as he poured his fear into the keys. But just like the relentless back and forth of the ocean, a fresh wave of anger crashed in and he slammed the piano closed with a loud thump.
There were tears in his eyes again and he held his head tightly in his hands, shaking. For a moment he just lay there on the bed, allowing the emotion to sweep over him. Minutes or hours passed, he could not be sure. Eventually his body grew weary of the sorrow and he sat himself up straight. He inhaled deeply, drawing the air into his lungs as if he had been drowning. But of course he was drowning. He was being pulled under by his own weight, the weight of carrying all these problems alone. The anger was merely masking how afraid he was. His fear found physical form through rage. However, this was all a private display. There would be no comforting shoulder, no hand to clasp, no heart to help.
Sighing, he heaved himself from the bed and walked to the bathroom. Locking the door firmly behind him he splashed cold water on his face. Over and over again. He looked up and stared deeply into the mirror. Suddenly he lashed out and smashed the mirror to smithereens. He paused, gazing at the blood pouring from his knuckles. Water trickled down his face and along his spine. Looking into his reflected blue eyes he spoke aloud to the darkening room. "My name is Tom Finn. I am twenty years old. I need help." Tom had recited these words a million times. He had tried to prepare himself to tell his family how badly he was coping but at the last moment he had always refrained from admitting his pain, opting instead to smile and assure everyone that life was good.
A few years back, something had cracked inside Tom. His first heartbreak had left him deeply hurt (as it does to everyone who has known love) but it was just a week after this pain that Tom had been broken. They'd been rushing to get to the start of the game. The vivid memory sprang in front of Tom as it always did when something went wrong. The cold bathroom tiles melted away and there was Lana, running, smiling, then turning towards him, calling out - BANG! She never even had the chance to attempt dodging the speeding Range Rover. Tom called a warning to his best friend much too late and watched in horror as she was sent tumbling through the air, her eyes still on him but unseeing and her smile dying on her lips.
Tom wrenched himself out of the memory to find himself lying on the ground in a cold sweat. It had been months since he'd seen that vision. He thought that he had finally gotten past it, that he had healed himself through his own patience. Time, the great healer of all wounds - or so he was told. But the fear was now real once more. Not the fear of pain. Not even the fear of death. Death, at times, he would have even welcomed. Instead he was plagued by the overwhelming fear that there was no going back. That he could never again be truly happy. That he would never be able to remove the mask which presented a recovered soul. A soul, that in reality, was broken into multiple pieces of anguish. The fear that he would never be himself again had awoken from its uneasy slumber.
Tom ran his hand under the water for several minutes before the blood stopped pumping from the numerous cuts his outburst had rewarded him with. He flung the bloodstained towel into his room as he passed the open door. Examining the damage to his knuckles, Tom made his way downstairs. He steeled himself to talk to his parents. It had been too long in coming but he had made his decision. He needed to face this fear. He nervously clenched his fists as he approached the kitchen. He felt the cuts open once again.
He took a deep breath.
He rested his head against the door for a moment.
He turned the handle of the door.
A smile began to rise on his lips.
Created: Mar 07, 2015Andrew500Days Document Media