Enough for You

fifteen;

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Dark Red - Steve Lacy
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Sometimes I don't feel too good.

It gets hard to eat, or work, or breathe.

Everyday tasks feel like a chore, and my arms drag down by my ankles in protest. Sometimes I don't feel too good.

My mind wanders, getting lost like loose change on the ground or a child in a candy store. I become preoccupied in my thoughts, letting my anxiety grow until a lump forms in my throat and my clothes grow too tight. Sweat trickles down my forehead, fogging up the lens of my glasses and taking away my ability to see properly. My vision grows blurry the more my thoughts spread.

Sitting in my dorm, surrounded by heaps of homework as the other three girls spread themselves across the room doing their own assignments, that feeling comes back.

I've lost control of my concentration.

The quill in my hand trembles.

My heart rate is increasing, I can hear it banging against my ribcage trying to get free.

It's that sense of impending danger that scares me more than anything.

After my night with Fred awhile back it seems my anxiety attacks are growing more persistent. I keep thinking about the worst possible outcome if someone were to find out.

Would the girls unfriend me?

Would my friends tell my father?

Would my father disown me?

No, enough!  I think to myself. Taking off my glasses, I wipe the lens against the trim of my white tank-top, cleaning off the fog that has formed I plant them back on the bridge of my nose.

Tapping my quill against my textbook, Pansy notices my my uneasiness and reaches over to place a hand on my knee. Rubbing her palm against my flannel-pant covered leg reassuringly to get my attention, I bring my focus towards her.

"I'm gonna go get some air." I voice, picking myself up from where I sat on the floor.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Pansy asks "It's almost curfew."

Shaking my head to gesture a simple 'No' I clear my books off the tile, lumping them into a pile on my desk.

"Do take a sweater Sam, it's getting late." Daphne interjects from her spot at her own desk, not even turning around to face me as she says so.

A small smile creeps onto my face as I reach into my deep blue trunk, sitting idly at the edge of my bed frame. Right at the top, flipped inside out so the stitching wouldn't be noticeable, Fred's jumper. Taking one deep breath, I fold it under my arm and make my leave through the rooms entrance.

Descending down the narrow black steps, my eyes widen as they come to realize just how busy the common room is.

Students forming miniature study groups, hushing each other to keep quiet. Whilst other groups mingle and laugh, disrupting that perfect silence the group worked so hard for.

I release a breath I didn't know I was holding in. The room feels like its getting smaller the more people enter.

My hands fumbling against the deep green jumper in my arms, my fingertips reach a single loose thread. I focus on that thread as I weave through students from all years.

My heart palpitating as my grip on the fabric tightens.

The tiny piece of wool twisted between my fingers, moving like a ballet dancer each time it twirled. It wasn't the type of wool that was "scratchy" or made your skin itchy and red, it was soft and delicate.... velvety almost. The deep shade of green contrasting with the grey stitching of the large 'F' symbolized on the front. It was the kind of sweater that you could tell has lasted for years; holes in between some loops and stretched lightly to show his growth, but it was the kind that was knitted with good wool by a person of good heart.