Peroxide (Peterick)

listen here little bitch

Exposure therapy was the worst decision of my life, but everyone who claims they are interested in my safety has concluded that it's the best way to get me over my anxiety of the public.

To a certain degree, it's not like they're telling me that it's just hormones controlling the chains around my mind, but that's attributed to the fact that I glare at most everyone, and they quite simply don't wish to interact with me; I don't blame them, to be honest.

I suppose the only upside is that I am able to wash down my medication with coffee, not some bland tap water that makes you hope to vomit after a few gulps because of how inundated you are by its deluge — and simply the fact that there is a upside, the mere shell of the concept, is comforting to the continuously anxious.

However, today is different, with the guilt flooding the chambers of my heart and accelerating its pounding, and at first, I surmise that it's instinctual, considering this is a coffee shop packed with people, but after one quick look at the counter, my hypothesis is immediately altered.

The boy from the daycare center. The boy with whom I messed things up.

"I'll just find another place to swallow my pills," I decide, turning my back to the register after drawing in a deep breath.

Before I can make it out the door, before the clanging of the bells is put into action, someone shouts, "Hey, man! What can I get for you today?"

I pivot sluggishly, a meek grin embracing my lips that perhaps suggests, "Kill me now," but my feet order me to march forward. "Don't say anything about marching, mind voices," I direct, knowing that they'll transform it into something correlated to the army and, as a result, the post-traumatic stress disorder Dr. Saporta swears I have.

"You're the guy that came in and asked about Mikey, correct?" the boy asks, draping a green towel across his shoulder. I notice, in addition, another emerald apron tied around his waist — does he wear that all day?

"Heh, yeah, that was me." I laugh awkwardly, shoving my hands further into the pockets of my ebony skinny jeans and rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. That's what people do, right?

The worker's brows crease. "Hey, are you all good after what happened? You seemed kind of shaken-up."

Shrugging indifferently so as to not reveal my true emotions (Dr. Saporta says I'm too apathetic for my own good), I reply, "Yeah, I'm fine, I guess" — I squint to read his name-tag — "Pete Wentz."

For whatever strange reason, the peachy complexion of the boy's skin boils to the blossoming charm of a rose petal. Why is he doing that? Am I to blame? From all of those questions, my coating inadvertently reciprocates the action.

"So what's your name, then? We need to get on an equal playing field." Pete winks, and suddenly my rose petal metaphor is enhanced to the epidermis of flame.

"I-I'm Patrick Stump." The words begin as a stutter but are pulled loose with an ounce of confidence and a toothy smile from both parties.

Pete nods, gesturing to the menu pinned to the wall above him. "What can I get for you, Patrick Stump?"

Oh, shit. I was not prepared for this. We are really in a coffee store. Wow.

"You can take your time," Pete assures, throwing a curt glance behind me to scout out potential customers, who are, fortunately, nonexistent in the store. "There's no one waiting."

I release a bout of air, clear my throat, and scan the items to make it seem, at least to Pete, that I'm putting thought into this, when I actually order the same exact thing every time I wander in here — a cappuccino, with nothing else added so that the barista won't falter, so that I won't unintentionally make a scene and cringe about it for the next five years.