Phobic

Chapter 2:

The festival.

I shrieked, as Joan launched himself at me. My bed shook vigorously. "The festival's today Mel, the festival's today!", he repeated, bobbing himself like a fish hook, and panting. I grunted, and shoved him off of my body. I stood up. He continued laughing, though, after he was pushed.

Joan expresses his radiance often. He didn't consider the future's sustainability, or a perilous decision. But, I understood that that was simply the rules of our sector, and offered him a hand. Maybe I should be like him.

His soft, tubby hand clung to mine, and he pulled his weight away from me until he was vertical. His personality was ludicrous to me, but sometimes I wish that I had grown to be as quirky as him. Why had I not had been as quirky as him. I smiled, him the returning the favor. He patted me blandly on my back, and exited the room.

But he rotated at the bank of my door before he left, and asked me, "Hey, Melinda," I nearly gasped, stunned that he used my actual name. "Is everything alright with you?" He chuckled, "Ya' know, not in a bad way." I glimpsed at him. "No," I said. "I'm fine." He nodded in understanding. Then, walked from my room.

I smiled, teeth fully exposed. "Once I beat you in the festival today!" I yelled, chasing after him. He was halfway down the stairs, but I sprung at him like a frog, causing him to tumble down the stairs.

He laughed, and wriggled out from under my body. "Oh, no you're not!" We raced each other throughout the sector, trampling aimlessly on people's flower beds and lawns, and watching them shaking their fists in frustration behind our shoulders. I absolutely loved it.

I'm sure that tonight, I'd make a decent- if not legendary -presentation of myself, and my capabilities.

Perhaps I was like Joan, in a way. We both seemed very childish, having our kiddish games now and then. But, nevertheless, I was going to maneuver my own strategy to become a true Sector VII initiate, my own way. When Joan and I returned to the house, exhausted from continuous sprinting and jogging if I needed to regain my breath; I strolled into the bathroom, where I was met with my mother. Her eyes swelled. "Hey Melinda," She aforementioned. "How'd you sleep, hun?" I placed my arm on both of her shoulders, still pumping with adrenaline.
"Wonderful."
"Well, that's nice." She responded, snickering quietly. My mother proceeded to brush her teeth. I opened the medicine cabinet, and gripped a cylinder container of orange tablets.

I took a prescription. Yes, I realize it's very preposterous of me to be taking medicine. For what, you may ask? Anxiety. I developed the disorder, not because of my phobia, but actually because of my irrational, alternative fears.

My imagination tells me many things. It frequently screams our economy's future, and death and war. I pictured this time as our despaired, dystopian city, but worse.

This anxiety was not intentional. Visions in my brain, and feelings in my gut told me that this society was not the solution to existing. That one day, I wouldn't fraternize with my brother, or my guardians. Everything I'm fond of would be torn from me by a rioting society, not to be mended.

But, in a way, we were benefiting. It kept all citizens in their places, and shaped us into the average world, with fears and categories that classified us. They called us, phobics.

I swallowed the tablet, with a gulp- tasting the orange-flavored zest in the caplet as it slithered down my throat. My mother gazed at me blankly. It looked like she was criticizing me in her mind. Saying that I'm a threat to us.

No. My mother and I are close, and she wouldn't think such a thing. Although, her face still showed disgust- towards me. I divided my eyes from hers, staring at the floor for a moment. But her eyes still glued to my shameful face.